Old Enough… these drafts, I mean…


Today I’m blog-hopping again with Romance Writers Weekly and the question on the blog hop today is from Leslie Hachtel:

What is the writing project you’re thinking about doing next and why.

My Next Project

My next project is the same next project I’ve had since the very last day my bosoms were perky. Two books: one a romantic comedy and the other? A cozy mystery. I started these back when I had abs and a sense of self-worth. Like me, the drafts are old and tired now. Over-worked in some areas, neglected in others. When necessary, flip and glib dialogue is hoping to distract from narrative falling arcs. (That’s an old-age falling-arches joke I tried on but I can tell as I re-read it…. well…. are we halfway to pathetic yet?) You get the idea. My next projects are ageing. Not like wine, like fish.

I’ve been writing the same two books: the eponymous Old Enough and Ugly Enough (chipping away at this for more than ten years) and The Paper Bag Party (a new wine into an old skin…. very bad for narrative, great for word count).

Old Enough and Ugly Enough

The OEUE book is my favourite of the many drafts hogging space in my mental life. It’s a love story. It’s funny. I wrote it while I was writing hideous (well, kinda ok, mostly hideous) novellas I was hoping to throw to then-budding Carina Press. They didn’t bite (rightly so) and I self-pubbed (regrets). Just for the record, though: I was the first to jump on the zombie romance train. I wove these semi-atrocities into the OEUE narrative eventually. Having a minor in Semiotics, I felt very meta and overweening self-reference seemed the way to go. Screw you fourth wall, I was going for footnotes and a YouTube study-guide. (Actually, I have indexed all my novellas and short-story collections so if you’re on the ‘Zon and buy some random self-published atrocity BUT it has footnotes and/or an index… I likely wrote it.)

In truth? I was tired of all romance heroines being 23-27, short, and either svelte or “curvy.” I wanted a 40+ love story and maybe a bit of sag. I’m not very curvy. I’m what happens when an athlete in her forties has large babies. I’m floopy.

The dude? Not pretty. I hate pretty. He’s handsome. No shaved chesticles. No tattoos (or maybe one or two old craggy ones). Just a real dude. Like the dude I married.

The story? Plausible and not suffering from bull-poopy tired “conflict” tropes which can usually be settled in a five minute conversation that could happen if one character just STFU for four of those five minutes and hear the other person out. No way man. I went for our story (plus some embellishments because, frankly, I am a bit dull). It’s a good one, I think (ignore previous aside LOL). It’s 44K but because I felt it was my “good” book (the one Richard Curtis will buy and make into a film) I focussed on the second book because it was easier to write (and shorter). I needed REAL writing time for OEUE. That’s not something I have just now.

The Paper Bag Party

This offshoot sprang from my experiences working in less glamorous (but more lucrative) places, having some technically unsavory clients (nothing I’d put on a CV) and published in some brown paper-packaged magazines. Totally legit, don’t get me wrong. We always say “I don’t judge” but you know what? We always do. I have a friend randomly wrapped up in some branches from this gig and I rolled it from some of her experiences. But by this point I was grokking cozy mysteries (ask me how much I love those first few authors Henery Press had… in alphabetical order): Gretchen Archer, Terri L Austin, Susan M Boyer, Larissa Reinhart, LynDee Walker. I met them all from their first books and decided, then and there, that this was my new favourite genre.

I’ve got the comedy part figured out. The romance figured out. I keep trying to bribe Terri to write the rest for me. No luck. (Terri, if you’re reading this, please finish my book for me.)

This year, as with every year, I vow that I will finish a draft. I have beta reader offers coming out my wazoo. I know a ton of people in “the industry” (play racquetball, people!) and am all set with readers, editors, branding, blah blah blah. What I don’t have, ultimately, is the concentrated time. Writing in ten-minute increments is good only for, well, writing blogs. I write about 100K+ worth of blogs every year (that’s word count, not $$) and at least half of that is for other people. I think I’m chickening out a bit (a lot).

So having said all that: my next two projects are as above. My real project is to stop writing blogs and just, to quote the exquisite Sarah Hegger who rides my tail when I whine thus: “finish the damn book.”

One last thing….

In a fit of pique, and recognizing that not all things started should be finished, I DESTROYED a manuscript for which I actually had an interested publisher (who sent notes on fixes they wanted to see). I hated the book. Everything about it. I just didn’t want to write that one anymore. It’s gone. I feel great.

Thank you super groovy muchissimo for joining me today. Next stop on le hop is A.S. Fenichel. Just keep hopping ’til you get back here then remember to subscribe to my blog. Now that my noggin is out of my keister, I’ll be writing more this fiscal. Lent’s coming which means it’s prolific time for my writing sphere.




What to Get for those Hard-to-Buy-for People

Today I’m blog-hopping again with Romance Writers Weekly and the question on the bloghop today is from Leslie Hachtel who’s asked us: “If you could get anything in the world you wanted for Christmas, what would it be?” Thanks for joining us today from Leslie’s blog (or if I’m your first stop, follow the hop til you’ve come full-circle).

My needs are simple this year. Well, every year. A box of After Eights and world peace. But this year, I’m willing to give up the After Eights because watching the world these days has made me lose my appetite.

I hardly know where to start on which issue distresses me the most. I think there are just too many things to list. 

So in the absence of the possibility I’ll get world peace, I’m asking people to donate rather than give gifts. That’s my next-best. My favourite world peace charities? They include the Red Cross, Unicef, and Doctors without Borders.

If you haven’t crossed everything off your list yet, maybe a few of your hard-to-buy-for people would be very pleased to know you’ve picked up a survivor kit or medicine kit for someone who, perhaps, isn’t quite so hard to buy for.

I’m hoping and praying that this year, people open their hearts (and wallets) and give either money or their time to causes which really could use some help.

Head on over to Jenna Da Sie’s blog and see what she wants in her stocking. 🙂 Thanks for stopping by!

I always drink to world peace…



Zombies, Zippos, A.S. Fenichel

Zombies, Zippos, A.S. Fenichel

I have a series of unpublished blogs based on my dreams, each blog in various states of un/edit, pending graphics and screen grabs. One I’ve promised Bueller is about a dream I had of my wearing English muffins for slippers whilst walking to Montréal with a quick stop at Toronto’s own Sneaky Dees. Yes, that old chestnut. But it was a great dream and two years later, I finally finished that blog. 

A Bic Lighter Commercial? You say.

You’ll find out in a mo’. Just enjoy.


