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It’s Difficult Loving a Snoreman

duct tapeI woke up this morning with the bloody evidence of a restless sleep. In my ear  no less. From trying to block the loud sleep-purr of my man.

For two years ear plugs have kept me from two things: chronic sleep deprivation, and killing my partner in his sleep.

For years I lived alone.

Only in retrospect have I discovered that it was ‘blissfully’ alone.

HA-ha! HA-ha-HA-ha-HA!

Just in case you couldn’t tell, that is the delirious, sleep-deprived laughter of a woman who now shares her bed with a chronic snorer. A snorer supreme. A snorosaurus. A snorenado if you will.

Every night it’s snormagedon. And I’m sooooooo t i r e d.

This morning, a contractor needed to get into the building where I worked before we opened, so since I was awake all night anyway, I went in early to unlock the doors.  I rolled out of my car yawning at the same time as the contractor pulled up.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, finishing up a big, wide-mouthed yawn, “I”m not much of a morning person and the love of my life snores like a bulldozer.”

“So do I, ” he said, and then he laughed.

He laughed.  Asshole.

I had the same response from the lady who served me at the liquor store tonight. It was my one and only stop on my way home from work. The only thing I wanted was a big bowl of my auntie’s recipe for 3 in 1,  an intravenous feed of red wine, and a full-bellied-red-wine-induced-nap in front of the fireplace.

And that’s exactly what I had.

Until my well-rested horror-snorer came barging through the door. He was full of energy from having a full night of sleep.

Just to be clear to all of the snorers out there-we hate you.

You see, until now, I thought I had a solution. I had adopted the wise sleep habit of my bestie – using earplugs. Trust me, once you start wearing your long nightie to bed with socks, the ear plugs come next. The good news is when you reach this stage, you have simply come into your own power. You are silently creating your very own space. Everything about you, including your self-induced hearing impairment does not invite anyone into your space, not even subliminally. Your entire vibe is fuck-off-and-let-me-sleep. The flannel, the socks and the construction orange ear-plugs are sleepy-time-thug-gear.

Until you wake up with a bloody ear from wearing ear plugs too often.

The only solution I can come up with right now is to learn how to accessorize an orange jumpsuit.

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Red Cup Christians and Other Garbage

starbucksventiwineHave you been reading about ‘Red Cup Christians’, and seen the conservative Christian memes about how terrible, evil, and abominable Starbucks is? You can hardly glance at a social media site without seeing some sort of preachy meme.

Normally I would link to some articles, etcetera, etcetera, but it’s been a long week,  and you can google it yourself if you wish. If you are wise though, you will simply trust my judgment and carry on reading darlings. Cheers to that!

The gist of this latest major brand attack is two-fold.

First of all, being a ‘Red-Cup Christian’ means that you’re Christian on the inside but not courageous enough in your faith to stand out from the crowd. Second of all, there is a Starbucks-customer shaming about how much people spend on their delicious and delightful-every-day-caffeine treats, versus how much we should be sharing with the homeless, the less fortunate….blah, blah, freaking blah.

Let me let you in on a little secret; the preachy red-cup hating, finger-pointing-wanna-be-self-righteous meme-making arseholes had better start putting their money where their mouth is.

In my vast experience, people who drink Starbucks are not ‘Red-Cup’ anything. They don’t necessarily hoard their money and spit in the face of the less fortunate. So, to all of those preachy-gotta-have-something-to-bitch-about whiners, just shut up.

I love, love, love my Starbucks. As a matter of fact, my squishy pink bits are getting warm thinking about my next praline-chestnut-eggnog-rum-santa-kissing-hot-and-whipped-cream-laden-over-priced-first-world beverage. My mouth is watering and I’m generally moist  all over just thinking about it.

And you know what? I’m the lady at the red light who rolls down the window for the homeless guy at the corner and gives whatever she can. I’m the lady who volunteers her time to charities, donates to the foodbank on a regular basis and also lives on a single income. You know what else? I don’t go around judging people based on the colour of their coffee cup.

….because life just ain’t that simple folks. If you think it is, you’ve been steered drastically wrong.

Just because someone buys a take-out coffee does not mean they are selfish, evil or satan-loving. It means they are treating themselves to a coffee beverage that they enjoy. Get over it you big, hypocritical Proctor and Gamble, big-pharma, Wal-Mart shopping twit.

Have you unconditionally opened the doors of your large, spacious and warm churches, temples and mosques? Have you gone out in the cold and handed out food, blankets and offered your time to clean toilets and counsel those very people you think just need the money we’re spending at the coffee shop? Likely not, because that is a heck of a lot more difficult than sitting comfortably at home and clicking on your social media sites.

A grande, non-fat no-whip eggnog latte please, and hold the hypocrisy.


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Easter Schmeaster: Bring Me Gin

yourgodEaster arrived this year and brought with it more snow and freezing temperatures. How very ironic that the very weather has an identity crisis on the morning we’re supposed to be thankful for being saved from our naturally sinful selves.

Break out the champagne and bring the lamb to slaughter. Actually, skip the bubbles and bring me the hard stuff, because I’m really not in the mood to tolerate your notion of original sin and forgiveness.

