If you have poo, fling it now.

Support your local shops is my motto. The problem is they have people in them. Ew.  Armed with mace and a positive attitude, I fa la la la laed uptown. First, I needed a snap button repaired on my trusty winter coat so I headed to a seamstress tiny shop. It was lovely in there, especially the nice woman with the unfortunate habit of coughing on me. Why do people do that to me?  I surmised between hacking convulsions that this poor half dead woman was not able to snap a snap back on and with her dying last cough sent me to a cobbler shop. I now have a pneumonia coming on surely? Okay cobbler shop, Hi, I drove all the way cross town to see you how are you today? "CAN'T DO IT." Comes the reply.  Huh? I've only walked in the door? Surely the seamstress couldn't have called you from her grave to tell you about a tiny snap?  Turns out I was holding my coat in a "certain manner" that prevented him from seeing what kind of snap. Apparently there are mill

Us whippet owners provide crack for our dogs.  There I said it.  No coming back from it. We have a secret knock, handshake and meetings. We compare, confer and consult. "How big?" "Where do you get yours?" "What time did we crash the site?" "Dear such and such vendor, we are sorry we crashed your site, fork over the on special items now!" "Do you leave the tube in or not?" It arrived nonchalantly, in a plain box. Humphrey was on the box looking for his first fix. He pawed it out of the box because my opposable thumbs were apparently too slow for him. How he knew it was one having never seen one before, well, his skeletal DNA may explain a lot. As soon as it was free from the box he burrowed into to it with such force, quite frankly it was violent. Johnny Depp and I suffered the evil eye for several long minutes having lapsed as Whippet owners. See contract, document 43.8, paragraph C. Humphrey's face was screaming:

I've been 32 days without power in a Canadian winter. I've been 70 days in a flood, the likes of which had never been seen. I've never done both at the same time. (Okay half a day during the flood, but I blacked out.) I've done neither in a city environment. No canoes, no alternative heat, no way to cook or save food? Millions of people? They all must have clicked into survival mode. Survival mode sounds scary, but when one has no choice, you either deal or breakdown. I liked scattering both throughout the hours, day and night. No sense being even keeled. The media already talking about the aftermath and how they are going to rebuild. Yeah, Sandy has passed, but the present moment for those hip deep in water, take it from me, don't need talk about all the work. They definitely don't need disaster tourism. We may want to see those images to be informed and up to date, but from inside it feels invasive when the umpteenth reporter power boats up your

Fall through societal cracks, break your mother's back. Shoot 'em up bang bang. Holy livid batgirl. Arsenal of weapons, not one of them a pen nor a dialogue. Finders keepers. Easy to find a multitude of war machinery, just dial 1800RAGE. They deliver. Easy peazy. The opposite equals unpatriotic. True patriots needed time to load the musket. But what do I know, I have no right arms from a bear. Tick Tock, who's next? Narrowly escape a shooting in T.O. only to be slaughtered in CO. Fate? No, a man and his gun.

But wasn't it just yesterday that he picked me after firmly stating  I wanted a girl?  At 3 weeks old, he left a pile of warm puppies, stuffed penguin in his mouth, toddled over to me, took him forever,  laid his tiny head on my foot, gave me the penguin and sighed mightily. He picked me. Of course I kept it!!  I am remembering some of his antics as a youngster. Kinda like the time he jumped into a plate of spaghetti that someone was holding while standing up. He then slid off the plate, bounced on the wall, scared himself, and proceeded to strew noodles and sauce throughout the entirety of the house.  Normal. Or the time I turned around to set the water dish beside him and he had disappeared in a blink, then I heard rustling, looked up and there he was on top of the fridge.  Normal at 9 weeks old. Or both times he gave me a black eye, oh and Johnny Depp too. Nothing new to a Whippet owner. Or his love of Halloween trick or treaters. Love as in ; Let's rip off eve