Today’s blog (ok, this is actually from 18 months ago) just came to me because I had an epiphany and epiphanies made me think of light bulbs which made me think of tealights well, there you go. Yes, synecdoche is alive and well on this blog.


My long-suffering friend Terri gets to receive my wee-hours texts. This was a doozy. A metaphor (as opposed to metonymy) for my pathetic writer-wannabe existence. Like bringing a knife to a gun fight or in my case, a tealight and a Bic lighter to the Zombie Apocalypse.


Ok, now see that last line: “I should have been carrying..” Aye, there’s the rub. The problem? I didn’t remember to save the next screen so not only have I forgotten what I should have been carrying in the dream, but I have also forgotten what I should have been carrying — here and now — in the reportage of the dream.

If you read my Früit Löps blog, you’ll know how distressing this was/is/ever shall be to me. I have meta-forgotten. And what’s worse: I spent the better part of a semi-caffeinated morning pondering what I should have been carrying. A machete? Gun? Jug of acid? Strong language? A bold and enterprising attitude? Some snark? A whole bucket of snark? 

My friend Terri would have had the answer. She likely would have said “a portable food dehydrator and a Sig P226.” See that connection I just made? Lighter? Cigarette? Sig Sauer? Dang. Terri’s good (and hopefully doesn’t mind my putting words into her mouth). A.S. Fenichel would have been armed with Victorian Kung-fu and an Hattori Hanzo sword. These are women of action, people!

My pitiful wannabe writing life takes the focus

This blog looks like I’m plugging A.S. Fenichel or Terri L Austin but the fact is, that’s the blog’s by-product but not its purpose. My pitiful wannabe writing life takes the focus. This ain’t no advertorial, cowboy bovine-herding-non-binary-specific-humanoid.

A.S. Fenichel writes a wicked good vs evil romance. I guess the correct term is “paranormal romance” but for her, I think more of a “good vs evil” moniker. Her heroines kick some serious tush. I’m pretty sure I’ve read all her books (she’s not all paranormal: some are historical, others are contemporary) and for those wanting snippets and reviews, tootle to Amazon. Pretty sure if you want a compadre for the zombie End of Days, it’d be she.

Terri is my go-to for panic-mode. Seriously, there ain’t no cliff from which she cannot talk me down. She would have reminded me of my Zippo, then showed me how to store food for the apocalypse (think I’m joking? This is one of our major topics of discussion on any given week). She may write as a pantser but she lives as a plotter.

I’ve “known” both women since their first books and have been honoured to follow them through their careers thus far. I may only have THOUGHT I had a Bic lighter but in reality, I DO have a Zippo. I just need to remember to check my pockets. 

Long have I pondered what I would have brought to the Zombie Apocalypse then realised something: I’d be eaten while I figured it out. 

Oh, and A.S. cooks a treat, too. I guess I should have been carrying some Lagostina. Weapons and vittles. What more could I want in the Zombie Apocalypse? Actually, Lagostina COULD be a weapon. Bonk bonk Trafalgars!

Terri and I don’t cook. Surely among the three of us, at least one of us would survive to write the post-scriptum to the blog. Stay tuned.

At a loss what to get people for Christmas? How about donating to the Heart & Stroke Foundation in their name?


Is the Cup Half-Full or Half-Empty?

Yup. I know what you’re thinking: this blog is all about whether an “empty” cup (I don’t use glasses… that’s another blog for another day) isn’t really just chock-full of elements like nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon in their gaseous state… and who are we to be sniffy about privileging matter in its liquid form? It’s ok. I went there too. No, today’s blog is about one of my pet peeves: tv shows, commercials, and films wherein the character is holding an empty cup and pretending to drink from it.

Actually, I have a few cupular pet peeves. I think I’ll make this a series.

First, I tried to find all those commercials and film snippets which have made me bananas, over the last few decades. People holding empty cups (and similarly irritating: people holding empty paper grocery bags) but random Google searches proved useless except for this mostly unrelated gem courtesy of Cracked.com’s YouTube channel which, thankfully, does have a dude holding an empty cup, but it’s not quite what I needed for my blog.

Please enjoy this video. I had to endure a commercial for The Big Bang Theory before I could watch this.

Roger Horton. Yeah, I’d vote for you.

Then I happened upon Mental Floss which led me to Slate and (bless his buns) Myles McNutt. He beat me to it and frankly, I’m not this good.

Proof once again I live in a world inhabited only by cats, I discover the #EmptyCupAwards started, oh, two years ago…

Since McNutt had it worked out for me, I decided to share this with you all, then change the focus of today’s blog to what you all originally thought I was going to write on:

Empty vs. Full

Somewhere, always lurking, is a smart-ass who will answer the half-empty, half-full question with “there’s air in there!” thus silencing the rhetorical questioner. Usually also quashing all good chatter leaving nothing (or would that be something) but an awkward pause. Don’t worry: I’ve been that pedantic self-righteous 11 year-old. Perhaps you’ve been one, too (one, two, get it?).

Pretty sure the bowl is "empty" but not my Hello Kitty mug. It probably has green tea in it, or 抹茶 for you purists.

Pretty sure the bowl is “empty” but not my Hello Kitty mug. It probably has green tea in it, or 抹茶 for you purists.

Is the Cup Half-Full or Half-Empty?

The question is so much more than a discourse on the elements; we all know that. It’s about whether your response is optimistic (half-full) or pessimistic (half-empty). Frankly, I’ve found this discourse just a little too “binary” (yeah, I said it) and reductionist (which my spell check tells me is NOT a word but hey, neologism IS a word so nyah). Reductionist. I said it.

It’s a blog about what is and isn’t “there” and whether or not a cup of anything is always a good thing. My first thoughts:

  • The cup is never empty. Anyone who stayed awake in Grade 9 science will tell you that, if they dare.
  • Sometimes there’s poison in that cup. Good thing it’s half-empty. But dang, who drank it and will I have to hide the body? Who poisoned the cup? Why? Am I next? Thankfully, I am friends with a lot of mystery authors and likely, they can help me on this one.
  • The ambrosia distilled from kitten sneezes and happy puppy toots may be in your cup, in which case half-full is still pretty ok. Who drank it shouldn’t be my response. Thank you for saving me some is what I should say. Let’s have a little gratitude, people.
  • The cup is half-full or half-empty depending on your need. If you are drinking Buckley’s Mixture and are halfway done…. well, if you’ve had Buckley’s, you know. You need that cup to be empty. Emptied.  Maybe one should move to the more verbally enhanced question: is the cup half-filled or half-emptied?
  • Sometimes it’s just so awesome to have a cup. There’s a semiotics in this observation: some people don’t have cups and likely don’t have decent water to drink. But here in the First World…need a cup? Here’s how you fold one, if you’re in a tight spot. This comes in handy if you’re in IKEA, a land forgotten by drinking fountains. Take a fresh page from an ubiquitous catalogue festooning that temple to compartmentalization and fold your little heart out. One use only though, people.
  • And now that you’ve read the point above, you may be feeling a bit crappy about the fact that I mentioned that some people don’t have access to potable water. Do something about it, even if you just share some page from Watsi.org or Unicef. Maybe the other person will donate, thanks to your clicking “share” or “like” or one of those little hearts.

