Call me a Grammie’s girl, but I am crazy about my Grammie. She was the person I hurried toward when my own mother died, and she has always been a constant source of love and comfort to me.

She has been in hospital for over a week now, and last Monday, she broke her pelvis. Apparently, the pain meds have made her loopy, and she thought she could walk.

She wasn’t properly restrained, and she got out of bed, only to fall once more. They have taken her to a larger centre for a CAT scan.

She hates that she doesn’t remember things the way she used to, and I can honour that. I wish I was ready to let her go, but I long to be able to see her just one more time. I was hoping it was when I was scheduled to work in that area, but it sure isn’t looking good now, and I really can’t afford the trip right now.

Pneumonia is a real concern for elderly immoblilized patients. Please reach into your hearts and send a prayer of love to Grammie along with me.

Today’s puzzle is an image of Grammie that I call Tricky Ole Bird.

I love you, Grammie. I hope you are in shape to field your mother’s day calls tomorrow.

And Mom? I’m sending my love to you, and know that you feel it.

Create your own puzzles at PuzzleBee.com!

I remember that I met my buddy, Torch, through a car salesman I will call Bruce, because that’s his name and I can’t think of a funny blog name for him. Before I met her, though, Bruce had committed the sin of requesting that Torch cook him a corned beef and cabbage dinner, then not showing up for it.

I accompanied Bruce to his apartment so he could change clothes for a night of car salesman carousing. He was hoping she wouldn’t murder him if he had a witness. She had stomped off when she realized her dinner would not be served hot, and her hot temper had displayed the Jigg’s Dinner all over the kitchen, and some of it even landed in the garbage. It was awesome to behold.

Bright woman that I am, I thought, here is a person that would be fun to know. And she truly was. Cute, funny, and full of fire. I’m pretty good at not pissing my friends off, so I felt no fear.

Our friendship outlasted Bruce, I’m happy to say. At one point, we shared a flat, and another time, we both had a room at my mom’s place. Mom’s husband called me “the playgirl”. What can I say? I was young and horny, and playgirl sounds way better than slut. I was such a Wild Child.

Torch was more into serial monogamy. Of the angst-filled variety. She seemed to find the slutty, cheating boyfriends. I don’t know why, because in other ways, she was way more sensible than I. Oh, wait. Anybody would have been.

Anyway, she was in a bad way at the time we stayed at Mom’s. Her big love turned out to be a turd, and they had broken up. She was having a really hard time with it.

She got her hands on some sleepy-making drug, like Xanax, and she commenced to taking LOTS of them. She was really starting to scare me, but I played along with her for a bit, hoping she would get drowsy enough for me to get her to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

I knew she would be furious with me. Oh, yes, I did. I had seen her temper, and I had determined not to be the brunt of it.

What do you do? Lose a friendship, or lose a friend?

The fun began when I chose the former.

Imagine, with the little visual aid I have provided here, one very pissed off, not so drowsy Torch, kicking, saying very bad words, and preventing egress at doorways all the way out of the house, into the car, and to the emergency room. The image doesn’t look nearly so angry or strong. Or slippery. You see the highlighted portion I have provided? That would be a doorway. Yes, she did have four arms and four legs that night. And she used them all to prevent us from taking her to the car. If it weren’t such serious business, it would have been comedy gold.

I did all this, with the help of a boy toy, to prevent this:

Notice the doorway theme? I’m fabulous that way.

We accomplished the deed, and I went slunk home. My Mom got an angry phone call at five in the morning.

“Where’s that (VERY bad words) witchypoo?”

Mom lied for protected me. She knew I was in mortal danger until Torch had cooled down.

Me? I was cowering and snivelling in a corner, hoping Torch wouldn’t find me. Yes, I am all that.

Torch is now married to a great guy, and we laughed about how she looked as we tried to wrangle her out the door. She thanked me for saving her life, and apologized for putting me in fear of mine.

Isn’t that what friends are for?

My Grammie is in hospital. She was admitted because she kept falling down. She broke her pelvis while in hospital. That kind of forced immobility is usually a death sentence of pneumonia for the elderly.

Today I am antsy, and just have an oppressive feeling of dread. The weather is matching my mood.

I’m afraid to call her. She was so disoriented the last time I did, and I’m not sure she knew who I was. But I’m afraid someone else will be answering.

I don’t want to know.

I’m going to cry now.

Update: I did call and there was no answer. I called my BFF from highschool and asked her to drop by after work and call me. The dread feeling lifted around 4 pm, and I got a call around 8 pm, saying that Grammie was discombobulated, but alive and kicking, and making funnies. I still don’t know what gave me that awful feeling of dread.

I have the television on this morning in order to catch Heather Armstrong as she appears on the Today Show. Already, they are interviewing fans who are lined up outside to greet her, and she may not be on for an hour. Until she comes on, it’s background noise I never hear at this time of day.

The television has always been a source of discussion with Ass Burger Boy and myself. No, we don’t usually discuss the actual programs, but rather, the insidious branding and subliminal messages of programs and advertising.

It used to be said that religion is the opiate of the masses. I think I liked it better when that was true. At least religion was trying to instill some values, albeit along with a whopping dose of guilt and fear.