If you have no capacity for philosophical thinking, don’t worry sweetie, just remember that dressing for Easter in Canada is difficult. No one looks good in bulky pastels, and mud is a bitch when it comes to delicate pink pumps.

After writing three paragraphs explaining it all to you, I decided to forgo explaining my distaste for this particular holiday and leave you to judge or not judge me as you see fit. After all, it’s my life, not yours, so the bottom line is this: Unless we crack open an icy cold bottle of Death’s Door and get handy with some tonic and limes, we’re likely not going to have this conversation.

Ok, honestly, even if we do that, we’re not having the conversation. Speak to me of your dreams and lustful wanting, but don’t preach abstinence, sin, or deprivation. It’s all bullshit darlings. Induced shame and guilt are never flattering accessories.

The idea of original sin, God and the historical Jesus don’t really do it for me. Never have, never will. I’m more of a Buddhist philosophy gal, with a heavy grounding in Western Law based on Christian ethics with a lot of left-wing tolerance thrown in for good measure. I’m sure in previous lives I was a philosopher, witch, and hippie, so you’ll just have to get over your conservative-judgmental self if we’re going to be soul mates.

Easter is this twisted spin on  pagan Ostara celebrations. Fertility and rebirth really don’t jive with a celebration based on the masochistic human construct of original sin.

easterpaganIf you think I’m blasphemous, I challenge you to take a toffee hammer to your goey ideas about original sin. Instead of restrictions on basic human needs (nutrition, sexuality, rest and rejuvenation),I propose a deep inward consideration of what you think you’re getting from choosing shame, guilt and abstinence ( in all of its forms) .

If we all connected with the same earth in mind which all our feet are planted on, I really doubt we’d be so damn twisted when it comes to economic policy, agriculture, pollution, sexuality and gender roles. But what do I know, I’m only a woman?

So, this Easter I shall not be rejoicing in someone having died for my inherent sin. I wasn’t born a sinner. I was born perfect. Only  then was I marinated in years of rhetoric about how a woman should be. They’re only ideas darlings, not locks and chains.

So, on this day with all the rhetoric about sin and salvation I will be more deeply rooted in the idea of vitality, personal ethics, and fertility of course.  I will however partake in the enjoyment of a Rheo Thompson buttercream egg, you know, so the masses don’t stone me for me being a whore and a heathen.

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Christmas Care for the Caring

snuggleWonderful. Beautiful. Lovely.

Adjectives that caring folks often use. At Christmas time, everything is supposed to be extra wonderful, extra beautiful, and extra lovely.

Putting on a kind face when everything is not can take a heavy toll. We often hear our friends  talk about their suffering, but never really hear it.

So in the days leading up to the holiday, remember that the ones who never buckle under pressure, who always seem to hold everyone else together are human too.

It may be a text, email or phone call. Better yet, be there with a hug and a shoulder. Take a chance on someone who makes your heart go pitter-patter and snuggle up under the duvet for a movie or heart to heart.

Have another first kiss or a first, first kiss. Be their shining light on the darkest nights.

Sometimes it’s the caring ones, the bold ones, and the seemingly brave that have the most fragile of hearts.

Don’t forget that the caring ones among us need to be cared for too.

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Winter Rant 1: Winter-City Driving

winterdrivingLet me start off by telling you that this is going to be a dinger. As in a doozey. As in, if you are a delicate flower, you might want to stop reading right now.

No. I’m not kidding. It’s going to get ripe darlings. So, go ahead, just click on the x in the corner if you’re easily offended, ’cause mamma ain’t happy.

This may very well be the first of a series of winter rants. For my own sanity, I hope it’s not, but one never knows. Lately my luck has been running in the gutter right next to used prophylactics and last night’s phone numbers.

If I had more Advil, I’d drink more wine. But as it stands, I have an A.M. meeting, and lord knows I’m expected to be fresh. So, instead of the ever-helpful hooch, I’m going to write this one out.

After a needlessly treacherous drive on icy streets, which the weather forecasters have been predicting for days, I am, finally home.  A big shout out to the beaurocrats who decide when to grace us with road salt and de-icer. A big fat flip of the bird and go-screw-yourself to you. Splendid decision-making, you bunch of egotistical morons!

Oh, and don’t, just don’t even bother going all holier than thou on me about the environment or the rationale behind who, what, when, and where gets the service in the city. I don’t need to hear that garbage. There’s nothing like a city that has been built to be as transit un-friendly as the suburban municipalities bordering the GTA. Road de-icer or hours and hours and hours of exhaust fumes. What a great choice.

Don’t tell me how freaking lucky I am because I don’t live in Buffalo. No I don’t live in Buffalo. Thank god. If you want to read about their misery, piss off to a Buffalonians blog.

I have a request for anyone unfamiliar with winter driving. From the bottom of my heart, I beseech you; Please take our inadequate transit.

I spent two hours white-knuckling it because some dude behind me wearing his toque one-size-too-big, was tap-dancing alternately on the brake and accelerator.  He had no appreciation, like one does for a fine wine, of the vehicles natural ability to proceed at an even pace whilst in drive, nor the handy use of the neutral gear.

