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A Little Bit More

As I unpacked the clothes, I could still smell the campfire smoke that had seemingly woven itself into the threads of our sweaters and bug spray containing so much DEET that even the mosquitos increased their risk of getting cancer . Sand and beach stones fell out of tiny pockets and even in the much larger pockets that swore to keep the “awesome finds” safe. awesome find Shawn chose a new camp ground this year and I was leery since the great “Nipple Necrosis” of 2013. It was so cold at Lake Superior that my brother in law’s mustache will never look the same. I felt bad for Shawn because we all hated him for the seven days we were there.

We are all friends now.

Our holiday looked promising as we drove into the entrance and parked at the registration office right in front of a warning sign that pointed to various areas of the bush.

“Poison Ivy”.

The campground newsletter had an entire page devoted to those bastardly “leaves of three” just in case you were wondering where that herpetic looking rash (not that I’d know what that looks like) came from. It was a good thing that we could retreat to this place every day.

Who needs Mexico? Not this Sandman. Na na na na na na na na na na Sandman.

Who needs Mexico? Not this Sandman. Na na na na na na na na na na Sandman.

People shudder when we say that we are trying our all at playing survivor for an entire week; pioneering the shit out of life. We laugh because we have a traveling kitchen and beer. Know those bears from the toilet paper commercials that wipe their asses with delicate cashmere? Well, they don’t know luxury because they have to poop outside. We had actual running toilets and showers that were sand blasted at least three times a day.

This is where I baked cookies from a 200 year old recipe. Actually, we visited Fort Erie during our holiday and we really did eat cookies from a 200 year old recipe. They baked it exactly like they did way back then and it gave us all the shits.

This is where I baked cookies from a 200 year old recipe. Actually, we visited Fort Erie during our holiday and we really did eat cookies from a 200 year old recipe. They baked it exactly like they did way back then and it gave us all stomach aches.

Camping morphs us into people that got lost amongst the constant whirring of responsibilities. We become seemingly weightless even while sunken deeply into a lawn chair.


There are no inhibitions when you’re camping.

Don’t be such a bitch. Get on that.

I always gravitate to the teeter tauter; brings out the kid in me.

I always gravitate to the teeter tauter; brings out the kid in me.

Despite the thunderstorms that helpfully pointed out the places where our camper leaked, it was a good holiday and Shawn was able to breathe a little bit easier this year.

We sort of loved him a little more this time around.

Nothing says good parenting like beer

Nothing says good parenting like beer


Ten Things of Thankful:

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10:

No poison ivy rashes


I’d put up the link badge but for some reason it won’t let me copy the code…copies the entire site…so I’m just putting the link…because screw it…I have laundry to do.

Ten Things Of Thankful


She Wanted To Be Her Own Hero

There is something oddly funny about someone choking in public which is probably why people try to hide it.

Say you are actively choking on a crouton that is corked in your windpipe. What do you do?

You cover your mouth with a napkin and give a good couple of nonchalant coughs with the hope of dislodging it.

It didn’t budge.

You start to fan your face with the menu not because you’re getting hot or trying to stop the tears pooling in your eyes, but because you want to eat the air.

You reach for the glass with the slice of a nasty lemon and what appears to be someone’s old lip gloss smudged on the side, and you take a big gulp of water.

It ends up tickling your gag button because there is nowhere for it to go and so you choke on that too.

You can practically see your obituary and it reads:

“She wanted to be her own hero.”

You finally put your dignity aside and look to your friend for help.

And you notice that she had been watching this pan out the entire time.

The whole restaurant was.

And they all have this funny half smile on their faces.


Speaking of assholes, I was just sitting outside. I had my head tilted up to the sun because I had this weird idea that it would be so hot that it would sweat the words for an essay submission right out of me.  I started talking to myself, because crazy, and I ended up choking on my own spit. I tried to keep the noise of my slow gurgling death to a minimum when I noticed my dog staring at me in disgust.

Then he took a shit about two feet away from me.

That guy has a death wish.

There is really no point in this post.

Just me finding humor in a situation that could have cost me my life.


Me and the fam jam are packed and ready to head up the north for some good old fashioned family camping.

