Jack

Today, I write my blog on my husband’s computer. I don’t care for this. It’s not right in so many ways, even though it’s, basically, identical to mine. It just doesn’t have my stuff on it, you know. All my notes are on my computer, so I’m having to wing it today, and that could spell b-o-r-i-n-g for you.  No drawings. No videos.  Just blah blah freakin’ blah. Apologies all around.

So, big news at the Reid-Flay estates: Our super old, falling down pathetic dog, Jack crossed over The Rainbow Bridge. This is nicey nice talk for “he died”. I’m not a particularly sentimental person, but that stupid Rainbow Bridge thing makes me weepy every single time. You know it’s the bit where people tell you that your dog (cat/mouse/budgie/husband) hasn’t died, he’s just gone over the Rainbow Bridge and when it’s your turn to go, he’ll be there waiting for you, as loyal as ever, with his favourite toy (squeaky bone./catnip mouse/PS-3) in his mouth. This is the kind of stuff that renders me al dente and has made Hallmark gazillions (The Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and certain Long-distance carriers also have capitalized on playing to the cry baby in all of us. I respond with more emotional gusto to advertising than I do to actual humanity). 

Brian rescued Jack from doggie death-row when Jack was about 5 or 6. He’d been tied up outside for most of the first years of his life (Jack, that is, although it might explain a few things if it was Brian I was talking about), and so the pooch came with a great deal of baggage. Brian was very patient with the dog, who was not housetrained, was terrified of the out doors and was prone to attacking everything (animate and inanimate). It took time, but Brian was able to train a veritable Tasmanian devil into a goofy, if unpredictable, buddy.

Jack could not tolerate children, vacuums, thunderstorms, other dogs, vegetables, air blowing on his face, and nature. He loved meat (yes, the maple kind), squeaky toys, his dog buddy, Scooby (RIP, Scooby-girl) and being with Brian. He was inexhaustibly ridiculous and entertaining. 

Jack and Scooby. BFF's.

We knew that he was on the clock for months, he had great difficulty going up and down the back steps to his yard toilet, had all sorts of mystery going on with his innards, and, in the last days, was becoming incontinent (and then falling in it). So, wasn’t a surprise or a snap decision to help Jack with his transition to Sainthood. We will miss the old bugger, but it was the right thing to do.

So I hope you will all join me in raising a handful of hotdogs and toast the life of our dear Jack. He may be gone, but his farts still linger. We salute you, Canine Weirdo.

A Day In My Life

The quality of this fine film is a little rough - it was the only way I could post it within my lifetime. It was taking rather a long time to upload, and I just couldn't make people wait any longer to find out the intricate workings of my super interesting and awesome daily life. Please enjoy responsibly. This video may make you drunk with being super inspired.

I Love you, Tina Fey

I am totally in love with Tina Fey. I know, I know, you think you love Tina Fey too. But you don’t. I mean, not as much as I do. I love her way more than you do, and I want to enter into a non-sexual civil union with her. We could do that because I live in Canada and she lives in NY – the two places on planet earth where non-sexual civil unions between humans, or between humans and animals (or humans and inanimate objects) are legal. Seriously - Google it. Canada and NYC are, basically, identical twins geopolitically.

While we might not get married, I do want to be her official BFF. Maybe there’s some official ceremony where people can publicly declare their BFF-ness to the world, and, you know, be bound together by law. It’s not like I NEED the piece of paper, it’s just the sentimental fool in me, I guess.

(Plus, I’d want to make it awkward for her to NOT be my BFF anymore. You know, she’d be all “Ellen and I just don’t click any more and I don’t think we can be BFF’s anymore, but there’d be so much paperwork, so I’ll just let it slide for awhile”.)

 I picture us with our twin beds, wearing our matching pyjamas, reading dragon books into the wee hours (10pm). In the mornings we watch infomericals and eat Captain Crunch.

Or we could be totally casual together, just watching TV, catching up over coffee and flowers.