When you were impressionable, did you think to question the veracity of something if it was on television? Or in the newspapers? Unless you have dialogues with your children about it, I doubt that they do either.

I have become alarmed especially at how corporations are selling their products in commercials. The message is that their product is so good, that you should go to ridiculous extremes of bad behaviour to ensure that you have it.

Call me alarmist, (I don’t really care) but I see this trend in commercials as a concerted effort to erode the mores of our youth by encouraging bad behaviour.

And really, what is THIS promoting?

Why? What possible purpose is being served here?

I’m not sure why, but it scares the ever-lovin’ bejabbers out of me. Because I do believe there is a purpose.

Parents? Please discuss with your children the deep influence that television has upon them. Keep your eyes open to the messages that are being broadcast. They are being trained as good little consumers, willing to do nasty things to obtain the “must-have” latest new thing.

The greatest gift you can give your children is your time with them. Please use it to ensure that they don’t blindly accept everything they are exposed to.

I’ll step off my soapbox now. I really hope I’m preaching to the choir.

Friday wine and pizza gets me spinning yarns to Warrior Woman, and she, in her own enlightened state, enthuses “That is a good story for your blog!” Here’s one.

Back in the day of my irresponsible hawtiliciousness, I received a call from Sleazy Collection Agency, wanting me to pay a bill. When they discovered that I was between jobs, because, seriously, people, all that partying interfered with my work life, they offered me a position in their sales department.

The first thing they did was rip up my delinquent account file.

Yes. A stellar company. I also overheard collection agents offering to do the same for lobster fishermen, in exchange for a good scoff of crustaceans.

I knew I was knee-deep in the sleaze, but I got to travel and take clients out to lunch and that made it more like partying and less like work.

They worked on a diary system, so that I had to diarize each account I contacted, list my expenses, and note when the account would be turned over to collection. I made bonuses in addition to salary, and they made bonuses based on mine.

I had some great accounts lined up, and discovered that the big, big, account was headed by a man I went to junior high school with. I had a huge crush on him at the time, and thought it would be nice to tell him that.

Over lunch, I persuaded him to turn over a quarter of a million dollars of outstanding accounts to me and my company.

That’s a nice bonus no matter how you cut it.

The sleazy manager and his slimy assistant were drooling over that account and couldn’t see me collecting the bonus for it, and they came up with the brilliant idea to fire me and collect my bonus in additon to their own.

It was my birthday.

I called up my former classmate, and the larger accounts that were pending, and explained what Sleazy Collection Agency managers were up to.

I asked them if they cared to do business with people who would steal from their employees. Or make them ex-employees so they could steal from them.

Everyone I called withdrew their pending accounts.

Sleazy Collection Agency? Don’t mess with witchypoo.

Especially on her birthday.

Bet you wish you hadn’t destroyed my delinquent account file, huh?

Once again, I am poring over last weeks comments and giggling. You folks need to click over from your readers.

From Grown Children Confess

Zoe cuts to the chase:

well, he is your son.

My Life as Momma chimes in:

I loved telling my parents all the stuff I got away with. Of course they laughed and said that actually they knew all along. So I said to them, “What kind of parents are you letting your 16year old daughter go out and drink with a bunch of 18 year old boys? DID YOU WANT a grandbaby or something?” Totally shut them up.

From The Art of the Kamikaze Visit

The Over Thinker thinks:

Two words: Potato Wine. Three more words: I’m coming over. Seven more words: Don’t worry about putting on a bra.

Teenie sniffs:

Oh, I smell shenanigans going on over there! Wine and shenanigans, I tell you. Now, how do I get there?

From Freedom’s Just Another Word:

Memarie Lane

Most Americans would vehemently disagree with you, but I’m not one of them. Why would they disagree? Because they’ve been programmed not to look any further than the little antenna flag bouncing on the front of their minivan on their way to Wal-Mart. Little batteries to feed the machine.

From: Today Was Boobie Sandwich Day

My Life as Momma quips:

I have this funny ass image of boobies being squished together and bread on top. Oh and nice little ball bearing hangin off. Sounds like a weird porno. Hope your cyst is okay.

Lou Ce El (pronunciation is important) consoles:

Not exactly what I was anticipating when today was announced as ‘boobie sandwich day’. However, the disappointment is worth it if it means we’ve found out that yout tits are okay. BTW, they’re okay with me. And if the process has proven painful, I can kiss ‘em and make ‘em better. MWAH! (left side) MWAH! (right side) MWAH!(back to the left side - I’m left handed) MWAH! (back to the right side - gotta make ‘em even) There. All better now. Now for the nipple licking ….. nom, nom, nom ….

Knudsey admonishes LCeel:

That Lceel will do anything for a peep, upon saying that a boobie sandwich would go doon a treat though I think its called motor boating when you put yer face inbetween and go flubalubalubalub.

Knudsey, once more:

I would like to thank ‘not now Lceel I’m making a speech’ all those who have made my win of this my third ‘ what is it Lceel I already paid you back that money?’ peep the most incredi ‘ what? I didn’t win?’ crap I’ll save my speech for next week I suppose and why isn’t it called the Knudsen Peep award? have I changed? ach you’d all just say no anyway yer just after me fame and money, leeches the lot of you I’m off to rehab………. again.

