February 21st, 2008 | 21 Comments »

Usually, when I have a health concern, I keep it to myself because other people’s fears are disproportionate to the situation. Yesterday, I really had nothing else to blog about, so I’m sorry if anyone was worried. I consider a lump, just that. A lump. It doesn’t automatically translate to cancer. It just calls for investigation. I have set the wheels in motion in a timely fashion.

However, since Ass Burger Boy reads my blog sometimes when he comes up for air from World of Warcraft, I thought it prudent to discuss it with him so he wouldn’t learn about it on the interweb.

I love to see the way his mind works. I can pretty much jump from thought bubble to thought bubble right along with him. And somehow? Every single thing in his life becomes all. about. him.

He doesn’t see eye-to-eye with his older brother, Dances With Shrapnel. That may have started around the time that Dances used to hold him down and fart on his face, but the resentment has built over the years. He’s a Cancerian who holds onto his grudges tenaciously.

I didn’t expect any questions like “What does this involve?” or “Are you gonna be okay?”, which is just as well because the first question he asked me was if he had to invite Dances With Shrapnel to my funeral.

We had to rehearse the protocol for procedure after my untimely demise before I could point out that lump does not equal cancer in most cases.

It’s always all about him.

You gotta love him.

January 27th, 2008 | 29 Comments »

I was reading this post (freaking hilarious!) about colon hydrotherapy, which brought back memories of my own sessions. I was preparing for a group initiation into the energies of the Archangel Michael, and I wanted my body to be the clearest vessel possible.

What basically happens in this series of procedures is that the therapist slides a well lubed tube thingie into your backside. It has a device to connect two tubes on the outside, one for water going in to flush the system, the other for expelled matter.

Here’s the thing. I firmly believe that your backside is designed for egress, not ingress. In other words, nothing should be going in. I knew that these procedures would give me health benefits, but had a hard time getting past the method. So I paid in advance for the first four appointments. If I hadn’t paid up front for work down back, I probably wouldn’t have showed. I noticed results after that, so I showed up regularly.

The therapist was very shy, and spiritual. I expected she had heard all the jokes about what a crappy job she had, but I was determined to brighten her life with new ones. Because really? That’s just the kind of lovely person I am, making a shy woman squirm while I tell poop and fart jokes. No, you can’t reward me. I took down the donate button. Well, you could vote for me, or subscribe to my feed. I’m reliving awkward moments here, people. I can’t hear your applause, but I can see the numbers.

I used deep breathing techniques to allow the water maximum room to flush, and to alleviate the cramping that results from toxins being stirred up prior to expulsion. The toxins made me feel nauseous, but not throw up nausea, it was more in my bowel. I felt it a little with each flush. What I find funny is that my Grammie always called the indoor toilet the flush. Because she vividly remembers the other kind that did not flush.

What fascinated me most besides the bits of corn, turds, and recognizable food sloshing by in the egress tube, were the enormous air bubbles coming out the tube into the sealed container (so it wouldn’t offend your olfactory sensibilities). These things reminded me of the bubbles you get by dipping a broom handle with an attached loop into a bucket of detergent. They were That.Large. I had visions of little kids dancing in meadows, making bubbles of my farts.

I wanted to know how she could possibly deprive my family of such treasures. After all, Dances with Shrapnel had christened me Methane Mom. I had a lot to live up to. She made a choking sound, which passed for laughter masked by embarrassment. There was no getting this woman to laugh.

She was, however, very interested in the Archangel Michael group activation I was holding, and attended. She also came regularly to my group meditations/pot luck gatherings.

I often wondered if she could see those enormous fart bubbles in her mind’s eye when I was leading a meditation.

I never got a real belly laugh out of her. Doesn’t she know that poop is funny?

January 24th, 2008 | 10 Comments »

I couldn’t pull a thought from my head to the keyboard today. I used to have a Rolleflex SLR with all the goodies, and I often took pictures with the cable shutter, while the camera was on the tripod.

Scanning the print, of course, buggers with the quality. It didn’t help that this print was water damaged.

