April 15th, 2008 | 26 Comments »

I told my younger brother, Dizzie, the one Mr. Trick and I tormented when he was little, and who has since forgiven me, that his daughter, WildChild, would be having twin daughters.

I got the ultrasound pics today yesterday, and it looks like another good prediction.

Well, unless they turn out to be drag queens. *Running and hiding so long-suffering younger brother doesn’t hunt me down and seek revenge*

And, since I totally Suck At Photoshop, I’ll show you my tutor for this.

Is Marie having twins? You will have to follow the trail to Veronica’s house to find out!

Posted in Wild Child
March 8th, 2008 | 15 Comments »

For any of you still in school, and under parental care, just cover your eyes now. This information will only lead you on a slippery slope of deception and mayhem.

Backstory: Over appetizers and wine with Warrior Woman, we were telling stories to one another about our younger days. WW interjected frequently about each topic being blog material, but when I told her this one, I ran and wrote it down. I knew I would use it.

I was always a good student. My marks and class participation were good, I enjoyed reading, and I had insight that allowed me to giggle at the naughty bits in some of Shakespeare’s plays. The principal, who also taught senior English, answered my giggles with a huge twinkle in his eye. We were the only two that got it. He also gave me a 100% mark on my senior essay exam, which I think was to discuss imagery and some other stuff in MacBeth.

My mildly amusing but OCD stepmother hated writing excuses to cover absences from school, so I devised a system that made it easier for her. I would write the body of the note, and have her read and sign it.

What she didn’t know was that I never submitted those excuses. Instead, I wrote in my own handwriting my note and forged her signature. Then, when I wanted to jig* school, I could word my own excuse and forge the signature so all submitted excuses looked similar. My handwriting in body of note, forged stepmother’s signature.


My brother, Mr.Trick? Not so genius. Or maybe just lazy. He would only forge the note and signature when he was up to no good. I think his girlfriend had introduced him to pot, and maybe he didn’t think things through.

Eventually, the principal noticed the discrepancies in signatures on his notes. Because he only forged when he had to. Doofus. What did my formerly favourite brother do?

He ratted me out.

The principal examined all of my notes, which matched. He didn’t believe rat boy. I wasn’t even called to the office.

Rat boy was so mad that he couldn’t take me down with him. Ungrateful bugger. Serves him right for stealing my idea and executing it sloppily.

*jigging school was the vernacular for playing hookey.

February 13th, 2008 | 15 Comments »

I started to tell this story, then I looked for a suitable image, and while I was at it, might as well create a watermark, so the result is that nothing got done besides a lot of image re-arranging. You may get one poor quality, unwatermarked image, because who really wants to steal a small, poor quality image? On to the story.

Long ago, but not so far away, my brother, Mr. Trick, and I were allied as partners in crimes against the parents. These crimes involved a great deal of intrigue, planning, and stealth. Stealth was key because we wanted, in this case to steal the cookies out of the pantry.

We had to stay awake a long time until the giants (parents) went to bed, and we gave them time to fall asleep. This gave our anticipation of the stolen goods more salivation factor, and allowed us to refine the plan.

Hand signals were not terribly effective in the dark, so we had to revise the plan during the execution of the manoevre. Who says criminals are dumb?

It took an agonizing amount of time to descend the old, creaky staircase, and tiptoe down the hall to the pantry. We were shivering with excitement as we ear-whispered directions to one another.

Once we reached our objective, we loaded up our arms, and BOOM! thundered up the stairs (times two) in our haste to devour the prize. I guess we figured that possession was nine-tenths of the law, but we had forgotten how annoyed those pesky parents became when aroused from their sleep.

The punishment was not just for cookie theft, it was an angry punishment administered in the wrath of being awakened. It wasn’t pretty. We decided our career in crime was not our optimum life path. And it was difficult to sit down for a while too.

Seated on horse: little brother, witchypoo, partner in crime brother. This was taken when we were able to sit without pain.

December 12th, 2007 | 14 Comments »

When Gram was in her early eighties, she took to saying “If I die” quite a lot. I think she was using it for attention, but it cracked me up.

Me: “Grammie, when you say that, it sounds like you have all of these options, and haven’t quite decided which one you’re going to choose.”

Gram: “Oh.”

We’re an eloquent bunch.

What? It’s news to you that we are all going to die? Do you know something I don’t?

My family accuses me of being a shytte disturber. I prefer “awareness facilitator” as in “The Emperor is naked, dude.”

That conversation spurred Grammie on to take action. She enlisted the reluctant services of my fine furniture/cabinet maker brother, Mr. Trick, to make her a lovely coffin.

Her reasoning? Have a beautiful piece made by someone who loves you, and who, incidentally, will give you a great deal on it. A dirt cheap coffin. Perfect for the long dirt nap.

She keeps it in her spare room to store bedding in. I guess I’m milking the dirt nap thing. *Hangs head in mock shame*.

I have a long time best friend from school days who is a high mucky-muck (Grammie’s description) on the newspaper where we are all from. She spoke to one of the reporters about this whole coffin thing, and he contacted Grammie. High Mucky-Muck suggested they wait to do the story until Mr. Trick came to visit Grammie, so the story would have the two viewpoints.

I have met this reporter socially several times. I like to tease him about being wet behind the ears and things like that. He’s a really funny guy, and quick to respond to verbal torture. This is good, because really, who enjoys a duel of wits with an unarmed opponent? Where’s the sport in that?

I warn him that the combination of Mr. Trick and Grammie is double trouble. Mr. Trick eggs Grammie on to new heights of giddiness when he is around. As if she wasn’t a pissah in her own right.

Me: “Those two will eat you for breakfast, Funny Guy Reporter.”

I’m feeling virtuous, and a little smug, because He. Has. Been. Warned. (Think Oprah, trying to control an interview with Jim Carrey. Ain’t no way to control that interview)

FGR calls the house for directions. Gram answers the phone with “There’s nobody home.”

Mr. Trick recounts the process of researching and building a coffin, adding that he should have built it with a false bottom so it could be placed over the gravesite, easily relieved of its cargo, then re-used. I believe he hollered “Next!” at this point, by way of demonstration of course.

FGR admits to being a little creeped out by the whole deal. He tries to get a picture of the coffin being used as a blanket box, (it’s in her spare room, doing storage duty for now) but Gram hops right in and starts a-grinnin’. No way was she going to miss being in the picture that was her claim to fame.

After the interview, which I was there for, I teased FGR about those two running away with the interview plan.

Me: “You were toast.”

And what do we eat for breakfast?


Note: Gram got lots of attention because of this article, which she totally loved. She was interviewed by the CBC (national radio broadcasting network) and had strangers come to her house just to see the coffin. The newspaper image is here.

November 22nd, 2007 | 6 Comments »


Since it’s Thanksgiving in Merika, I present a little vignette from long, long ago.

My cousins, with my brother, Mr. Trick.

You decide. I could never tell them apart when they were little.