We will both have divorced our husbands and sent them off with (my) dog and (her) daughter. The men will cry bitter, bitter tears because they will have lost the loves of their lives and will be saddled with loud things that NEVER STOP WANTING STUFF! Tina and I will be conflicted, because we love our fellas, but we also know that we belong together, as BFF’s, the likes of which the world has never known. And with the men gone we can watch The Biggest Loser together while binging on ice cream and get teary without having to apologize for it.

Ok. Since that probably WON’T happen, I might propose that we buy houses right next door to each other and dig a tunnel connecting them. Both of our homes will have secret doors in bookcases that lead to the underground passageway. We could use the sidewalk outside, but that would be lame ass.

While Tina and I are off doing awesome stuff together, like riding lady bikes, crafting and finding the perfect matching pant suits, our husbands will stand around in tuxedos talking about how amazing their wives are.

I was a late addition to the Tina Fey bandwagon – I never catch on to trends that are just starting up. I had no idea who she was until 30 Rock came on the air. And then it was – it was like I’d found a piece of my brain that had been missing for years BUT I DIDN’T KNOW IT UNTIL THAT MOMENT.

I since have purchased her book, Bossypants, on audiobook. I’m almost done. I’m savoring it. I’ve learned so much about my future Super-Friend that has convinced me that the only thing that would keep us apart are US Border officials and a restraining order. Here’s why Tina Fey and I belong together:

We both love Benedryl.

We both have issues with our eyebrows.

We both found social salvation in Drama groups

We both want people to like us, but not just like us, we want people to like us better than anyone else.

She had a job just outside of Chicago. I was raised just outside of Winnipeg, which is often referred to as “Canada’s Chicago”. Wow. I know.

We both understand about cheese.

I’ll bet she occasionally waves bye to her poops, too.

A part of me knows that I will, more than likely, have to live my whole life without become BFF's with Tina Fey. It is probably for the best, in a way. We'd end up fighting over silly things, like her liking her children and me liking things that she is allergic to. Plus, she'd probably cheat on me with Amy Poehler. Then I'd have to leave her. I'd leave her ass and totally become BFF's with Sarah Silverman.

Damn Tina Fey. Breaking my heart.

SOUP IS GOOD FOOD!

Do you guys love soup?

I love soup. I’m not just saying that so you’ll like me, or because I love the movie “Best In Show”, either.

 I really love soup.

Soup is what I want to eat after I run, no matter how sweaty I am. I want soup.

I used to really like Baxter’s Winter Squash and Carrot soup, but when they “new and Improved” the recipe, I found it to be thin and tasting not unlike old vase water. They don’t even sell the new version any more. Silly Baxter’s!  So now I’m into Campbell’s V8 Broccoli soup.

I also really like Campbell’s Chunky Beef soup – you know, the soup that eats like a meal. And I eat the whole can - none of this one can makes 2 servings crap. My mom…. She’s so funny… she says to me “You don’t have to eat the whole can, sweetie”. Ha ha ha, mom. Yes. Yes I DO have to eat the whole can.  Seniors are so hilarious with the things they believe.

My Dad used to love Royal Cauliflower soup – Royal because it was from someone who used to cook for The Queen. (I don’t know where is appeared originally, but it is not my recipe. If I find out I’ll let you know).  It was mostly cream with a little cauliflower thrown in for manners. Here is the recipe:

Royal Cauliflower and Coriander Soup

4 T Butter

1 medium cauliflower

1 medium potato, cut up

1 medium onion, cut up

2 C chicken broth

2 C milk (probably full-fat milk)

1 t ground coriander

salt and pepper

cream

parsley

Melt butter in a large pot. Sweat vegetables in butter, covered, until soft – about 5 minutes. Add all other ingredients except for the milk and cook until very soft. Transfer mixture to blender and add milk. Puree. Add a swirl of cream and sprinkle with parsley. Serve hot or cold.

My Mom makes a Weight Watcher’s soup that you can eat by the vat full for no “points”. Still, she eats maybe 1 cup full at a time. I laugh at her small soup capacity. I’m my father’s girl.