His vehicle skittered around the roadway like a baby’s ass on the bottom of a bathtub. You can call me whatever you want, but it was obvious by the glow of my brake lights that this dude’s skin has yet to know a season of it’s truest porcelain shade of winter white.

To summarize that last paragraph; if you’ve never driven in snow, – stay off the fucking road. I could say during the first snow fall, during snow storms, when it’s icy, but tonight, all I really want to tell you is to stay off the fucking road. Period.

Ah. Yes. I feel better now.

Thanks for the free therapy.

~Sending love out to the world, and hoping everyone arrives at their destination safely.~



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I’ll Procrastinate Tomorrow

~ 5 Minute Read~

procrastinationOnce upon a time, in a magazine article far, far, away, I read about the benefits of procrastination.

If I recall correctly, the gist of the article was about procrastination being a psychological defense mechanism mothering us to accept inevitable change.


That’s what makes procrastination so easy to do. Procrastination slows down time so that we can adjust to what will change when we finally take action.

The thing is, I’ve never been much of a procrastinator. Nope. I jump right into things with two feet, head first, and with great abandon. My attitude is that you don’t know if you don’t try.

As I’ve aged I’ve been able to balance an all-or-nothing attitude with a wait-and-see-attitude. Sometimes I find balance, and sometimes I revert back to my habitual patterns; all in, or nothing at all.

Currently  I’m procrastinating about tidying up some editing of my novel. I’m not avoiding the writing, because I know how good it will feel to sweep the changes together and get on with my other book.

The reason I’m avoiding the emails and edits is because my editor died very suddenly last month.  I’m avoiding reading the last of his insight and encouraging words. I’m putting off the last words.  I’m putting off wondering if he said something I wished I would have asked one, last question about.

I’m putting off the reality of not being able to sit with him in the gallery lounge, sun streaming through the antique, glass windows that distort the world outside. I’m putting off getting on in a world missing a great, creative, soul whom I idealized as living a truly authentic life.

When I want to do something, whether it’s sending a text, picking up the phone, or, in this case, opening a series of emails I should have opened months ago, I know I need to ask myself why.  I know I need to give myself the respect to be honest with myself about the answer.

I wish  you the courage to be still and silent in your moments of procrastination so that you can hear that tiny whisper of your soul telling you the truth about what you need to do.

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Not-So-Little-League; an Adult Obsession

thesearekidsToday was not a good day in the land of mom, or local little league for that matter.

For years I have been grateful to the coaches and volunteers who have come together to help kids in our city play sports. I’ve been a hockey mom, a soccer mom, a baseball mom, a football mom, a curling mom, a basketball mom, and a happy mom.

I have also been an annoyed mom.

Annoyed when adults with something to prove take the fun out of the sport for kids. I’ve seen parents yell at their kids, other people’s kids, and act like barbaric fools over kids’ sports.

Most of the time I wear my trademark grin, and waddle away silent, with a happy kiddo. But not today. Today I lost my ever-present-cool, and let someone have it. The only thing I regret is that every single parent who has ever interfered in their child’s sports like a whiny six-year-old didn’t get the full lecture.

Let me lay out some basic rules for you over-enthusiastic-never-made-the-team-I-live-vicariously-through-my-own-child goombas;

1) It’s a game. Play by the rules and honour sportsmanship above all else.

2) It’s a game. Cheer for the great stuff going on at the rink, on the field, on the court. Don’t shame a kid because they aren’t a professional athlete.

3) It’s a game. Your ego means nothing. How the kids come off the field/ice/court/whatever is all that matters. Are they smiling? Do they make everyone on the team feel valued? If you can answer yes to both of these questions nothing else matters.

4) It’s a game. DO NOT use the words, ‘sign’,  ‘draft’, or ‘release’ when you’re talking about kids and sports. If you find yourself using these words and taking yourself seriously, clearly you need to march your chubby-has-been-buns off to an old-timers team and get busy. You are not helping the kids, you are pathetic.

5) It’s a game. Thank your coaches. It’s a huge commitment, and a good coach is a blessing.  Goodness knows that I haven’t a clue about how to be a good coach. I just know that my child has been blessed with some amazing ones.

6) It’s a game. Don’t play politics with minor sports. Kids need this now more than ever. If you want to play politics, start reading and paying attention to our career-quasi-Hollywood politicians already in office. That’s a sport for adults.

7) It’s a game. It’s not all about winning or losing (although winning is indeed pretty darn sweet). It’s about commitment, integrity, and getting better than you were the day before.

8) It’s a game. Have fun with each other. Enjoy the time you get to spend with other parents who want the best for their children. Revert to your childhood, and enjoy being out and active with your community.

After a week of over-the-top bullying by adults trying to run little league like it’s the MLB, I thought that sharing some of my tips might be helpful, inspiring, or even just reassuring to other parents.

It’s about fun, learning and not about making it such an over-the-top-ego-circus that you tick off the momma. ‘Cause when the momma gets angry, ain’t nobody having fun.