When needing to loudly hawk up a lung - man in back of me - by all means spew phlegm into the garbage can at the mall. INSIDE the mall. IN THE TRASH BIN. Out IN PUBLIC. Said garbage can a mere inches away from EXTERIOR door he (I checked, it wasn't the swimmer from my last phlegm episode) was leaving through 3 seconds later where one could have grossly spit on grass. But noooo. Or go for broke and actually have a tissue. Well, no, that would be bizarre world. Soon there will be trains with the one "no spitting" section you pay extra to sit in like in China. Where is our civilization going?  Flinging poo? (Bazinga!) I mean okay you have low rider jeans and you want to show your crack with the scroll flower tattoo and bits that ought not be shown in places of work. Still? Quite lovely, Brazilian? I've seen your preference of  blue bubble gum while waiting at my table. I've heard your "s'up?" when I walk into your store. I've seen oodle

Oh how this is hard for me; to give up tea. It is not a drink. It's a lifestyle. A ceremony. A life long comfort. It's a communal event. A chat with friends and family. It's an open-ended invitation. It's using the good china passed down from generations. It's hearing my great Aunts and Nanny laugh as tiny silver tongs let sugar cubes escape into the loveliest cups swirling with liquid happiness.  It's the demarcation between childhood and girlhood when the first fancy cup is given after all those years playing pretend with a tiny cup set. It smells like my Mum and Mrs B with a good gab just waiting to burst forth. It is lipstick on napkins. The smell of home baked goods. It's made with care and if it isn't you will be judged. It is not for a microwave or a brewing machine, no. One must bring water to a roiling boil and be ready to pour the instant this happens. It is gifts. Gifts of flowering tea from the Pixarian on my 40th birthday, because she

If you've been following the part about the flood, locusts, roof leaks, you must know by now the asbestos found in the attic needed to come out before they could manage repairs. Who are they? The magical workers that were sent by the insurance company.  All 11 of them. The first batch was the emergency crew to assess and remove any water. They were quick, to the point and took photos of the river because I have a nice view...Helpful? The second was a lady in training, not waiting, just training. She took photos of the situation, the Dalmatian, the river, my new fridge...She wasn't quite cooked yet so they sent another. He stuck his head in the attic hole and declared it filled with what could be asbestos. By God the man was brilliant! I had been flapping my mouth since the beginning that there was vermiculite in the attic and that it "may" be a source of asbestos.  After 3 months they sent in a lab tech to test it, and wouldn't you know it? There is asbestos i

January, the month of de-cluttering. Or maybe the month of watching one too many shows about closet organization. Also, how in the world is the word hoarder now a thing? And why do those shows always have a poop shot in them? "Yes no-teeth-Ethel we are making a donation, a keep, and a give away pile and found, gasp, after 43 years of not cleaning, RAT DROPPINGS!!"" - cut to shot of poop - cue the Shining music. ARGH!!!! This found me in the basement calmly getting rid of some boxes. Calmly, in this case, means sprinting so fast the Dalmatian was in the rear. I have all my teeth still, so off I go. Spring is coming, don't want to be caught amidst flood season with too much stuff down there - Now the goal I set was 5 or 6 carton boxes for the next hour. HA HA! I am so naive. 1 box and several hours later of me sitting on the floor drooling and leaving me wondering was this really my box? Apparently I was a romance novel, cat loving person who collected Bionic W

It all started innocent enough.  And ended wickedly devilish. Doing laundry, I found a receipt in Johnny Depp's jeans pocket and was about to crumple it up, but something caught my eye: BLUEBERRY CONDOMS COLGATE Wait. What? Did I read that right? BLUEBERRY CONDOMS COLGATE Yep, there it was in black and white. We use neither. Odd. In my head it went thusly: Do they make them to taste like blueberries, or the colour of blueberries? Why would they make them taste like blueberries silly Kat....Oh. OH. Ah. Must be the colour.... And in a flash I knew how that receipt got there. And not the Jerry-my-husband-is-cheating-on-me-with-my-lover's-sister/cousin/friend/goat-Springer kinda way. The evening before we were at - oh let's call her Pénélope - apartment for supper, enjoying merriment, food and beverages, fun! As we did dishes Johnny Depp took the Dalmatian for his constitutional in the park, picking up a recycled store bag from a bin just inside her door