I’ve tried all kinds of brands in my search for the perfect soup. Imagine’s Organic Butternut Squash soup is so awful that I poured it down the sink without taking a second spoonful. 

While living in London, I became addicted to New Covent Garden’s Carrot and Coriander soup. I bought their cookbook when I moved back to Canada, but it didn’t turn out the same. 

Tomato soup MUST have crackers. Campbell’s is fine, but I’m always in the market for a new tomato soup. Suggestions?

Brian likes Baxter’s Bacon and Lentil soup.

 He also likes Primo brand soups, which I have tried and find them to taste like old tomatoes pureed with old man sweat and pickled egg brine. Not nice. Brian and I are so different in our taste of soups. It’s a wonder we’re still married after 6 months. We do not speak of it.

A caveat, because there is always a caveat: I do not like fish soup. Every weekend Brian and I go to the same pub for our date night dinner and every time the soup of the day is clam chowder. I’ve complained. For years, people, of going there every week. Finally, this past week, they changed it to Spicy Black Bean and Chicken soup. I wasn’t in the mood for soup. Damn it.

My friend Jane likes fish soup. Eww. She’s weird. Likes children and art, too. Totally weird.

What kind of soup do you like?

My first time as a Guest Blogger!

Hey there,

Today's blog can be found at:

MUSIC CANADA

scroll down to the link for LINER NOTES



Go and check out their site full of tidbits on Canadian artists. And plus if they get lots of hits from my site, they'll think I'm cool. And all I really really want in this world is just for once, not to be a dork.

Thanks everyone!

Random Useless Information.

I don’t know what to write about today, so I thought I’d just throw together some random crap that doesn’t really fit into any category. Kinda boring, I know, but sorry. Can’t all be about Ted Nugent. You know that stupid post about Ted Nugent gets me the most page views of any of my blogs? Only one abusive comment on it so far. Had to delete it. Not for polite company and all. Suffice it to say, someone out there wants all Ted Nugent haters to have sex with him.

So here’s some stuff about me that is, honestly, just filler until I can come up with something funny to write about. But it’s still stuff that is true, if that makes a difference.

I don’t know why this is, but whenever I shave the part of my legs behind my knee, I think of Elvis Costello. Elvis Costello has never been near my knees nor is there any other reason why my subconscious should reference these two things together. It’s just one of those mental blips. I have a few of those.

Also, I have difficulty focusing when I count the numbers 15 to 16. I get weirdly confused and literally have to say five-teen in order for my brain to make sense of it.  I do a lot of recounting of things. I generally prefer things in single digits, other than my bank account. I would train myself to say Fifteen million pretty quick if I needed to. But as it is, five-teen it will be.

I also am unable to say the word drawer properly. I say Jwore., instead of du-raw-er (say it faster than that). 

I hate the feeling of wet hair on my back. So I shave it off. Ha ha ha. No, but seriously. Creeps me out. So why don’t I cut my hair, which is long, and tends to get wet when I wash it? Because I look like a man when I have short hair. Or like Shirley Jones. Not sure they aren’t the same thing. I’m pretty sure Brian slipped a shwack of pesos to the officiator at our wedding to include my never cutting my hair short in our marital agreement. If only I’d had the foresite to include my own clause regarding him and eating Mexican food.

I don’t like bacon.

I once pulled a wart out of the side of my thumb -  root and all. It really, really bled. A lot.

I am 45 years old and sometimes, not every time, but sometimes,  I will wave good bye to my poops when I flush.

            That is all.

It's My Birthday Tomorrow!

It is my birthday tomorrow . I will be 45 years old. That’s super super awesome because now I can say “I’m hip, I’m cool, I’m 45”.

 When it’s your birthday, people often ask you how you are going to spend your special day. Of course, I can’t do everything in the whole world that I want to, but here’s a partial list of what I’d like to do to celebrate my natal day:

Get my run over with early in the day. I’m hoping that it’s one of those runs where it feels effortless.