What started this blog today: my hatred for seeing people “drink” from “empty” cups. What it’s really all about? The fact that my little bubble gets burst when I notice the artifice of it all. In film, this is when the suture is ruptured. I love suture. I like my #safespace (or is it #safeplace or #happyspace? #happyplace?).  (My kid just told me it’s #safespace and #happyplace.)

This particular suture rupture irks me, metaphorically, because what I ultimately see is the mirroring of real-life people in my day-to-day (well, on Facebook at least) drinking from full cups and they’re not aware of it. When I see fake people fake drink from fake cups my mind goes to all the real people out there “drinking” from very full cups and some (not all) are no more “aware” (certainly not really #grateful or #blessed) than those actors on those shows, commercials, and films.  

But I know what you’re really wondering, through all this?

Why don’t I drink from glasses?

What’s the metaphor there? Glass houses? Mirror Stage? Simulacra? Nah, it’s much more easy peasy: I knock them over and break them. That’s kinda it, really. I’m a klutz. Freud sums this up nicely:

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

And sometimes the cup is neither full nor empty, and it may not even be there. But if you have a cup, you’re doing pretty good. If it has something palatable in it, so much the better. If you can fill someone else’s — figuratively or literally — then you are truly having a great day. Go fill someone’s cup today and please, for me, make sure you slosh it around a bit. Leave a mark. Share the love.


I’m canvassing for the Heart & Stroke Foundation again this year and yes, I’m starting well before Heart Month (which is February)… Even $5 would be nice. Please give. Super thanks!



The Momfia Getaway

I know what you’re thinking: this is a blog about the Momfia and their daring escape from their latest caper (thus keeping their bail money for another day). You’re probably right. But the weekend has only begun and I’m not there as their designated driver. Since I don’t drink, I’d be the perfect driver for the Momfia getaway.

What this blog is really about: claustrophobia. Sure sure, there are likely other diagnoses I could invoke (I have a slew of them in my sling bag) but the main one is claustrophobia.

Let me tell you something: claustrophobia blows monkey bottoms. And while no, I can’t “just get over it,” I can write a blog about it (sitting near a window, car keys in hand). Ok, kinda joking there.


I have known these women for years. We’re in a birth club together (yes, we call ourselves the Momfia) and some of us have been hanging out (mostly online) since we were pregnant. I love these women. And while we’re all so geographically distant, we do our best to get together when we can.

For me, this is challenging. Almost insurmountable. Depending on distance and venue, I can do it. It all comes down to distance and venue (read: escapability). Oh wait, and body count. Distance. Venue. Body Count. Trips to IKEA? Manageable for about an hour, then I freak out (I am not good with malls, as you may recall). Trips far-ish away, to a dwelling and room-sharing (and toilet-sharing, don’t even… don’t eeeeeeeeeeven get me started)? I just can’t. It’s so painful for me. I can barely imagine it.

What makes it worse is the self-loathing and rationalizing I go through when a group event is put together. I want to see people. I know only a few of the now-69 women who make up our happy troupe since 2010. But I cannot fully express how downright physically painful it is for me to be in a confined space (yes, a ski chalet with 14 women counts as confined). And yet. And yet. It all looks so fun.

In a rare moment, I’ll thank FB for the fact that I can semi-participate while I sit at home hating myself.

There’s karaoke

I love karaoke. I have no shame. None. Doesn’t matter what key, tempo, or genre. I will sing it loud and proud. So you’d think I would be down with the get-together, right?

Nope. My total lack of singing shame has nothing to do with claustrophobia. What I wouldn’t give for Ali and me to croon I Got You, Babe, lovingly into each others’ eyes. I’d have to stand on a stool though, she’s pretty tall.

Pretty sure some Nancy Sinatra is going on, here. Note bottles of invigorating elixir in the lower right-hand corner. :)

Pretty sure some Nancy Sinatra is going on, here. Note bottles of invigorating elixir in the lower right-hand corner. 🙂


There’s just good ol’ sleepover fun


I’m menopausal. Undies in the freezer sounds pretty good to me. 🙂

I want to be carefree like this. Like in those 80s films or even better, British comedies from 1968-1971. Capricious. Fun-loving. Anything for a dare. Poops and giggles.

But I can’t. I find it hard to breathe just thinking about being in the living room with them. All of whom I know to some extent. But those four walls, and that distance from my safe place (home)… it’s so hard. I’m someone who can’t even close the door to her own bedroom. No. Really. It freaks me out.

And the worst of it is not having a proper way to explain it. So I got up this morning and thought I’d write a love letter to my Birth Club sisters. We’ve all been through so many things together (and more to come). And I love all of you but I have to say sometimes I just can’t do it. I want to. I intend to. I generally fall through. And I’m sorry. I appreciate you’re not all sitting there waiting for me to splash up the day, but I know some of you may feel slighted, insulted even, at my seeming aloofness.

I can do one-on-one quite well. Small trips to IKEA. And while I hoped and prayed I could drive up to see you all today, I am afraid THE FEAR will take hold. If you don’t suffer from it, you cannot understand it. Hunter S. Thompson got it. 

Getting the Fear

But I know some of you get it, some don’t. We can’t all ‘get’ everything.

I confess I never understood amber teething necklaces.

Gals, I love you all and am always grateful for your friendship. Have fun. Drive safely. Take pix. Skype if you can. Mwah.


November 7th: The Day of Truth

I know what you’re thinking: the title should read November 8th: The Day of Truth: US Election Day. But this isn’t really about November 8th or Election Day in the US (my brother’s birthday, by the way. Happy Birthday, Geoff). And I’m 100% certain November 8 won’t be a Day of Truth no matter what point on the political spectrum you are. It’s about my annual check-up. Yes, it’s “that time of the year.” I’ll keep the title, then as November 7th: The Day of Truth. (I also added that to keep Brother Google happy about my search engine optimisation).

