Spell check would have come in handy

I'm the type who reads newspapers, magazines and books and laughs hysterically when I come across a blatant spelling mistake, so imagine my reaction when I saw this sign in Brampton.

Do you think the "Y" is silent? Yeah, me too. Or at least I hope so!

Chesty LaRue on canvas

Do you see the forest for the breasts?

Time flows quickly, distracted intermittently with ringing telephones, the click of the keyboard keys as my fingers fly across them, and I realize that I’ve written only three posts to-date for October.


I’d like to apologize but I have a feeling that a lot of you understand. Time is fleeting and before you blink, it’s three weeks later and you’ve written all of 10 words and most of that is on the grocery list you’ve tucked into your purse only to forget that too.

I understand. October has been crazy and boring in the very same breath. I can say I’ve been busy with my job but it’s actually boring, monotonous and soul-sucking. I can say my artwork has exploded but I have only one-and-a-half pieces to lay claim. And I can say that I’ve done nothing to rectify the situation but sit on my ass.

One of those art pieces (the only complete one) went to Jesus Christ Margaret to commemorate my parents’ golden wedding anniversary. In hindsight, it went to the wrong person and for the wrong occasion as even as we speak it’s sitting on the floor because Margaret doesn’t quite get it. She finds the colours wrong, the landscape too non-conformist, so unlike her. She doesn’t realize that it’s her daughter giving her a gift – a little piece of herself.

I’ve been rebelling a bit, checking my call display and walking away when I see it’s her. I don’t want to hear her “Dear” me that and “But honey” this. I don’t want her to forget the niceties that come with receiving a gift, that a thank-you is enough of a comment especially when 8 hours of work has been invested. Art is personal and emotional, and I believe a little more couth could have been used in this circumstance.

Regardless of the reaction, I am furiously proud of my painting no matter if or where it hangs. The fact that my tree line looks like a tree line in all its fall glory and that the sky has a beautiful hue to it – I’m proud. I’m even proud of my fire trees, conical trees that look like flames with its vibrant red/orange fall foliage. It’s my best work and the one I felt most free, like I knew it would turn out well.

At least Jesus Christ Margaret did not hint at the fact that the fields on either side of the river looked like lopsided breasts and the fire trees like tassels, as two friends did. I told them they were perverted. They are, so I’m telling the truth. And, the truth is, after looking at it for a few minutes, I saw Chesty LaRue in a striptease, spinning the tassels and taking the eyes out of the patrons in the front row.

At least she didn’t say that.

Through the woods to Grandma's house...

For the past two weeks I've been staring at my computer background, halfway between smiling and tearing up.

It's not your traditional computer backdrop. It's a photo from the Thanksgiving Monday and a sojourn to the north, two hours to be exact, to my grandmother's home town of Markdale. It's the home of Chapman's Ice Cream, Steven's BBQ and the quaintest town you've ever seen.

The main street hosts a few choice shops, my favourite "Peek Thru My Window," in existence for over 20 years and that is the last time I spent any time in the place. There's the old firehall, now an information centre, a Food Town where Gramma did all of her shopping and two churches just steps from each other, like there's hope that religious entities can co-exist in a small space.

It's also where my grandmother lived, my father's mother, and where my brother and I spent many happy a summer picking raspberries in the back garden and yelling down the heat grates from the bedroom upstairs to see what was on the breakfast menu. I know that tonka trucks and cars were also dropped down the grates, often narrowily missing the porridge pot on the stove.

I still have the memories but it's also the house that I miss, the insatiable need to slide down the bannister, complete with large wooden ball at the end. There's the country kitchen that seems so much smaller than I remember, the back bedroom where the daddy long legs always seemed to be in abundance.

I paid my respects to the house on this Monday, taking The Man and Boyo the Boxer to meet it. And, I was a little nervous to mount the front steps and introduce myself to the now-owners. The house was sold in the mid-80s, out of the family that had been its caretakers since the late 1800s. It had proven too much to maintain. The pipes always froze in the winter, the roof was needing replaced and it was too big for my diminutive grandmother who was starting to forget to eat, forget to throw out spoiled food and even how to cook her famous meals of salmon sandwiches, chili and roast beef. Porridge was almost never on the menu anymore.

The owners were really gracious, recognizing the last name that had been permanently etched a hundred times over in the brick wall of the side porch. My great uncle, grandfather, brother and a slew of other family members too long gone from memory. They're all still there, watching over the homestead.

I was very upset way back when my grandmother was considering selling the house. It was my home away from home, my place to yell down the heating grates that once had pipes running through from the wood burning stove in the kitchen.