And the winner is Teeni! Just in time, Teeni, to decorate your new blog!

I have a lot of very talented friends and clients. I have received a fair amount of their work as gifts, and as trades for my own services.

One of my favourites is a red haired bundle of wonder who paints, makes photographic images and thought-provoking series.

I offer to you an image from Maggie Lucas I encourage you to visit her site and feast your eyes and soul with a select few of her images.

I should remind you that clicking “view image” on the puzzle will pause the game for as long as the image is in view mode. That way, you can get a preview of its shape and size, and where you think pieces might fit.

Happy Puzzling!

Create your own puzzles at PuzzleBee.com!

You remember how once you have grown up, and no longer under parental control, you tell your parents about some of the stunts you pulled that you got away with?

Yes. Those things. I did it. It was fun to horrify them, and not get grounded.

It’s coming home to roost now. The past few days, Ass Burger Boy has been revealing some of the things he did that I had no knowledge of at the time.

How about the time he performed a fake seizure in the high school hallway? Why did the school not contact me? Apparently, he thought it was hilarious, and the spectators wrote it off as a bid for attention.

Or the time in junior high he approached his math teacher with bandages on his wrists? A fake suicide, big funny. Not. I didn’t hear anything about that one either. Which made me wonder, just how outrageous were his other behaviours that these incidents were not reported to me?

Oh, I did hear about the time he was messing with the cheerleaders’ minds by talking about a voodoo doll. But I felt partly to blame for telling that story within his earshot in the first place.

He did announce proudly how he fixed it so no teacher would question him if he wanted to leave the classroom.

Teacher: And why are you asking to leave the room?

ABB: I need to take a big, steaming, dump.

I guess word spread throughout the teacher’s lounge that he should just be allowed to leave quietly.

I was sitting down, gathering my thoughts for a post today, and saw a hookey-playing face at my door.

Seems Warrior Woman has a light work load today, and she buggered off to come over here, since she knew I would be home.

So, it looks like I will have to rethink my menu to not include any dairy products (even the tiny amount in a can of cream of chicken soup) because really? I’m all hospitable and fabulous that way.

Okay, Shephard’s Pie it is. I bought 50 lbs of potatoes on sale, and need to use those puppies up. The sack of basmati rice can wait, because it has a longer shelf life.

She brought wine. I’m signing out to avoid that pesky blunk drogging.

And how was your day?

I have been following the discussion of Jon Armstrong’s post exploring the apprehension of 463 children from the FLDS compound at El Dorado, Texas. I also did some research into the fundamental religion, and the practices that still go on to this day. Go read the post and comments, they are fascinating. I’ll start dinner while I wait for you to come back. You will come back, won’t you?

The commenters are articulate and present interesting viewpoints. My one track mind, however, grasped onto the lead sentence of commenter #39, bookratt:

Freedom brings with it an obligation to responsibly follow the laws of the land and to respect the rights of others.

All I could think is that Americans don’t have any stinking freedom. They go overseas to fight for freedom when they don’t have it in their own country.

And if anybody doubts this, I invite you to read the Patriot Act.

You don’t need to be a terrorist or suspected terrorist for the gubmint to be all in your business. All you need is for someone to notice you. Telephone conversations, emails, blog posts, financial records, health records, ad infinitum, are all fair game. No warrants are needed, no notification is necessary. Secret searches can be performed, and the searchee may never know.

I’m not so naive to think that Canada is not involved in this. The FBI already has access to Canadian databases because of a technicality where the database administration is outsourced.

The Liberal leadership race in Canada stunk to high heaven. We had a most excellent Liberal leadership candidate in the person of Ken Dryden. Ken is upright, honest, smart, and personable. He is a hockey hero to old timers who saw him tend goal in Stanley Cup and Olympic games. (Winning, of course.) He was so very electable.

Ken was eliminated early on. Who did they choose as leader of the Liberal party? The most ineffectual human on the planet. Stephane Dion. The man with no chin. Inarticulate in two languages. Not even close to playing on the world stage, or even electable. Explain please, how that makes any sense at all.

Who was elected Prime Minister of Canada? Stephen Harper. Looks like a Ken doll, but not a Ken Dryden doll, no, the kind with helmet hair. He runs his Conservative party with an iron fist. The media has extremely limited access to him, and none to his caucus members. Why? He has forbidden them to talk to the media.

But, hey! Him and Dubya are good buddies, even though Dubya committed the cardinal sin of calling him Steve. (We like to joke that his wife calls him Mr. Harper)

I just can’t shake the sneaky suspicion that the folks behind Dubya did a little diddling behind the scenes at the Liberal leadership to ensure that Harper had no competition. I have never entertained the fairy tale that politicians have MY best interests at heart.

I’ve always been very proud to be Canadian.

Now I feel as if our country has been violated.

If you think Canada is not following suit, check this out. And this too. If the first one passes, I may have to take down my post about medical marijuana or I could be prosecuted. Skeery.