November 7th: The Day of Truth

Those remembering my last year’s check-up (which should be no one), I complained to my doctor (ok, maybe you did hear about this) that I was not really losing anything but collagen, despite being on Weight Watchers and “hitting the gym” and what could he check blood-wise to give me the downlow why I was suddenly a card-carrying member of the Junior Behemoth Society.

Dr Steve laid upon me “the look” which every menopausal woman dreads. If you’re menopausal, you know it. If not, you’ll find out. If you’re neither menopausal nor a woman, well, there is no helping you. I cannot explain “the look.” But if you’ve ever laid “the look” on your loving wife, girlfriend, spousal-equivalent, you are most likely dead or wish you were.

He nonetheless signed me up for a flurry of tests, all of which told me Rambo-Diddly-Squat. Let’s face it, I’m a 50 year-old menopausal woman.


Oh the humanity!

I had to accept the fact that I was fifty. (Actually, at the time I was forty-nine but I’ve moved on and frankly, I was in my fiftieth year). My body has changed. And I don’t belong to the school of Just Accept Your Body. Why? Because I’m a hateful misogynist self-loathing bitch? No. While I am a hateful bitch, it’s not for that reason.

Being a hateful misogynist self-loathing bitch is just something I picked up when I was in my teens and I only do it socially. I never inhale.

Well you may ask: Why not just accept the extra 30 pounds? Because heart attack and stroke will kill more women than most any other cause of death (and the bummer of it all is they don’t have any cute little pink sockies or ribbons for you to buy). Schlepping an extra 20, then 30, then 40 pounds (it grows and grows) PLUS not really working too hard at the gym is, frankly, going to take me down. Saying “but I walk a lot and walking is the best thing for you” is horse poo, unless you’re power-walking. Ambling along after the dog is pretty much a zero on the cardio chart. So while I THINK I upped my game, I realised I really had to UP it.

Freals, as the young say.

So for the last year, I’ve been eating hippie crap like this for breakfast:


Hello Kitty and All Bran and Greek Yogurt OH MY!

Hello Kitty and All Bran and Greek Yogurt OH MY!

Note my fetching Hello Kitty pencils and bucket, from my hubs. And yes, tucked within that mess o’ HOMEMADE Greek yogurt, Bran Buds, cranberries, pumpkin seeds and walnuts, are chocolate chips. Mea culpa.

But hey, it’s better than what I used to do which is starve myself with 120 calories of oatbran (I love oatbran) and that’s it for breakfast, then I’d be ravenous for lunch or after a workout. Yeah, this is more calorie and fat-rich, but it gets me to 13:00 even if I hit the gym for two hours. I’ve been trying to stick to Weight Watchers Simply Filling for the rest.

It’s still hard (because I cheat like a dog), though. The needle’s barely moved but I can now, one year later, honestly say the stagnancy is likely some muscle mass. I’m lifting three times what I lifted last year. I have well and truly upped my game.

  • I’m FINALLY out of plus size for the first time in 6 years.
  • I can run (ish) 5k without puking. The osteo in my feet doesn’t always enjoy it though. So despite the tut-tutting of that dude (Paul Plakas) from X-Weighted, I’m now one-ish with the elliptical.
  • I can do real push-ups ….on toes….when the pain’s not too bad.

So there’s progress. But what will my doctor see? Will Dr Steve see all this or will he note the digits and wag a finger at me?

This is why I’m writing the blog today. If I get any grief, I’ll send him here.

Things I’ve Learned this Year

  1. I can always push a bit harder than I think I can. We’re not talking foolhardy here, just a wee bit more.
  2. I eat more than I think I eat. Thank you MyFitnessPal (aka MyFatArsePal) for helping me on this on.
  3. I needed to juggle my food groups around a bit, get the percentages better.
  4. Carbs are good. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. They are essential.
  5. Zumba is bonus-delightful if you find another uncoordinated person with whom to share the joy. Her name is Irene and you can’t have her, she’s mine.
  6. Zumba’s not a workout; it’s just a warm-up.
  7. Basing fitness on steps is bogus. Suck it, pedometer. Suck it long. Suck it hard.
  8. Go to a gym that really suits your needs and try everything at least twice. If you’re a person who gets a great workout at home, hat’s off to you. I’m never that person.

This is my list. Not yours. Your list will be different.

I’ve learned much about myself this year. Mostly: I’ve learned how I’ve given myself too many pats on the back. This is the adult version of what we do with kids today: a certificate for “graduating” from junior kindergarten or a parade for clearing the table and a special dance for using the toilet.

My real reward, I hope and pray, is not dropping dead at 55.



Eye Yi Yi Yi

I know what you’re hoping, you’re praying: that this is a blog about corn chips. Particularly those from the era of the Frito Bandito song, back before colour TV and frowning on appropriation of voice was invented. Fat tasted better back then, and the hand that tipped the salt was not so stingy.

But there you’d be wrong. This is a blog about my contact lenses. But first:

The Frito Bandito Corn Chips Song

(voiced by Mel Blanc)

Blind as a Bat

I’m blind as a bat which is not to say I’m terribly ill-sighted (true: not all bats are blind, they’ve been painted with the same brush that made pigs sweat) but that I echolocate.

My husband and children and cats can all vouch for this.

You see (snicker, a pun), I lose my glasses constantly. Generally they’re on my nose but because I’m on the ewie side of 49 (meaning, I’m 49.85), I have to remove them for some tasks. My progressive lenses blow chunks because Satan’s Optometrist sold me frames too small for the human eye (I was vain, so it’s a bit my fault too). Remember Satan’s Chiro? She has an optometrist brother, and his name is self-evident.

Generally speaking, after I put my glasses down, have my “menopausal moment” and wander off to do something else, I return to where I think I left my glasses only to find the cat dipping her paws into my smoothie, sneaking a few dainty sips before she trots off, knowing I can’t tell which cat she is without my ever-loving glasses. Fiend. Last time I’ll ever adopt twins (another blog for another day). And my glasses? They are NEVER where I’ve think I’ve left them. NEVER.

Today: I was feeling jaunty. I put on my contacts. But before I tell you this story, let me tell you another.

I’ve always worn contacts. Always. I was the first kid on my block with contacts. Back then, things were simpler and contact lenses were whittled-out bingo chips. A bit harsh on the cornea but they did the trick (and now you know where the expression “rose coloured glasses” comes from…).

Did I say bingo chips? I meant hard lenses. The kind that pop out during your biology exam. I moved on to smooshy ones later.

