Archive | Other stuff RSS feed for this section

Undergoing a little reconstructive surgery

21 Jul

Um, yeah. What he said.

This space is being given a streamlining spruce up by my sister, otherwise known as

It won’t be a big change except that the domain will now bring you here, rather than the Etsy shop.  Once here, you will be able to choose from a lovely selection of posts about my various shortcomings, shop at the Etsy store, or even go to the other shop, wherein you will find a selection of W&G gear. Yes….you may wear me on your person.

So some of the links may be a bit spacey for a day or so and then all should be well again.


Sean Connery ruins everything.

16 Jul

I’ve got a real dislike for Sean Connery. May I explain?

1. He Can’t Act.

Just saying you are an actor does not make it so. In the same way that Shania Twain can use the phrase “…as an artist…” and then produce masterpieces with lines such as “you’re a fine piece of real estate and I’m gonna get me some land,”  saying it simply doesn’t make it so.  Sean Connery plays Sean Connery in every film, and since he actually is Sean Connery, well… big deal. Please stop awarding him medals and prizes for playing his natural, gobby, misogynistic, two dimensional self.  It’s no stretch. For Christ’s sake, he doesn’t even bother to learn accents. I hear Meryl Streep offered to give him some tips one night at an Oscar gala, and he dealt her a hook punch that sent her ass over tea kettle into the buffet, leaving her visibly stunned. What effect such a punch may have had on her is unknown, but two days later she signed on for Prairie Home Companion. True story.*

2. The Above Mentioned Misogynistic Streak

At repeated points in his adult life, Mr. Connery has mentioned that there are confrontational, bloody-minded women who simply “want a smack.”  Well, if we’re working on the premise that people who annoy us continually should be dealt with physically, may I suggest sir that you keep an eye on the old pound of plums. For under this new system, I will feel free to kick yours back up far enough that they will only compound the difficulties people have in understanding your “Irish” accent, circa The Untouchables.  In deference to your Only Hit Her With An Open Hand policy, I will boot you only with the flat top of my foot, and not a pointy-toed shoe.

3. The Sharks in the Swimming Pools.

I've just wet myself trying to upload this as it is the scariest picture known to man.

I know what you are thinking…shouldn’t I be blaming my sister for this? After all, it was she who, upon noticing my enjoyment of the hotel swimming pool while we were traveling one summer, said “Hey what’s that shadow down there? Do you think it’s a shark?”  YOU KNOW I AM MYOPIC, KATHY! To the near-sighted, sharks are everywhere!  So, yes, on the surface she looks culpable. But  if you dig a little deeper, I think you will find that the very premise of a shark in a swimming pool is ridiculous. If there were a sliding scale of ridiculous, rainbow-flavored magician Doug Henning would be on silly-ridiculous end of the scale, and sharks in the swimming pool would be on the James Bond-ridiculous end of the scale. And as the best loved film version of Bond, Connery is clearly left holding the bag for that crazily intense feeling that can overwhelm a person as they swim toward the ladder which will take them out of the pool and to safety…or will it? Can you swim fast enough Cookie? Can you swim faster than a shark?  DID SOMETHING JUST BRUSH YOUR FOOT? DAMN YOU CONNERY!

4. This:

Zed the Brutal displays his tenuous front-knot.

This is the one exception to my love of hairy chested men. However, it’s also the shining example of exactly how an actor of this man’s caliber should have spent his career: in thigh high boots and a man-kini of bullets. Would that we lived in such a perfect world.

*Patently not true.

Why I don’t buy grapes – a helpful infographic.

14 Jul

I shivered all thru the making of this.

The size of the grape bunch relative to the arachnid should give you some insight into my suspicions that the average person just does not notice a spider in any given situation, though its presence is ever so clear to me.

Five things in this world that escape me.

4 Jul

Some years ago, I took a course on Foucault and, for the most part, followed it. It was rather like my first sexual experience in that I didn’t really enjoy it and felt I could have been spending my time more productively elsewhere, but in for a penny (or an overpriced semester), in for a pound.

Le French intellectual.

I say this not to give you the heebie jeebies picturing my rather drawn out and honestly humdrum sexual initiation. I just want to point out that I am not completely devoid of cognitive spark before  I cover the five things that escape me. You may need to pop back up here periodically and gaze into the très smart eyes of M. Foucault. He’s piercing you with les smarts.

Things That Escape Me.

1. Radio Waves.  Before the geeks out there rush to explain this to me, I have had it explained. Repeatedly. I get how simple it is. In fact,  its simplicity is what freaks me out. Continuous waves of information pulsing by, through and near us all the time.  Seriously, get your head around this…a transmitter miles away sends out radio waves which are picked up by the radio by your bed, which converts them into music.   What.    The.   Hell.   Music out of thin air. TV shows out of thin air. Thin air. You can’t see them and they are there all the time. We are drowning in radio waves. They go through walls. RIGHT THROUGH WALLS.  I need to move on to #2 before I give in to my urge to crawl into my closet for a few days.

2. The Backlash Suffered by Jerry Lee Lewis for Marrying Myra Brown. Look, where he was from, and at that time, it was not entirely unusual.  Now if his next wife was thirteen, that would be shocking. Because it should be me. ME! I’ve always dreamt of being the next Mrs Lewis. Yes, yes, I know what you are saying…stay away from the guns and swimming pools. Whatever. You be a dream killer, I’ll be a consort to the Killer. As God intended. Continue reading

I see the world through hairy chested glasses.

1 Jul

I dig hairy chested men.

You heard me right. Hairy chested men…I like ’em.