Wear my favourite summer dress from Yoka.

Have a latte.

Sit on the front step, with a good book, and Gracie. I am currently reading:

Have a sandwich

Browse through the bookstore.

Snuggle Fiona

Watch TV with Brian.

Needlepoint

Order needlepoint supplies on line.

Ride my new bike!!

Buy some fancy soap at the lady store down on Queen St.

Order in Thai food for dinner.

What I will actually do is do my exercises begrudgingly, wear grubby shorts and a t-shirt, have re-heated coffee, yell “NO” at Gracie most of the day, clean up dog crap on the floor, vacuum and pick at my cuticles. Later I’ll watch TV with Brian and needlepoint.

And that will be pretty good, too.

Mistakes I Continue to Make

Some people learn from their mistakes.

I seem to have this mental block when it comes to processing when things have turned out badly before and applying gained knowledge to future action. It's not that I forget stuff that I do that ends badly. I just continue to believe that "maybe this time it will be different", regardless of the number of failed attempts at a given activity.

Some people might call it plucky optimism. I call it slap-in-the-head stupidity.

Here is a partial list of mistakes I continue to make:

I drink those French vanilla cappuccino coffees, or the iced caps so fast that I feel totally sick afterwards. But I never learn and I never shall.

I love this so much

Drink Fast. Very fast.

I fill up on bread at restaurants. Every time.

I provide my contact info to retailers.

 I cut my hair short thinking my weirdly large and oblong head can pull it off.

 Buy anything 2 for one when I don’t even really need the one.

Nap for 3 hours.

Think I can grow herbs indoors.

I won’t stop picking at it. I once pulled a wart out of my thumb. Root and all. There was a great deal of blood.

I keep trying to read Dune,  thinking that this time maybe it will be good.

Still incomprehensible after all these years.

I will eat 2 cups of cauliflower, 16 baby carrots, 1 c of raw broccoli (with ranch dip) and 2 c of honeydew melon from the rider at soundcheck. 

It's only healthy if you do not eat all of it. I eat all of it.

Then I will not be hungry for dinner. Dinner will be free and I will feel obliged to eat it because it is free. After the show there will be  some rider food left over.

Yes. All of it.

 I will feel compelled to eat it in case there is no food available for a 20 minute period at some point and I’d regret not having eaten it then, wouldn’t’ I?

Cut my toenails too short and then be unable to run or walk properly.

I will continue to order shoes on line even though I’m continually disappointed.

 Think I can have 1 bowl of Vector. Ha ha ha ha ha.

 Buy high heels.

Wear white t-shirts while drinking coffee or eating an apple.

Smile and say hello to the scowly couple down the street who never smile or say hello back even after 4 years of seeing me practically every day.

Brush the dog indoors. While wearing shorts. Right after moisturizing my legs.

Befriend crazy people. Give them my phone number. 

Buy cocktail dresses. I do not go to cocktail parties. I do not go to parties. I do not drink cocktails. I sit around in pants and t-shirts all day long spilling food on myself.

Drink diet sodas and get the resulting headache.

Whine about a problem I have to people who have the same problem that I have except their version of that same problem is way worse than mine.

To err is human, I suppose. But to continue erring? I suppose that would be time wasting, disappointing, sick making, insulting, fattening and expensive. I'm used to it.

A Blog Recommendation

I know I was just ragging on about other blogs that I've stumbled across that are weird and kinda lame. But I did find one, lately,  that I find rather charming.

There's just something about this gal I like. She's the adult daughter I would like to have had if I'd been a teen mom. Mind you, she could be a serial killer. So I wouldn't, like, you know, just show up at her house or anything. She's probably not a serial killer. She makes little things that are squishy.

She has a bald cat. And a furry husband. Kind of the opposite of me. Her blog is sweet and simple and doesn't go on about Jesus.

Here is her blog. Go have a peek. And she's got a contest on to win one of her little plush cutiepies.

Let's make her famous!