Then I turned 40

Satan’s Optometrist. Yeah. Him. Ille sePoint blank (that doesn’t mean what you may think, by the way), he tells me my eyes are too old for contacts. That’s right, he said “too old.”

Frequent readers of this blog will know that “too old” is my trigger and my target. He notched that arrow and it flew true. I was incensed (and hurt). He wouldn’t prescribe my contacts. I was forced to wear glasses for the next nine years. Boy, am I bitter. Until….

I get a new optometrist who tells me a lot has advanced in the world of ocular bingo chips. Of course it’s all bogus one-day use bingo chips, money-grubbing capitalist piggies. Seriously people, just learn to clean your lenses. Anyhoodle, I get a pair to try and guess what?

Satan’s Optometrist was right. Either that, or my arms are too short. I had to buy cheaters so I could see anything closer than the floor. For the first time in my life, I needed reading glasses. Darn darn darny darn.

If, at first, you don’t fricasee…

Months later—today—for no real reason, I decided to try try again. Maybe it’s all neurological and my brain just needs to adjust a bit more. I have to retrain my brain to see.

So I put my lenses on (which, after nine years of little practice, is slightly more tricky than performing a heart-lung transplant with a silicone spatula, or trying to remove, clean, and reinsert a Diva Cup on a six-hour train-ride to Montréal and believe me, you will need those six hours and still live with regrets, seriously why didn’t I just wear a pad and be done with it?)….

…. and promptly lost my glasses. Yes, I lost them. Where oh where did I put my glasses because guess what, over-40 friends (younger, take note), I can’t see closer than 6 feet in these things. I wasn’t ready to give the “bifocal” contacts a try yet. And now, I’m paying the price. I walk about with more tippy-toe trepidation than a barefooted parent in Legoland.

I use my echolocation

“Where are mommy’s glasses?” I call out, hoping the sound waves bounce off the heads of my progeny who are watching game walkthroughs on YouTube. The cats are indifferent. One, I notice, is already dipping her paw into my Hello Kitty mug. Another is busy trying to kill my guitar (and that’s a left-handed guitar little miss Sally the Hutt, so don’t even THINK about knocking it over).


What? Me kill your guitar? But Mommy, I LOVE Y… hey, is that a fly?

“Glasses, glasses, where are you?”

I know what you’re thinking: the smart woman would have removed her contacts first, then possibly been able to see enough to find the glasses. But alas, I was feeling very sequentially monogamous this morning and I wanted to have my glasses handy the moment I popped those suckers out. Glasses off or contacts in, I regard the floor as a menancing locus of hazard. Whether riddled with hair balls, Lego, or my glasses which may or may not have fallen from something the flo … crrrruuuunchhhh

Eye yi yi yi

Here they are, dang-doodle.

The owls are not what they seem, or in my case: the cats.


Thanks to tremendous advancements made in living room radiology, I had a Blade Runner breakthrough moment.

Sally wasn’t trying to kill my guitar, she was trying to blind me as only a cat can: by looking utterly adorable.  I was so focused on her belly (and my guitar) that I missed the obvious: Sally the Hutt was hiding my glasses (which had indeed fallen) under the ample spread of her delicious, purry rolls. As Sally gets up to release a hair ball into my sandals, the truth lands quick and stinging, like a smack on my bottom from Eric Northman—if I were into such things but I’m not. Maybe. Well, who am I to sneer when I haven’t even tried it?

I fell for the oldest trick in the book: misdirection. 

Penn and Teller discuss this at length; and despite the fact that I had this knowledge, I was overcome by a massive ack-ack attack of cuteness and thus was played like a catnip mousie in the cunning paws of Sally.

I think Penn and Teller say this better than anyone and I would be remiss in my responsibility as a blogger NOT to share this knowledge with you. You probably don’t know this, but Penn & Teller may or may not be cats, they’re THAT GOOD at misdirection.

Penn & Teller – Smoking/Sleight of Hand Trick

This shaggy cat story was brought to you today by the letters Nutella and binge-watching, and by the number Hello Kitty coffee mug.


Probiotic Woman

Probiotic Woman

I know what you’re thinking. This is a blog about Steve Austin. And there you’d be partially right, you semiotician’s dream, you.

I’m not altruistic. This is all about me. If you squint just right though, it’s about you, as well.

First: a warning. If you’re sensitive to the word douchebag, this is not the blog for you today.

By why Steve Austin (no, not this Steve Austin, the other guy) and not the utterly fabulous The Bionic Woman, you may ask? Simple: the intro for The Six Million Dollar Man says what I need it to say. Don’t get me wrong, sisters. I love Jaime Sommers. It’s just that Oscar Goldman (not the mathematician, but the other guy) is speaking for me. And what with all the gender stuff going on these days, why should I restrict my blog about my latest ontologic struggle to the shape and placement of my pink parts (not those pink parts…those belong to a hyena. I mean the other bits and of course they don’t have to be pink. Mine might not even BE pink… it’s not like I’ve seen my chiro lately to even be able to contort myself down there for a peek)?

I don’t need your cisgendered fascism.

Let’s face it, The Six Million Dollar Man has a great voice over. Surely we can agree on that. Are you under 35 or over 65? You will need to watch this, first.

Intro: Six Million Dollar Man

I have had a bumpy month (yes, again. I think this is a transition year) and since July 5th, a lot has happened. Not much that I want to talk about, as such; but enough that I now fully realize that each of our days are numbered.

There are many references to our days being numbered (Book of Job, Psalms…I’ll leave you to Google this). And it’s not to bum  you out, but to free you that I’m sharing this tidbit:

Life is short; but it’s longer than you think when you’re consulting for douchebags.

I thought I had cast off the last of my douchebags in 2015, but I was wrong. There remained but one, lurking, and mercifully on July 5th, we parted ways. All this led me to thinking: these past 18 months I’ve been variously ill or injured, and almost-always grumpy. Sometimes all three, simultaneously. And what for? Ill health, stress, and three pinched nerves in my neck which never seem to get better. This douchebag compromised my health, my relationships and work for other clients who are not douchebags, and most importantly: my family life. I know I know… The Douche Who Shall Not Be Named only did as much as I allowed. There you’re right. You’re bang on. Things you learn at 49. Better to learn at 49 than 50, I always say.

Oh, before I forget, this blog may seem thoughtful or dirge-like… it’s not. Don’t fret. Something caustic is coming.