I will be the first to admit that I am the Queen of PhotoShop suckiosity.

Look it up. It won’t be there. I made it up.

What I want to share is not my madd photography or Photoshop skillz, because, really, they’re non-extistant.

I did, however, capture a moment, between Dances with Shrapnel and myself. And that is a beautiful moment.

Here’s a tissue. Now go vote. Or subscribe to my feed.

December 30th, 2007 | 22 Comments »

Hmm…where to start?

  • There is no Mr. witchypoo. I was married twice and didn’t like it. I have issues, okay? Back off. Don’t make me hurt you.
  • I’m right handed
  • I drink coffee, strong, black, no sugar, and plenty of it.
  • Dances with Explosives actually prefers to be called Dances with Shrapnel, because that is more specific to his job description. While he hasn’t forbidden me to write about him, his lovely wife, or my beautiful grand daughter, he has privacy concerns, and I respect them.
  • Anything about my family is tricky territory. I once wrote about my favourite uncle in Bluenose Vernacular and it hurt his feelings. I edited it for this blog to announce that he was not being a perv because he really wasn’t. It was for comic effect.
  • Most of my family members consider me a ne’er do well Tool of Satan. Some of them have rather extreme religious beliefs. We don’t talk much. The ones that do talk to me, I would like to keep it that way. Sometimes it gets ugly when you blog about family.
  • One of the things that shaped me was a deep yearning to connect spiritually. I went to many different churches as a child, and the last one was a total nutjob church that left a bad taste in my mouth concerning organized religion. I decided that organized religion was mostly about people setting out rules about how to worship, how to behave, and who gets to heaven. The rules often changed with the church. That just didn’t make sense to me. I continued my search for a spiritual connection on my own. When I started doing readings, I quickly felt the great wall of disapproval from churches and congregants. I think I know what a hooker in church feels like.
  • Most of my jobs have been dealing with people. Mostly sales. I was the first woman in my area to sell cars. I loved it, but was really indignant that people just assumed I was a liar. Plus the men were sneaky and would steal your customers. One of them hit me, and I found out what it is to literally see red. The air was blue, because I couldn’t see anything but red, but I found the loudest part of my voice to say very bad words in the service department. With customers there. It was humiliating.
  • Another embarrassing moment was at the same dealership. My mom had talked me into dying my hair blonde, but I panicked half way through, and I slunk into work and hid in the bathroom because the hair, it was orange. My sales manager made fun of me, saying: “Vanity, thy name is Woman!”, and told me to take the rest of the day off to fix it.
  • Still another: I have a partial plate, and have had since I was fourteen. Lets say that the ice and I connected in a meaningful way to need that plate. It broke at work when I was 20 (I worked in a bank then.) and I wanted to die. I had forgotten about it, mercifully, but this man I didn’t recognize came up to me a few years ago in a grocery store, and took great delight in recounting the story in front of his wife. Then I was embarrassed for his wife, because he was showing what a jerk he was.
  • Other than those things from long ago, I really don’t embarrass easily. I have embarrassed my friends with some of my antics from time to time, but they are used to me. Like the time I mooned a bus load of senior citizens. For some reason I thought that was hilarious. Oh, wait. It was probably the alcohol. Serves them right for giving it to me. They knew what a nutbar I was.
  • Since I started this blog at the first of November, I hardly go anywhere anymore. I was famous for being a roadrunner, always on the go, but I have a strong obsessive streak like Ass Burger Boy does. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s what I tell him when he thinks he’s weird.
  • My mother’s death hit me very hard. I saw her every day. She always made me laugh. Ma was quite the character, and I loved her off beat ways. She always liked to think she was putting one over on me, and I humoured her, because as I told her “Ma, you don’t have to trick me. I’m good to old people.” I used to make fun of her all the time, and then laughed when I started acting like her. The ugliness of some family members before and after her funeral gave me the resolve to never attend another funeral or wake. I have already told Grammie this and she understands why. I still turn into a snotbag when I think about Ma. I really miss her. Even though I still hear her voice in my head from time to time, making fun of me, or bossing me around.