My grandmother died in 1989 from emphysema, from years of smoking and bouts of asthma. She was 78. And it was back in 1989 that I had even stepped foot in the town where my grandmother lived. It was comforting to see that it hadn't changed that much - a few changes in businesses, new lines painted on the road but the same small town feel was intact. I felt instantly comforted. The fact that the new owners offered me a beer helped too.

What touched me the most as I walked up to the door with a whole bunch of Nervous Nellies floating around in my belly was that my grandmother's door knocker, full of brass and very lion-like was still there - a testament of who came before. The door had been given a new paint job, red with passion, and the old green indoor-outdoor carpet had given way to a concrete landing, but the door knocker remained.

I knocked on the door with that door knocker, a lion's share of memories still intact and I was instantly transported to my five-year-old self playing Nicky Nine Doors with my grandma. I only wish she would have answered the door.

** Photos finally posted. Procrastination strikes again!

I got nothing...

Nada, Zilch, Zero. But I have sore legs and a somewhat tidy house.

Over the last two weeks I've hosted and helped with two garage sales or yard sales without a garage. I collected, organized, carried and eventually sold other people their new treasures. Would I do it again? Maybe not for another eight years or so 'cause people are cheap and rude.

It was a 7 a.m. start last week, with the hours running from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m., plenty enough time to hock my wares. I had the makings of a whole kitchen, complete with pots and pans, rice cookers, veggie steamers and enough coffee makers to make coffee for the whole city. Really, what did I need with three coffee makers when there is a Tim Horton's steps away from my house? Don't get me wrong... I love a good coffee and I'm known to grind my own coffee beans but when I'm in a hurry, it's the drive-thru I go. Anyways, back to the cheapskates.... but first a question.

If you're at a garage sale and you see a great set of pots and pans, do you assume that they've never been used? Remember you're at a garage sale and the said pots and pans are priced ridiculously cheap at $4 for the set of three. A woman came up to the table all interested and itching to get her hands on these pots and then she asked the price. $4 for all three, I said, knowing I wanted to sell them but knew a good deal when I made saw one. And her counter offer? $.50 each. Yes, 50 cents. I bargained down to $3.50 since there's always some haggling involved. Her answer: "But lady, it's used." And mine: "You're at a feckin' garage sale. Yes, it's used. Get off of my my friend's lawn."

Despite the haggling and the attempts at walking away without paying, I did end up making $80 that day and that was in the rain. Today's efforts were much better weather-wise, but I was still unable to unload a computer. For $50 all in - hard drive, 17 in. monitor, keyboard and mouse. And did I mention the CD burner? No? Well it had that too. It was an older model, but still.

And I still got the cheapskates. One man, after working me down from $3 to $2 to a never-been-used fondue pot and burner tried to hand me $1.50. You're cheaping me down for $.50? Get off of my my friend's driveway. I got the toonie in the end.

Will I do it again? Perhaps not. But I did like the feeling of accomplishment that came from clearing out the clutter and ridding myself of what I didn't need or want. It's a paring down and what will remain will be truly wanted, used and cherished.

One item I was a little sad to see go: a corkscrew and wine top made from a grapevine. Until I was told that it indeed looked like a turd. I could not disagree but it became a topic of conversation for the lovely couple who bought it, and they laughed as I shouted out my goodbye: "Enjoy your wine turd." They raised the turds in the air and did a mock salute and it was a good day after all.

Paranoia raises its head

I am slowly going crazy... I, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 Switch. Crazy going slowly am I, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Switch...

I used to sing this repetitively since I thought it was funny to speak backwards or jumbled up. I was good at it. But now I truly believe I am going crazy and I blame the characters in Cell Block C.

I've worked there for the past four years and when I started I was confident, funny, loyal and meticulous. I wore my rep and my skin with pride. Now, I am more paranoia than perky, proof in point a conversation I had with myself today.

A co-worker has invited me to join her for lunch, not an uncommon thing in the workforce. We work with people day in, day out for 8 or 9 hours a day. You're bound to make friendships. Except on Cell Block C. Everyone seems to be out for themselves and will throw you under the bus on a moment's notice. No, I'm not being paranoid, though you may be apt to think so. I've seen it happen and I've had it happen to me. So, when the newest charge asked me what I was doing for lunch this Wednesday, I stopped and thought: "I wonder what she has to tell me. I wonder what her motives are."

Yes, those were my initial thoughts and how sad is that state of affairs that people can't bond over lunch, over coffee in the cafeteria or a stopover at a desk to say hello and discuss the weekend's happenings? After much debate, I've come to the conclusion that she doesn't seem to have any ulterior motives, save grabbing a coffee and sandwich outside of work hours. It will be a nice break to the day, and for someone who takes only 15 minutes to feed my Tim Horton's addiction, it will be different, nice and strangely comforting to see perhaps the atmosphere is changing for the better.