RV's are not inevitable

Traveling in the summer is interesting, except if you are traveling between Toronto and Ottawa, in which case you might as well bring along packs of pins with which to poke your eyes to keep yourself from falling asleep. The only good thing about that stretch of road is the preponderance of truck stops, and we all know how I feel about those. Even though truck stops are 100% to blame for my expanding arsage, I still love them.

Anyway, highway 104 in Nova Scotia is pretty, and a lot  more interesting. There sure are a lot of dead creatures on the side of the road. And so many RV trailers.  Which are kind of the same as dead creatures, at least in terms of the speed at which they both travel.

RV trailers are a huge pain in the ass, am I right? They putter along and never pull over to let normal people pass them. Nope. They are vacationers out on the adventure of a lifetime and they aren’t going to let any more time, or any more vehicles, pass them by.

On an adventure!

Why is this activity, this dragging of a house along the highway, why is this considered living a dream?  It’s almost always seniors. Is this something I’ll discover when I hit 70? I’ll turn 70, my boobs will officially hit my knees and I’ll wake up one morning and say, “Brian, let’s buy a $250,000 toaster and hurl ourselves down the bleakest stretches of Canadian highway for a whole summer”. 

Looks like FUN!

He’ll look at me and say “Darlene (because he’ll be completely demented by then), let’s plan our route to hit all the tar spreading, gravel dumping, and lane reductions that we can”.

I don’t want to sound ageist, I think people do ridiculous, inexplicable things at all ages. Skateboarding for teenagers, having children for young adults, liking Sheryl Crow for middle aged people and, well, buying an RV if you’re a senior citizen. Are these rites of passage? Are we destined to follow the footsteps of our forebears?

Is it inevitable?

I don’t think it is, and I think that all of us, if we can, have to be vigilant in our fight to not join the ranks of “The People of the RV”.  I think there are several keys to avoiding turning into one of “them”.

 Do not wear matching track suits. Unless you are Brian and me, in which case it is ironic and sassy. No baseball hats with slogans that refer to you being a senior.

Do not wear suspenders. 

Unless you are a fireman and you’re not wearing a top and you are carrying an axe. 

Do not do this if you are over 35, even if you are a fireman.

Do not send back your toast at the diner because it’s not the right toastedness.

Do not shuffle in order to make yourself appear that you are hurrying, when you clearly walking at your normal speed. Below is a demonstration. You’re not fooling anyone.

Do not tell the girl at the Tim Horton’s that you remember when there was a Dance Hall on the site of this building. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about. She is hung over. She is today’s youth and doesn’t give a crap about anything.

To avoid being a trailblazing senior, be boring. People who go on RV adventures are usually into having a good time. I think it’s probably a weird seniors sex cult.  I mean it all makes sense. Traveling beds, really. With mini fridges for juice and medications. Chemical toilets. The true 24 hour party people. Added bonus of 15% off at Safeway and the  ability to be entertained by birds.

100% Approved for a Sexy Road Trip

Our tour manager, Wayne, has a fun game he plays with RV’s, like an Eye Spy game for bored musicians on the road to keep us from whining and wanting to stop every 20 minutes for pork rinds.  Here’s the game:

RV’s all have names. On the back, they have a brand name and then another name like Spitfire or Firefly. What you do is put the word “anal” in front of that word. Then you laugh and laugh because otherwise you realize how much you hate being in a freaking van for 6 hours.

A small sampling of our results:

Anal Intrepid

Anal View

Anal Duchess

Anal Rover

Anal Sportsman

Anal Star Stream

Anal Prowler

Anal Zinger

Anal Fun Finder

And so forth.

It’s nice to think of the people of the RV in their Anal Zingers or their Anal Lances, trundling to grandchildren hither and yon. I complain, but really, their generation paid the taxes that supplemented my education, my overuse of the healthcare system and the roads that they currently block up with their complicated, expensive and polluting alternatives to motels.  So I appreciate you, but I also curse you, Anal Road Warriors, one and all.