  • I’d be happy to have an open forum event from time to time. If you have experiences to share, I would love to hear them, and even throw in my 2ยข worth.
  • That photo of me on my readings website? It’s 7 years old. I don’t have red hair with blonde streaks anymore. I liked the blonde so much, I got more and more of it. Now I have other streaks in the blonde. Summertime I usually get green streaks because it’s summer, and they’re fun. Winter, usually brown streaks, but more subtle, because just plain blonde is boring.
  • I don’t remember ever being bored. My mind is a party. I also don’t remember being lonely, although there are many times I have been alone. I’m a gemini, so it could be that my evil twin keeps me amused.
  • Ass Burger Boy accused me of knowing when he was lying because I am psychic. I assured him it was a mom thing. Moms can tell the lie look on a kids face. That’s what I told him: “You have the lie look. Right there. On your face.” There have been a few times he was away from the house too long that I have checked in on him to see if he was hurt or in trouble, but very few. I do respect his privacy, and that includes his right to having a party in his pants without my knowledge, although I could “just tell” when he lost his virginity. I never said a word, but let him tell me. Only fair. That stuff is private.
  • I live in a mansion that was converted into flats, not all of them expertly, but I got the best deal of all. I have the huge living room at 20 x 40, and all kinds of antique features like the casement windows, the sliding glass panelled pocket doors, and the huge fireplace. It’s set back from the street in a part of the city that hardly anyone knows about. It’s like a bubble of peace and no crime. Cab drivers have a hard time finding it. I can’t wait to see what comes up in the garden in the spring, and plan for my fall bulb planting.
  • The healing work I do is whatever is needed. I don’t have to be physically with the person to do it. I can make a headache go away, and have worked on some serious problems as well. My grand daughter was very ill, and I worked on her from afar. My nephew was near death as well this year from a severe beating, and although there were many prayers and magnificent healing groups working on him, I also participated with my friend in Texas, the fabulous Lucy in da Sky. I told his mother the extent and location of the injuries, and she blew the doctors away by telling them what she learned from me. I also described the assailants.
  • Dealing with having a son deployed overseas (twice so far) is torture. He looked so very very tired, and I can only imagine the mental toughness he had to develop. The heat alone would have done me in. Carrying heavy packs in that heat? Blows my tiny little brain. I hated the newscasts that announced wounded or dead. It takes so long to get confirmation, and is agonizing for all loved ones of our soldiers. The relief you feel when it isn’t yours is always tempered by the sadness you feel for the other families. I’m very proud of him. He always tried to justify his decision to enter the military, but he never had to. He has to live his life. I don’t. When he was younger he had long hair. His father gave him a hard time about it, said it made him (his father) look bad. He tried to get a rise out of me about his hair, but I simply told him: “Sweetie, it’s your hair. You have the choice to wear it long, short, or however you want.” I was sad when he cut it. It was a thing of beauty.
  • I am not afraid to die. I have looked death in the eye, and accepted it. I am afraid of pain, and not enough drugs to manage it.

This is a repost to test that my feed is not truncated. Bite me if you’ve read it before.

November 11th, 2007 | 2 Comments »

Are gender behaviours pre-programmed in the DNA?
I birthed two children with the Y chromosome.

My older son, Dances with Shrapnel, was still in diapers,
but loved to show off his linguistic (s)kills.
He saw a caterpillar outside during our walk, and
stomped it with great enthusiasm and emphasis.
He pointed matter of factly to it, and said “Dead”.
Not bug or caterpillar. Dead.

The younger, Ass Burger Boy, not so much.
We’re in the garden. He finds a worm.
He holds it, looking at it in wonder.
Whispers: “This is my worm.”
Then excitedly: “I have a pet!”
Adorable.
Mom explains the worm will die out of its habitat, because
it is one of God’s wild creatures.
Mom also assures him that he can come outside Every. Single.
Day. and visit his worm.

Dances with Shrapnel would never have fallen for that one.
His worm would be so dead.

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