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 was over at Christy’s site, and apparently, she was brought up on the lunatic fringe extreme southern type of religion. The kind where the pastor smacks smites you on the forehead and declares “You are healed!”

They fall into the category of the “Just wannas”. I just wanna tell you, Lord, blah, blah blah. I just wanna praise you, Lord, etc.

I was really, really sick one time, and a friend asked me to come to her church where a visiting healer was conducting his miracles. I figured what could it hurt, right? Right? Wrong.

I was fairly feeble, and extremely febrile, and it was summer. I made the mistake of struggling into what I thought would be acceptable church going clothes, a silk blouse with a modest skirt. It was too hot to wear a bra. Shaddap. In hindsight, I see my mistake. I was sick, okay?

Those who had requested a healing were to stand in a certain area. An area which I didn’t realize until later, was the prime focus of the video cameras.

I suffered through far too many Just wannas as I wobbled on my poor shaky legs. The fever had perspiration streaming off me, copiously.

Did you know that even dark coloured silk is kind of see through when wet? It had not occured to me. Strange. Fever. Blame it on the fever. Which made me perspire. Copiously.

By the time the anointed Just Wanna got to me, I was only standing with the assistance of my friend, who was feeling rather guilty for subjecting me to this in my condition.

Just Wanna mumbled a few words in tongues, and gave me an awful wallop on the forehead, recommended highly for those who are suffering an out of control sinus infection.

Was I grateful? I showed him my gratitude when he stuck a freaking microphone in my face. He asked me how I felt now, and smiled to his adoring congregation. I told him if he didn’t get that microphone out of my face right now, he would receive a similar smiting. There may have been snarling.

What? Pain doesn’t make you cranky?

My friend assisted me out of there immediately. We both feared I would be even more unpleasant.

Then I proceeded to sob from the pain and humiliation of being televised and smited while wearing a soaking wet silk shirt.

She took me to emergency, where I had to be admitted.

I totally get why people are skeptical of healers. Myself? I prefer to work entirely with energy and no smiting.

I just wanna share that with you.

Back in the day when Torch, the Big V, and I were inseparable, we used to hang out with a rather scruffy looking friend. He was hard to look at, but extremely witty, and we often laughed so hard our eyes were closed and streaming with tears, so it hardly mattered.

He had a truck that was just as hard to look at as he was. It had rust holding it together (sort of), but you had to be very careful if you were attempting to get into the back portion, because the fenders and sides were particularly unstable.

We dubbed it “The Crummy Old Truck” and we loved to go places in it. It was probably the shock value of seeing so many cute young women parading around in a crummy old truck with an equally repulsive looking driver. And sometimes, we would encourage him to verbally abuse us in crowds, just to see the looks on people’s faces. I could say our excuse was we didn’t get out much, but we were out all the time.

When the Queen Mother visited our city, I began to practice my “Queen Mother Wave”. Sitting on a chair in the back of the crummy old truck. While being driven around downtown. Waving to my people.Torch and the Big V have called me “The Queen” ever since.

It was particularly funny when the Big V wrote a newsletter from England, and inserted a page celebrating my impending visit. I quote:

Are you becoming a nervous wreck over the Queen’s arrival? Don’t!

Throw all your fancy clothes in the closet and dig out your rags. As illustrated in the photo below, The Queen is a casual dresser.

I have lived with my younger son for almost twenty-five years. I know if and when he leaves home, I will miss him dreadfully. We get each other. Most of the time.

Every once in a great while, I recall the times before I had children. When nothing sagged or wrinkled, or was anything but cute.

On Saturdays, it was errands and housework. After work during the week, it was everyday chores. Whoever got home first made supper, the loser had to do the cleanup and dishes. I always raced home from work.

I always did my housework naked. I would tear through the entire house, doing laundry as I went. When all was done, I jumped in the shower, and had no sweaty clothes to hang around and foul my hamper.

After my shower, I would don a crisp, clean outfit that was awesomely cute, and be ready to go someplace and show off my hard-working self.

What I didn’t realize back in the day was that I had a picture in my head of what my house should look like, and I felt terrible anxiety if the reality didn’t match the image in my head. I was fanatical about it.

Once a month, I would strip the wax off the floors, using a knife to make sure even the corners were clean as a whistle, although when I think about it, how can something full of spit be clean? Then, when the floors were spotless and clean as a whistle, I would re-apply the wax. It was very satisfying.

What I didn’t get was that other people had to live with me. On my terms. Or visit me. If they smoked, I would wash their ashtray the minute they butted out. How to make your guests feel comfortable, huh? But that image in my head kept giving me anxiety. I guess I figured if everyting matched the perfect image in my head, then my life was okay.

Eventually, I figured out that it made more sense to change the image in my head rather than feel overwhelming anxiety when the reality didn’t match the unreasonably perfect image.

People enjoyed visiting more. Who knew?

My compulsive cleaning left another gift for me. I overexposed myself to chemicals so much that I break out when exposed to them now. I use a lot of vinegar now, and green products, and nowadays, the image in my head is pretty darn lackadaisical. If nothing stinks, it’s all good.

I’m still averse to clutter and mess, because it is one extra step to tidy before cleaning and dusting. I do both less often now.

And Ass Burger Boy? I just ask him to keep his door closed because nobody wants to see what’s in his room.

Really. I have pictures.

And? I don’t do my houswork naked anymore. First, nobody wants to see it. Secondly, I never work up a sweat at it now.