That's not to say that I will push any warning signs to the back of my mind. I'm not that naive. But until then, I will enjoy the change of scenery away from the Negative Nellies in Cell Block C - and yes, my boss is the leader. I will also enjoy a bit of the camaraderie no matter how short the lunch.

Perhaps I will dazzle my new co-worker with my ability to put the po-po under my spell with my "Occifer, Occifer, I am not under the alkafluence of inkahol as some thinkel peep I know."

It was cuter when I was five and my dad was coaching me. Now it may lead to a night in the slammer. Oh well. At least it will be a day (or five) off.

Don't phone Hoarders just yet...

I may have been a little too quick to jump on the hoarders' bandwagon. Tonight, I actually sat down and watched a full episode. Between cringing about a cockroach infestation and gasping in awe of how much stuff can actually "fit" into a home, I've decided that while I may keep things a little too long, at least you can walk through my house without having to call in a search party to get out.

What disturbed me the most was that the parents featured on the program thought nothing of placing the spillover from the rest of the house into their children's rooms, so much that there was no available space to sleep.

Oh, and don't forget the cockroaches. Yes, cockroaches. Everywhere. My skin is still crawling and I thank my lucky stars that I have the odd spider or two and a rogue moth to contend with and not the scurrying of cockroaches of all sizes and ages as soon as the lights go on.

Not too many things make me queasy. I can handle spiders, earwigs and even mice, but I draw the line at cockroaches. I've been traumatized more than once by those disgusting creatures. The first time had me running down an aisle trying to make an escape from a flying cockroach that, I swear, followed me throughout the store as I tried to leave. A second time, it was a cockroach falling onto my hand as I tried to make a purchase at the checkout counter. And, it was not even the same store. I made even more acquaitances on vacation, and while I was expecting them since it was the tropics, I was still all heeby-jeeby about them.

So, in short: you can see my floors, I'm working on clearing the clutter and making money in the process and I am cockroach-free. All in all, I think I'm winning.

Hello, my name is Scribe and I am a hoarder

Can you say procrastination? Do you call it procrastination when, instead of finishing an editing job, I'm listening to the Gary Gnu Show from the Great Space Coaster show of the 80s? Or checking out recipes for Red Velvet Cake? Or how about reading about hairless cats and their oil secretions? Yeah, I thought so too.

It's not that I don't have a lot of stuff to do tonight. Finishing the editing of my friend's book is top on the list, or so it should be. The same goes for prepping for this weekend's garage sale, sifting through my shite treasures and choosing which ones would be a great addition to someone else's home. 

There is some good crap here, like two or three televisions that now take up residence in my home. I told The Man before he brought in the latest entertainment device (high-def television) that he we would have to re-gift at least two of the televisions that are in storage. I guess I wasn't as "Terminator" as I should have been since we now have a television for every room, including the small main floor powder room.

I've also got a Houdini-like dog crate and a futon frame minus the mattress. Boyo the Boxer (my high-IQ canine who is now staring at the china cabinet willing it to move) discovered he could escape from his crate by pulling the back into the body of the crate and stepping over what I thought was a locked metal panel. He then proceeded to have his run through the house unattended, shredded tissue boxes and their contents strewn throughout the house and a make-shift potty on the futon mattress.

I've also got lots and lots of coffee mugs, a rice cooker/veggie steamer, a stand-up, life-size poster of Mel Gibson pre-crazy in Braveheart, a almost-complete family tree poster of the Royal Family (minus Camilla) and a few donations left behind by old tenants. No forwarding address? Then say goodbye to your picture of two well-trained German Shepherds, plug-in Jesus and Mary "paintings" and array of Glade Plug-ins.  There's a limit to re-gifts, my friends.

Ahhh, the re-gifts... thankfully my mother took back the pukey purple sweatshirt with the big, honking, yellow sunflower. The sunflower didn't actually honk, but you could see me coming a mile away if I ever put it on. I didn't. She did, and that's one re-gift I didn't have to worry about. I've got candles, candle holders and picture frames coming out of my... closets... and those too will make a move to a front lawn near you!

I know that one man's trash is another's treasure, or at least that's what I'm hoping comes my way this weekend. While the cash I'd get for these treasures is tempting, what is more welcome is a cleaning up and a move away from my approaching hoarder status.

I don't even know how have of this stuff ended up in my house. Oh wait. As The Man has pointed out on too many occasions: "I am my mother's daughter," and that explains it all.