Oddly enough, this aforementioned douchebag is relatively self-aware. But I am unwilling to believe people are douches, despite compelling evidence. This douche even suggested that s/h/it (easier to write it that way than to throw all the permuatative pronouns in there, right?) would be good fodder for my Devotions for Douchebags site. No no no, I said. Why? Because I have always focused on redemption. Not just for me, but for those around me. So I still hold to that, but in the meantime, indulge me whilst I purge some vitriol.


Can you imagine the pitch for this pilot? I’ll let you know what HBO has to say.

Did someone say purge? Maybe instead of douchebag, we should use the gender-inspecific term: enema. Not quite the same thing, but hey, cleans you out.

Before I purge, then, I have written my former unworthy constituent a devotion:

Kidding. S/h/it is not worth my time. Do you know how long it takes me to write those devotions?

Did I say purge? Why purge when I can rebuild? I had an idea: why not, instead of purging my vitriol, bile, and whatever other caustic (see, I told you something caustic this way comes) matter one can conjure, why not just fill myself up with probionics (yeah, I made that up)? Refill my ontological gut with happy bacteria and foster new growth? Why slash-and-burn when I can plant elsewhere?

For health, both mental and physical, I’m taking a work break for a couple of months. Which means I may actually blog more (I can dictate a blog, doncha know, save my neck for other things like tattoos). I can rebuild. I have the technology (and Dragon Naturally Speaking).

And if you know or suspect you have a douchebag in your midst, don’t slash-and-burn, fill yourself with good and flush that sucker. Oh wait, am I back to purging now? Fill yourself with good and leave no room for that dbag to wiggle in.

Let’s face it, analogies are a terrible platform for a discourse on anything other than expanding on activities I want to do with Tyrion Lannister.

It would be wrong of my to end this blog on any other bombshell than dropping in the wonderful tune Douchebags by Joe Bear.

Douchebags by Joe Bear

Oh, and that’s my long-suffering friend Paula singing back-up.

You’re welcome.

Picture of someone’s innards: (c) Can Stock Photo. Don’t be an enema (contents only), get your own canstock account.


The Dudess Abides


I know what you’re thinking: this is a blog about The Big Lebowski. There you’d be wrong. Or are you? It’s true, my love for Sam Elliott abides, in a pure and innocent way. But as we’re both married to other people, to covet each other would be wrong. But first, since I mentioned it….

The Dudess Abides

Alrighty, that’s enough. He’s mine.

What this is about is that I’ve been super bummed. Not totally depressed (that was before, when I wasn’t writing blogs… I don’t write when I’m depressed, I write after I’m better); but I’ve been bummed on so many levels and the bumtesence has slurred my crispy self into a mindless video game-playing mushpot (not real games, but silly tower defence games like Garden Rescue: Christmas Edition; but even that eventually bummed me out and I was busted down to PRIVATE from GENERAL.

Thankfully, I have my bae Paula to hold my hand through these dark times:



I left her a dirge-quality voice note thereafter. The vocabulary of which, I figure, only Joan Rivers (R.I.P.) would have been bold enough to share on a blog.

But as always, despite my whining, Paula was close-by.



I tried to explain the plants’ mission: to save the Christmas trees from the peril of marauding, thieving insects and annelids. I quickly realized this was a proverbial exercise in futility. And besides, Paula knew my malaise and my penchant for popping-off terrestrial crustaceans had something to do with each other. She’s good. My personal semiotics are not lost on her. I was fighting my own demons but needed some sort of tangible battle to express my inner turmoil.

Well, she would have said that but I like to put words into her mouth. She was going to go there, but I cut short our exchange to write the preliminary notes for this blog. Because you see.. I was suddenly all messed-up on something kinda nifty….

As I sat whimpering in my self-imposed but ill-fitting Weltanschauung (pronounce it just as it’s spelled), I discovered:

I sold a book this quarter.


My life, suddenly, got better. I didn’t even remember I still had a book out there. I put this travesty up as a lark one day, at least a year ago, to amuse a few colleagues. Don’t ask. If it were worthy of your scrutiny, I would have posted a cover reveal, the blog tour, reviews. You get the idea. It’s a short story collection I wrote as impudent fun one day (seriously, a cumulative one day) and posted. The characters are named for former clients who irked me. Corporate flash fiction, if you will, with a sexually inappropriate bend (to the left, if you please).

So on the very day I’m exchanging emails with a fellow walking-away-from-it-all writer, I’ll call her Dana, I discover that after I’ve turned out the lights, someone was home.

Elvis had NOT left the building.

In other words: I was still in the game. I was, once again, an author.

The prospect of holding what was left, after Amazon’s take, in my hot little hands grew almost too much for me. The answer was clear:

Paula and I had to get tattoos.

Ok, I made that up. Although we did get tattoos, they were BEFORE all this. It just felt like a nice narrative.

Having said all this, I did what any other author (I don’t really think of myself as author though) would do: I checked for a review. bupkis.

I’ll update you all if someone actually does write a review, even if it’s a troll.

So after six weeks of the blahs, I returned to the land of the inked (on two levels, for those who appreciate a pun). I may actually finish one of the other six manuscripts gracing my desktop.


Or not. Maybe I’ll just count my money ($0.35 CAD) and retire.

What I’m Listening to:

I’m all about audiobooks these days. So this month it’s been:

  • Diary of A Mad Diva by Joan Rivers (read by Joan Rivers, R.I.P)
  • 100 Ways to Simplify Your Life by Joyce Meyer (read by Sandra McCollom)
  • Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin (read by Roy Datrice who is a freaking genius of a narrator)
  • Asapscience : answers to the world’s weirdest questions, most persistent rumors & unexplained phenomena by Mitchell Moffit & Greg Brown (read by the authors)

and PS to “Dana” who may be reading this… don’t worry, I’m still really out of the game. But that thrill… oh that thrill and surprise of seeing a sale… be still my foolish heart… 



Früit Löps

I know what you’re thinking: you’re proud I’ve been adding fruit and fibre to my diet. I’m good that way. Oprah notwithstanding, Weight Watchers has been working for me and apparently I still get all the fruits and veggies I want, except for corn (fascists).

Eating gluten-based fruit for snackies has been a strange experience. Not the least of which: .

All the colours taste the same. A ersatz citrus hitherto unknown in this post-Higgs-Boson time-space continuum. Sweet, ephemeral, a lil bit bitter but not enough to make you make that face.

Having said all this, I want to point out this blog not really about:

Früit Löps

It’s about an article I read in New Scientist recently. Apparently, after one shakes hands, one sniffs one’s hands.


Don’t believe me? Watch this.