The dog is staying only because he’s an asshole and my sister is moving in to be the den mother.

She hoards cats.



Things I’m thankful for.

  1. Funny situations that aren’t meant to be funny like that one time my grandma walked into a glass door at a pizzeria…with a box of pizza.
  2. That is pretty much it.
  3. Kidding.
  4. A sister who is so cool that she’s going to remember to water my plants.
  5. The great outdoors.
  6. Kick ass chilli making skills.
  7. Blueberry muffins.
  8. Fam jam
  9. Books
  10. Beaches

See you all on the flip side.

If you’re feeling thankful and you want to show it, link up here : http://summat2thinkon.wordpress.com/ten-things-of-thankful/ (I’m too lazy to figure out why the button thing isn’t working)



In Two Hours, It Will Be 4 a.m.

Like most people, I google the shit out of ailments and like most people, I am diagnosed with the worst case scenario.

Why are my fingers numb a few hours after I hit my funny bone?

Answer: You are actively having a stroke. Put on a clean pair of underwear and then proceed to call 911.

In a search for something random like foot fungus (not that I have foot fungus), Google immediately thought that I was searching the number “four” and pulled up a quirky transcript called “The Museum of Four in the Morning“, by Rives. His entire speech revolves around his obsession with 4 a.m.; a time that kept popping up everywhere in history, music, television, movies, and so on. It was interesting at how a simple number, or in this case a time, can appear everywhere.

For me, that number always seems to be 2 a.m

Which is also the exact same time that my asshole dog wakes up to take a stroll and a poop in the backyard.

Look at how annoying he is.

Look at how annoying he is.


2 a.m.

Back in the day, 2 a.m. meant last call at the bars and the long trek to the nearest Pita Pit. My girlfriend always got a pita stuffed with tuna, extra mayo, and pickles. Weird bird. Now 2 a.m means “I’m probably going to die today if I don’t get sleep.”

2 a.m.

Illuminated in blinding blue, two in the morning are the three most painful numbers displayed on the clock. I toss and turn or suffocate myself under a pillow as my brain threatens to produce coherent thoughts and sometimes, I can’t deny them because they’re real good ones. I’ve written entire posts at two. Even edited. I’ll impatiently wait until it comes to a reasonable hour where I can crawl out of bed safely without Shawn angrily grumbling something about onions and balls so that I can hurry up and write everything down. The problem with that is that I usually end up falling into a light sleep where thoughts mingle with dreams of washing patio tables and my son hiding under them because a ghost tried to bite his legs when he was sitting on the toilet.

One day he will murder me in my sleep for this

One day he will murder me in my sleep for this

(That’s actually a real dream.)

2 a.m.

I never remember those ideas. Ever. No matter how hard I try which is a shame because I’m brilliant at 2 a.m.

Or not.

2 a.m.

The dog barks, I call him an asshole, let him out, watch him sniff every crevice in our yard including his poop, let him in, fumble my way back to bed, look at the clock, it’s 2 a.m., and I count how many hours left until my son wakes up for the day.

Which is four hours from 2 a.m.

How about you? Is there a number that keeps popping up for you?


And Then She Stole My Donut

When I was in grade three, I had the most angriest teacher. I am sure that she was from the era where children feared ruler totting nuns. We were learning cursive and I had such a hard time with it. My aunt, who is also left handed, showed me that it was much easier to write if I turned the page at a 180 degree angle and it worked. My teacher, however, told me that it wasn’t the proper way to do it. She yelled at me and told me that I was being rude because I would elbow Sarah B when I wrote in that “ridiculous fashion”. She straightened my page and slapped my pencil on the desk.


“You’re staying here until you get this right!” she barked.

My palms sweat as I meticulously traced q’s over and over during recess time. It was exhaustingly repetitious. I just couldn’t do it as perfectly as she wanted it to be. I panicked every time I caught a glance of her out the corner of my eye rubbing her wrinkly angry ugly forehead. The clock ticked louder and faster when I saw the kids congregating just outside the entrance. As the bell rang, she snatched my page, “tsk tsk’ed” me and tossed the paper in the trash.

Before the next recess, I begged Sarah to trace them for me when the teacher wasn’t looking.

