Seems like there is a gathering of the clan going on near where I’m working this weekend. My clan. The ones who dubbed me witchypoo in the first place. Not the Tool of Satan bunch. That would be the uber religious sector of the clan. They don’t party. Certainly not with fireworks. Because they’re all religious and all and don’t believe in fun. They figger they’ll have plenty of time for fun in heaven.

Mildly amusing OCD stepmother (MAOCDSM) is not exactly hosting the gathering, because she can hardly do much of anything what with her recent double mastectomy and all. Everyone is gathering nearby to pop in on her and see that she is well cared for, but careful she doesn’t get too tired.

I have a hotel room that is paid for, but it looks like I won’t be sleeping in that comfy, comfy bed tonight. No, I’ll be on the couch, because it’s a long way to take me back at night, and it was fortuitous that I got WildChild to fetch me in the first place. There’s a lot going on, what with everybody’s little kids, who I really hope to see before they hit the sack tonight.

My pyromaniac little brother channels his obsession into the socially acceptable activity of lighting the fireworks. He reminded me that I had started the whole thing at a family beach gathering years ago. I had supplied the fireworks, but had no clue what to do with them. Thankfully, nobody said bend over when I mentioned this, and Pyro Bro saved the day. Since then, he has perfected his technique and added to the array of pyrotechnics, making a more elaborate display each year.

Next morning: The fireworks were ooh and ahh worthy indeed. The little kids were thrilled, and were such a treat to interact with.

We took pictures of the three titty-do’s (that’s when your belly stick out further than your titty do) all for different reasons. WildChild was pregnant with twins, MAOCDSM had her boobies removed, and my belly has protruded out past the titties when I’m not wearing a bra. Then we put Pyro Bro in the picture for three titty-do’s and a dickey-do. You figure it out.

I retired to the camper, as it was very hot in the house. I didn’t awaken when Pyro Bro took MAOCDSM to the emergency room.

Seems that she who never farts (MAOCDSM) was so full of gas, she thought that she must be having a serious post operation complication.

I asked her if the doctor had prescribed a liberal dose of “pull my finger”.

First crack at internet access that hasn’t been entirely consumed by uploading sound files. So I have a true story for you.

My folks come from an island in the Bay of Fundy. Island folk are rather insular, sometimes even xenophobic, and they have their ways.

Some of them are quite the characters, colourful like you don’t see everyday for sure.

One of these was Poopy Small. My uncle told me how Poopy got his nickname. I’ll leave those schoolyard details to your imagination, but it stuck even after he was all grown up and a grandfather to boot.

One time when Poopy was not feeling entirely like his nickname if you get my drift, he was so uncomfortable that he visited the crusty old island doctor for relief.

The doc told Poopy to take some suppositories and come back in a week.

Doc: How’d those suppositories work for you, Poopy?

Poopy: (whiny old man voice)You know doc for all the good they did me, I might just as well have stuck them up me arse.

My first puppy love boyfriend (as opposed to having a boyfriend just for the sake of it) used to tell stories to entertain me.

He had some crazy friends. Horny McSlutty and his sidekick, Stoopid, were visiting a fellow who had a small blacksmithing operation going on in his yard.

They watched the man as he heated a horseshoe in the fire, then dunked it in water, and placed it on a stump. This was done outside. Very small operation.

Stoopid wanders over to inspect the horseshoe, picking it up. He drops it immediately.

The blacksmith guy grins at him and asks: “Hot?”

Stoopid: “No. It just doesn’t take me very long to look at a horseshoe.”

I emailed The Big V asking about the fabulous dollhouse she created. She didn’t get anyone to buy it, so she had a local realtor list it, which I thought was downright resourceful. The story made the news here, and she got her 15 minutes of fame. Way cool.

The realtor has a page with information and thumbnails that are clickable, which is much more manageable than loading about 10 images in one post. Just enter preperty ID# 3542 in the box that is just below the fold. On the page that the link takes you to, of course. Duh, you knew that, didn’t you?

Do you know anyone with a couple thou extra who wants to buy an heirloom dollhouse? This is a true work of art. Everything has been handcrafted, and the lights work, and whole bunches of stuff works. I got to play with it when I visited her. It was awesome. But I didn’t wreck it or nuthin. Honest.

The Master Bedroom

The Nursery

Did you notice that the nursery has a dollhouse?

The Kitchen

In the olden days, kitchens were for the servants. Nothing fancy. But authentic.

Do I have cool friends, or what?

My long suffering younger brother, Dizzee, father of Wild Child, still speaks to me after all the torture Mr. Trick and I put him through. I’m grateful for this because he is basically kind and quite funny.

We had a period of estrangement in our adult lives that we decided to put aside when The Papa got really really sick. I think we did it for him, although I believe The Papa didn’t care much for Dizzee’s decision to associate with a Tool of Satan.

When we were kids, we lived the military life. No disobedience, no questioning orders. The Papa may have been a corporal at work, but he was the General at home.

When my parents separated, the kids went with The Papa. There were periods of time that we were only supervised by our older sister. This would be the one that made us smoke when she babysat us so we wouldn’t tell on her for smoking. I love her, really, but people? That is messed UP.

So older sister became the queen bee. Dizzee was around nine by the time he really started acting out because he missed his mom. We all did, but I think it hurt him the most.

He would have temper tantrums and Mr. Trick and I would fill a tub full of cold water and throw him in to “cool him off”. We really just wanted to shut him up because he was an annoying little brother. And because it was one thing we could get away with. We totally wanted to smack him, but we weren’t allowed.

He must have marvelled at what great parents we would be someday.

Our fun-loving favourite uncle visited often, and regaled us with what I now realize were inappropriate stories. We figured he could do no wrong.

One of the stories involved a friend passing out drunk, and to punish him, Unk and his other buddies painted the guy’s willy red, so he would have a lovely surprise when he woke up all hungover.

We thought that was the best story ever. We laughed and laughed.

And schemed how we could have that kind of fun without access to alcohol.

We secured a supply of red paint, and the next time Dizzee had a hissyfit while The Papa was at work, we held Dizzee down and painted that puppy red.

I still remember how gobsmacked we were when The Papa was furious with us over this particular stunt.

“But, Dad! We didn’t smack him!”

Oh, the injustice.

Like I said, it’s a wonder Dizzee talks to me at all.

(Dizzee didn’t mind whipping it out when it wasn’t red.)

And? He’s such a good sport, he gave me permission to publish this picture.