Ok, so it was a year ago, not recently. But hey, I’m not one with the aforementioned time-space continuum.

This article perturbed me on several levels.

One: I know I don’t do this.

Two: I don’t know anyone who would do this.

Three: I threw up a little in my mouth when I read the article, nevermind watched the video.

These reactions say more about me than I would care to imagine. My latest and favourite-ist strawman hubs was brought in for a consult.

He agreed on a few points: he doesn’t do this. He’s never seen anyone who’s done this. Point the Third was left hanging though. Strangely  he wasn’t nauseous or revolted by the article or video.

It’s perhaps früitful to mention that one entire wing of my family calls me “Monk.” They’re the wing who knows me best. They’re the ones who, in the dark days, helped me get out of the house in less than two hours each day. The dark days when I carried a back pack the size of Alaska with every imaginable “necessity” tucked in. Because one never knows when one will need a change of clothes, umbrella, ziplock bags, Swiss Army knife (ok, everyone needs a Swiss Army knife but mine’s really BOSS), a week’s worth of medication, back-up shoes, a few books, a K-Way (not KY, you pervs), Purell, more Purell (for back-up), wet naps (screw you, septic systems!), a towel, granola bars, package of Fig Newtons… you get the idea.

And that was just to go to class. This was my back pack, not my school bag.


And the decencies had to be observed. The ritual. The order of operations. And every morning there was a very dear friend/family member (short version: I ran away from home, the neighbours took me in) waiting for me to do the rundown.

“Do I have the…”

“It’s there. I saw you pack it. You’re going to be late.”

“I need more food.”

“You’re only going to a two-hour Latin class.”

“I forgot my flashlight.” I run upstairs.

“It’s in your bag,” she calls up. “You never took it out.” She shoves me to the door. “Go,” she says. “There are only four people in your class. If you’re late, everyone will notice.”

You see? I am writing this blog and listing the items in my bag and even here I forgot the flashlight was in my bag!

Every morning this woman got me out of the house. Thankfully, psychiatry and medication took care of the rest.

All of this to say? The idea of:

a) touching someone else’s hand unless they were very well-known to me and

b) sniffing their rank effluence from my offended appendage

is more than I could handle. I’m no weirdo. Shaking hands is part of our society. I can shake hands. I just have to hold my hand at a distance afterwards and scour it later. That’s why we have hydrogen peroxide.

What’s this got to do with früit löps? You must be joking. The answer is clear: they’re touching.

IMAG5617Look at that jumble! Blues and pinks bumping uglies with oranges and greens? Chaos.  

And yet, there is hope for me. I can eat these now without sorting. I can actually stick my hand into the bag and not even look at what colours I’ve pulled before I shove the sugar-laden goodness into my yap.

This, dear friends, is progress.

A bit about OCD, just a bit. It makes me insane when people talk about their clean and tidy houses and titteringly refer to their OCD. They have no clue what a prison OCD is and frankly Scarlett, keeping a tidy kitchen does not a OCD-sufferer make. Sorry to burst that bubble.

The checking, the double-checking. Getting interrupted while checking means a return to the top of the sequence to start again. The intrusive thoughts. The bizarre ritual/remedy for intrusive thoughts. Compulsions to deal with the distress. Oh, I wish my only concern was cleaning and tidying the kitchen. Some nights I would lay awake wishing that would be my only issue.

But I’m sharing this not to bum you out but to cheer you: because I ate 200gr of these motherscratching carbs the other day and it was brilliant to just shovel things into my mouth with no regard for order and ritual. Brute alimentary impulse control was my only issue and to be honest, it was worth the 14 “smart points.”

The new Weight Watchers points system, by the way, can French kiss my arse. Another blog for another day. 

I think I’ll let Paula have the penultimate word:



And the hand-sniffing? Well, that’s just gross. But the video doesn’t lie, I suppose. Too bad the researchers just didn’t find the 1-2% who, like me (and Paula), were packing wet naps (or P12 sandpaper)




Windows Update

Windows Update

I know what you’re thinking: this is a blog about Kim Kardashian. And there you’d be bang on.

There are a couple of things I don’t like to see on my computer.

  1. The neverending story of the Windows Update
  2. The amount of space celebrity discourse takes up on my Facebook feed.

The Windows update, apparently, is a necessary evil. So they say but I doubt it. I assume it’s just a means by which Windows datamines me. The celebrity discourse? Perhaps a necessary evil too. But not in the way you might think.

First of all, I don’t care how many nude selfies anyone takes. I can scroll on past. I was unsurprised to see the backlash (and frontlash?) about the International Women’s Day selfie:


The first thing I noticed, frankly, was that she was a blonde. Who knew? I don’t follow the Kardashians. Never did. I only recently found out Jenner was even married to one. I’m rather clueless if it doesn’t involved Vin Diesel as far as celebrity goes. Nonetheless, I could have sworn she was a brunette.

The comments which followed, pro and con, tell me we all spend too much time on celebrity discourse. Whether we’re slut-shaming (a term I loathe) or cheering a celebrity on, I can scroll. I can #lookaway. I may resent having to look away and scroll but let me give my head a shake for a minute: I’m on Facebook. The world isn’t going to change much for the better if I click “like” or one of the new emoticons. I’m here to kill a few minutes, be distracted from my larger purpose (Facebook’s prima facie raison d’être…. howzat for two linguistic tropes in one phrase?), then move on.

The lashing Kim Kardashian took, fair or foul, reminded me a few things:

  1. It’s not her job to be our moral compass.
  2. She’s a grown woman and if she wants to post a nude selfie, she should.
  3. Cyber-bullying is still rampant.

One cheers her, another vilifies her. The simple fact is, Kim Kardashian or any celebrity is not responsible for the moral guidance of your kids, yourself, or anyone else. If she’s legally allowed to post nude selfies on Instagram, so be it. If you’re really chuffed, don’t look at it or seek out Instagram and see what they have to say about it. Report accordingly. But before you do ask yourself: do I really want authoritarianism to check my newsfeed for me? Do I look to celebrities for my moral and ethical discourse? If so, why?  

I would say it’s great they lend their celebrity to moral and ethical discourses but then wonder why and the answer is: because their reach and impact is huge. But does that mean since Martha Plimpton wore a pro-abortion dress, I should too and abortion is ok? John Travolta is a pilot and a Scientologist. Should I convert and get my license? 

Or here’s a thought: maybe I should just think for myself.

Maybe we all need to sit down and watch this clip from Life of Brian.