I handed in my work with a devious smile, and for the first time in a week (which seemed like an eternity as a kid), I was allowed to play outside. This was just one of many mischievous moments that Sarah and I had helped the other out. Just like any child attached to the hip of their best friend, we swore that we would get married, buy houses next to each other, and have lots of children.


The last time I heard, Sarah was a doctor studying to be a cardiovascular surgeon.

Friends come and go but that bag of cookies you plowed through will stick to your ribs forever.

Or something, something like that.

I’ve had a lot of friends in my life thus far but just like a dusty old fart in the wind, some just never lingered in the room.

How do you like that for a quote on a mug?

Each friendship came with great adventures and oh the things I had learned like drinking does not make you a good dancer…

…on top of a bar…

…in platform (it was cool at the time) shoes.

At each turn in my life, break-ups, late night bar puking, that one time I…never mind, graduations, surgeries, marriages, birth, illness, and so on, I can recall that friend(s) who was there sharing that part of my journey as do I remember sharing parts of their journey.

I may never see or hear from Sarah B, Sarah T, Sarah V, or Vanessa, “the rat”, “petch”, “gumby”, GP, Tool Belt, Blood Barf (Lindsay, who on her first day of clinical, saw blood and passed out), etc.,  and yes, that does make me sad.

Even though our friendships didn’t last, I will never forget the impact that they had.

They opened the doors to new adventures…

…and to new friends.

Betty never said goodbye...and the bitch stole my donut.

Betty never said goodbye…and the bitch stole my donut.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Inviting The Summer Breezes

It’s 6:01 am. The kid is still (surprisingly) asleep. I have plopped myself here at the kitchen table with a hot cup of shitty coffee to my left. Drinking all things loaded with caffeine is counterintuitive to a person who has a raging case of the bipolar disorder. It can trigger anxiety, blah blah…I choose to ignore that on the list of things that you shouldn’t consume along with not letting your kid listen to Macklemore.

I have the patio door wide open to invite cool summer morning breezes. I wish that Shawn would enjoy the fresh air as much as I do. You see, Shawn never had air conditioning when he lived at home. I bet that he had boob sweat when he was just 24 months old. I shouldn’t poke fun. We had air conditioning but my dad never turned it on.  He’d parade around in nothing but short shorts which is practically being naked. I have no idea how he could stuff a wallet in them when he’d take us for a slushie.

He’s the reason why convenience stores posted those “No shirt. No shoes. No service.” signs.

When Shawn and I moved in together, we put the air on in the winter just because we were adults and could do whatever we wanted. Like that one time when I played volleyball in the basement and took the ceiling down. It was awesome until Shawn had to fix it which meant buying tools that we didn’t have. Wasn’t that a wakeup call when you moved out of your parents house? You know the realization that you had to buy your own toilet paper and cups to drink out of. I’m pretty sure that was the reason why we were alcoholics until my wedding shower. We drank all the things in bottles because screw the man and conforming to drinking out of cups.

Seven months, for seven months we have been living like a moles in our basement. “The kitchen renovations would take a few months,” he said.

It also doubles as Play-Doh central

It also doubles as Play-Doh central

“It’ll be a fun experience,” he said, until we all started hating one another after a month of living and eating in the same place. We were going batty. I’m not even lying when I say that I had panic attacks every time I went downstairs. It smelled like food and murder.

Because toilet paper in the basement mother effers...I'm going to smother my mom in this

Because toilet paper in the basement mother effers…I’m going to smother my mom in this

After many renovation mishaps like the one time the cabinet guy put up the wrong cabinets and when we almost got a divorce over paint colours and that one time I fell in love with the pretty tile guy but that didn’t have any effects on the job at hand, we are almost there. Shawn said “I hooked up the frid—” and I said, “Move out of my way”.

You have never seen a person with a back so bad that wind could split her in two move an entire kitchen upstairs in a matter of a few days.

I don’t care that we don’t have bar stools or mouldings or backsplashes or living room furniture. I made Shawn buy us a kitchen table and here I will live out the rest of my days with the patio door wide open so I can breathe real air.

The sun is kissing the tops of the trees in my yard.

The birds are chirping.

And I am enjoying all of it.


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