It seems these days people want to pretend that one of the most obvious signs of passage to adulthood never happened. They shave, wax, laser, and buff off every bit of hair that is not on the top of their head (or just above the eyes – though the maintenance of that is, apparently, an art form all its own. ) Women have done this for yonks, but  men are now firmly on the bandwagon.  The ‘back, crack and sack’ is offered at many reputable waxing salons, and you can see the denuded results on beaches and in celebrities mags at every turn. Women of the millennial generation don’t even seem to know that men come in varieties other than ‘cleanly plucked’.

So today I am coming out, loud and proud.  I DIG HAIRY CHESTED MEN. In fact, I dig hairy legged men, hairy armed men, men with beards even! What’s that? Hairy backed men? Ahhh..yeah..tough call…  NO, NO, I am including them,too!

I came about my preference honestly, and by this I mean



YEAHHA! I am a child of the eighties. In my day, men kept themselves just as nature intended. The above specimen (who is, BTW, perfect) was my first huge adolescent crush. He, and other men of the day, shaped my preferences. Yet recently, when around other women, I often find myself defending my love of  men who, frankly, look like men. Real men. Men who know that grooming means a  moustache trim, or quick shave BUT NOT BELOW THE NECK!

Now for a bit of science:

The growth of this luxuriant body hair, ladies, is fueled by testosterone. MmmmMMMMmm testosterone. I swear to Christ you can smell some guys oozing it. How is that possible? The testosterone  becomes trapped in the body hair, thus allowing  it to follow these manly men about in a fug of awesomeness.  If the hair is not present on the  body, the testosterone leaks out messily on the surface of the plucked skin, often causing the hairless men to become a bit addled by it. Because they do not understand the scientific consequences of removing this hair, the begin engaging in compensatory behaviours, subconsciously trying to replace the hair with things such as tribal tattoos and Orange Crush-inspired fake tans. I refer you once again to the specimen of perfection above…see any signs that his skin has become a drawing board for the co-opting of other cultures? No you do not. You just see the rug of virility that Mother Nature put there for him – as a gift to you,  ladies. A gift. And if our mothers taught us anything, it is not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Look him square in the chest.

Will the smock-like patterned shirt come for me?

23 Jun

I was at a gathering this evening where there were many ladies. Gazing around the room for a bit, I realized there was a pattern that connected many of these women. Most of these women.

It was this:

The smock-like  shapeless, patterned blouse.

I understand the covering of the face, but the smiles? Ladies you have nothing to smile about. Those shapeless smock shirts are bringing you down.  They are bringing our whole gender down, robbing us of any semblance of some of the best things that makes us women. They steal away shape,  sensuality,  natural feminine lines.  They replace these with stripey lines in aqua, lavender and ecru. Try as you like to make these look fun in this picture – and as models you are working for a living. I can respect that. But you’re making this appealing to someone – not just someone….a roomful of women apparently. And they are buying it.

The more I looked around the room, the more I realised that all of the smock-shirt wearing ladies were of a similar age. An age not that far off mine, really. That’s when I began to sweat a bit. These are smart women – thinking women. And yet here they sit, in the smock-like stripey blouse.  I am a smart woman, a thinking woman. How did the smock-like stripey shirt get past them?  If it got past them, surely it will be able to steal past me.   Will the day come when I am in a changing room,  running my hand over  the shiny synthetic surface of the dart-free, pleat-free, shape-free front of a blouse that is obscuring the very thought of me having breasts, thinking “This will do”?  Will my will to be a woman ease out of my pores like a final, dying gasp?*

When that day comes – and judging by the numbers in that room it is coming – just put me out to pasture on a cruise ship somewhere, won’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll have picked up a set or two of these:

Christ I just hope I can muster up a smile.

*Yes, I may have slightly overstated the many complex things that constitute being a woman. You may take that as a measure of my fear of the smock-like stripey shirt.

The Last Will and Testament of Me.

22 Jun


I always wanted to go out in a blaze of guns, or even hurtling off a cliff in a convertible, holding hands with a good but mostly platonic female friend.   Mostly.

Not from an eye bump. I’m scared .  Scared and without medical assistance .

For all the chance I have of getting help, I may as well go live in a ditch in the Sudan or something. Not to pick on the Sudan…I’m just reaching for a place where I feel I could not get  medical attention easily,  and they fit the bill. Unless they have a really friendly universal health policy of which I am unaware. And  I imagine the desert conditions  make the ditches drier and less disgusting than here, not quite so squelchy and full of wet filth.  Hot and parched for sure, but that’s not what I am looking for.

How about a ditch in Poland or somewhere – I think it’s grey, a bit drizzly there.  Some nice drizzle could really pick up a  layer of wet filth. YES POLAND.  I will go to Poland and immerse my eye in ditch water so as to speed my inevitable demise from ocular lumption.

Or , OR, one of my many doctor friends* could hook me up with a decent family physician. Could pull one of their widely lauded connections and help a lumpy-eyed sister out. Boy, it’s times like these when you really find you who your friends are.  (I again refer you to the *)

Because, as it turns out, unless you are planning to have a baby, or already have one, getting a family doctor in Nova Scotia has become nigh on impossible.  Well, OK, not nigh on, but if you want one within easy walking distance of your home/work  – and that just makes me environmentally friendly – then yes, nigh on.  And perhaps that makes me appear a bit lazy, but hands up ladies of Halifax who would like to enhance the experience of a pap test with a Metro Transit appetizer and night cap surrounding it.  I thought not.

My options are limited here: Continue reading