Armchair Activism

Whether it’s freedom of expression or publicity stunt is irrelevant to me. Yes, people are starving everywhere. Being raped, killed, tortured. In our own cities (let’s not point the finger always OUTSIDE North American, people). You want to make a change? Do so, but let’s not take a whack at celebrities and their selfies. Go work in a soup kitchen, donate money or time to a cause. Writing snippy comments about celebrity photos is armchair activism at its worst. Stamp your little feet if you must, then DO something. Clicking like or frowny face is not enough.

A mommy friend told me she was worried her kids might see the photo on Facebook and what would the kids think? Well, my 8 year-old and 4 year-old did see the photo and they laughed. The 4 year-old thought she was “going to poop soon… that’s silly” and a few moments later offered “maybe she’s tooting.” The 8 year-old just laughed “whhaaaa! Why is she doing that?!” then went upstairs, ostensibly to do his math. More likely, to watch a walkthrough since I’m here typing this. I doubt he remembered or cared after five minutes. He’ll pull through. 

People are dying. They’re starving. People are also doing good deeds. There is a lot more going on in the world than Kim Kardashian at her toilet bemoaning the OOTD. So let’s move on. Let’s not even talk about slut-shaming which is a grossly presumptuous act no matter on which end of the political spectrum you squat. Annoyed? Click on by. Had a laugh? Yay, the day started well. Perturbed it was posted on International Women’s Day? Well, what did you do to advance the cause? Something? Then good for you. Or did you do nothing except write a crummy comment on KKW’s wall? One could argue both yea AND nay that she did advance the cause of International Women’s Day, if only by stirring up such a frothy reaction. Maybe she’s smarter than all of us.

And now, back to work. After 38 minutes it looks as though the Windows update is FINALLY completed. 

But like a celebrity and a selfie, it will be back. 




Lemon Fresh Prosopagnosia

I know what you’re thinking. This is a blog about lemons and freshness. How fresh lemons are. How lemons make things fresh.

And there you’d be semi-right. It’s a blog about my lemony fresh friend Boo Boo Kitty Fu (although Denis Leary shows up later.. in spirit) whom I saw this past weekend.

You read that right: I left the house and went to a public space.

Just my going out into the public sphere is blog-worthy enough but this time it’s a bonus because I was meeting someone (by the way, I went out in public a fortnight ago with Bueller formerly known as Melody, but I haven’t written that up yet for a very good reason to be explained later).

Why is it so significant that I was meeting someone, particularly my lemony fresh friend Boo Boo Kitty Fu? Because I am slightly tetched in the head. Yeah, I said “tetched.” The technical term is acquired prosopagnosia.

Lemon Fresh Prosopagnosia


Sometimes a lemon is just a lemon. I think Freud said that.

In short, I bonked my head when I was a kid and have some impairment when it comes to recognizing faces. Voices? I rock. How you walk, your gestures? Awesome. I can name any of those tunes in one note. Faces? I’m sunk. I don’t have full impairment. It just takes me a really long time.

Yeah, dating was a nightmare.

But my beloved Boo Boo Kitty Fu whom I’ve seen only a few times (we usually text or “meet” on FartBook)… I knew I was in for trouble. I knew the basics: brunette, longish hair. Bespeckled and tattooed. I know her voice like I know anyone else’s. Even if she did a cartoon voice, tried to hide it, I’d see through that cheap trick.

Eric Northman: You Me Whipped Cream HandcuffsBut she cut her hair and it was bloody cold Canada so most of her tattooos were hidden. She must have thought I was nutso because I approached her tentatively after having discarded all the other persons in the cafe. Unfortunately, her back was to me (clearly she had never read Dune by Frank Herbert or she would have known better)… so I had to walk over to the last table and take my best shot…. all the while thinking “this woman, her hair is too short.”

Fortunately I saw the hole for one of her piercings, a peak of tat on her chest and arms, and she recognized me (which always amazes me because I barely recognize myself half the time).

Thankfully Boo Boo Kitty Fu loves me both despite and because of my insanity.

I guess you’re wondering about the lemons. Boo Boo Kitty Fu loves lemony things. When I think of lemons, I think of BBKF. She’s a super crunchy without being obnoxious. Essential oils, environmentally friendly cleaning products. Cloth diapers and hand-sewn mama cloth. She’s the crunchy dream.

And like me. she’s wildly introverted. So when she agrees to drag herself into the public sphere, I am honoured. I know it is not without some sacrifice that she’s come to a busy cafe on a Sunday to be almost not recognized.

Himalayan salt lamps. Image linked from http://www.himalayansaltshop.com/natural-shape-himalayan-salt-lamps.html

Another thing about Boo Boo Kitty Fu? She has one of those Himalayan salt lamps and I know that she’d let me lick it if I visited (get your mind out of the gutter, people).

As I sat with Boo Boo Kitty Fu, I realized two things:

1) I was glad my New Year’s Resolutions included “getting out” more (that’s not hard to do, actually) and

2) I really do make better coffee at home but thankfully, having coffee is not about the coffee.

Facebook has its charms but its overuse means I will more often message people rather than see them. Having said that, the bulk of my friends live in other countries. This goes to another point about social media, it separates more than it joins. True, it can bring people together who otherwise might not have “met” but then, one is left with the mourning and melancholia that one may possibly NEVER meet.. freals. 

And another thing? Although sound and visuals have transcended the boundaries of social media, lemony freshness has not. It is one thing to see and hear the words “lemony fresh” but another to experience it. To continue down my path of isolation is to deprive myself of sensory delights; and since I can’t recognize faces for poop, I should at least “see” a few people if only because I can recognize the smell of their laundry. FB doesn’t let me taste, smell, or touch (yeah, the “feelies” never really happened although there are “4D” films out now… whatevs).

No wonder one of my resolutions is to stay off FB as much as possible (I work in social media though, so complete abstinence is impossible). The sensory deprivation is making me insane (not to mention the level of banality of some discourses floating around); and I just can’t bring myself to reduce my social and political discourse to clicking “like,” little hearts, plus symbols or thumbs.

If I see one more photo of a shirtless Justin Trudeau I shall surely throw up in my mouth.

My NYR includes more Skype, more coffees, more face-to-face meetings with clients. I keep thinking of Denis Leary/Edgar Friendly’s eerily prophetic words in Demolition Man:

I’ve seen the future. Do you know what it is? It’s a 47-year-old virgin sitting around in his beige pajamas drinking a banana-broccoli shake, singing “I’m an Oscar-Mayer weiner.”


Now that I’ve made kale pancakes, I fear I’m already there.