My social media rules

I need to be able to answer yes to most of these questions before I follow people on social media.

Do I know you?
Have we actually met?
Do I like you?
Do we have friends in common?
Do I like our common friends?
Do you post very often?
Do you amuse/inform/educate?
Do you give a glimpse of your real life, or is it carefully crafted to instill insecurity and FOMO?
Do I care about this cause/charity/business?
Is this the only way I can keep up with this cause/charity/business?
Am I irritated af?

Culture jamming

People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you and then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you’re not sexy enough and that all the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are The Advertisers and they are laughing at you.

You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity.

Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head.

You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs. — Banksy, from Cut It Out

Fuck x 30

Fuck feeling like I need to give myself permission to write. Just fucking write. 1) it’s not hard and 2) who cares how it looks.

Fuck the time suck that is Facebook, with its endless fear of missing out interspersed with people missing the point.

Fuck only getting a clue now that I’m middle aged.

Fuck being this out of shape. 

Fuck my left knee.

Fuck STILL not being able to afford to do the things that are important to me.

Fuck herbal teas that always smell way better than they taste.

Fuck people who never try.

Fuck people who think I’m an inspiration. Aim higher, for fuck’s sake.

Fuck this squishy lap.

Fuck only figuring shit out now.

Fuck the ridiculously high US/CDN exchange rate.

Fuch autocorrect that keeps wanting to change fuck to duck.

Fuck not being able to put tech down for more than an hour.

Fuck poor self control.

Fuck losing my taste for beer (a temporary situation, I hope).

Fuck expensive wine that tastes like cheap wine.

Fuck acid reflux.

Fuck procrastination.

Fuck this city.

Fuck all my friends living so far away.

Fuck time poorly spent (I refuse to say wasted, but it’s close)

Fuck being introverted.

Fuck people who think I’m too stupid to figure things out for myself.

Fuck sometimes not being able to figure things out for myself.

Fuck being behind.

Fuck being left behind.

Fuck being bored.

Fuck trite sayings that happen to be true.

Fuck not taking photos of things that interest me. Why am I so uninspired? Is it time to pull the plug?

Fuch this burn on my thumb.


“Cats are disgusting,” said the young woman at the outdoor festival.

Five minutes later, this same woman gets “kisses” on the mouth from her dog, a dog that was licking its ass not 2 minutes before.

Yeah sure, it's cats that are disgusting.

Because it’s been a while, aka Fuck x 19

Fuck people who use feminine qualities as a negative.

Fuck nostalgia.

Fuck sore knees.

Fuck being away from my husband so much.

Fuck having to explain myself.

Fuck people who think that I am obligated to listen to their negative comments on my hair colour, clothing, language or career path with good grace.

Fuck people who use a public group for private griping.

Fuck people who think that being offensive, sexist or generally an asshole is a positive character trait.

Fuck poorly planned assignments.

Fuck bad soft serve ice cream. I'm looking at you, Dairy Queen.

Fuck mosquitos.

Fuck appliances that stop working after a month.

Fuck what-ifs.

Fuck cheap pens.

Fuck not being home.

Fuck not getting along.

Fuck people who call me a liar when I say some of the things I've done in the past.

Fuck feelings of regret and loss that never really go away.

Fuck screen addiction.


Nothing good ever comes of the late night navel gazing of a hormonal insomniac.

I’ve been trying to get to sleep for what feels like months. I’m tired, I get ready for bed, I lay down, and then presto. Not tired anymore.

I’ll lay there in the dark and envy my beloved’s ability to fall asleep within ten breaths. His deep breathing doesn’t sooth me; if anything it adds a level of anxiety. What if it stops and I’m not awake to restart it? Sounds out there I know, but both my dad and older brother have related sleep apnea stories, tales of waking up because they stopped breathing and what they had to do to restart it.

Anxiety has had a field day since May. But the bastard never shows it’s face in the light of day when I can deal with it. No, it waits until I lay down and am warm and comfortable under the duvet. It then parades an ever-changing parade of images through my mind. The mistakes I made, might have made without realizing it and even the ones that I know I didn’t make but might have in an alternate universe. Stupid things I said, and stupid things I didn’t say but only thought so loud they might have heard me. False images of people in HR departments laughing at any one of the hundred resumes I’ve sent out, exclaiming to each other, who does she think she’s kidding? The man at the course I want to get into isn’t returning my email, not because he’s busy and it might have fallen off his radar but because he knows my application is hopeless and doesn’t want to waste any more of his time on me. I’ll think that I should be further along by now, think that I should have learned more, done more, accomplished more by now. I should have used the time to go the gym and become less fat and flabby, gone to the HackLab to meet people & learn stuff, edit the novel, write the stories for submission, finish the online courses I started, get out, do something, finish anything. But of course I haven’t because I am just not that good at anything, not nearly as good as I think I am. I could be, but I’m not. For the eleventy billionth time, I curse my laziness and lack of self-discipline, and think, tomorrow, tomorrow might be different.

But it never is. Every morning, I wake up groggy after finally giving up and taking something to sleep, but too late for it to actually be fully effective before the sun streams in through the space under the roller blind. I have coffee and the best of intentions, but then the day passes with me becoming a little more reluctant every day to do something, to go out, to join the world.

I’m drifting. Yes, I have Plans A through D, but I’m not working them as much as I could be or should be. Days slip past and I’ll be damned if I know where they go. Well I know where some of them go: Netflix is a great time suck. I knit so that I feel like I’m still doing something productive, but seriously, just how many cowls and scarves can one woman wear?

I’m not writing this for advice, or pity or help. I’m writing this after laying in bed for 20 minutes, then getting up to write about the uncertainty and anxiety and, yes, I’ll say it, depression, to write them out of my head so that I don’t spend the next few hours letting it all play out in front of my minds eye again, so that I might get to sleep without special teas or herbal supplements or drugs.

It might be working. My eyes are getting that slightly sandpapery feeling they get when I’m really ready to sleep. Of course, they also feel like that when I’m ready to have a good cry, so who knows.


what the what?

What job can you hold where it possible to lie, get caught in the lie, make a new lie, get caught in that, (lather rinse repeat), utter sexist, racist and homophobic remarks, drive while reading, hang out with drug dealers, do drugs, show up hammered for work (when you show up at all), and not get charged with anything, not have to quit or resign or get fired (or at least not fired yet)?

Apparently Rob Ford’s job.

Words fail to express my contempt for that man and his brother.

I watched his afternoon press conference, and what RoFo said was so absurd in places that it made even the jaded media laugh. Which is appropriate, as he has made this city a laughingstock.


Today & Yesterday


Goodbye, second molar on the left side. It’s been a fun 45 years or so, but let’s face it, you’ve not been the same since the root canal  five years back. And while it’s a bit painful having this great hole in my jaw (or would be if I didn’t have uber strength Advil and Tylenol 3 with codeine), I doubt I’ll miss that constant slight background feeling that I’m biting on tinfoil once the swelling goes down and the great hole has healed.



Like everyone else, I was horrified by what happened in Boston yesterday. And then I was horrified by what I saw on social media afterward. Scams to take advantage of the horrified, cryptic messages, suppositions and Chinese Whispers passed off as truths and retweeted without verification, hatred, thoughtlessness, and people telling me what I should “witness”, what I should be thinking and how I should be feeling.

I can think & feel for myself, tyvm. And watching the same news clips of smoke and flames and blood on the ground neither increases or decreases my disgust at the action; it serves no purpose other than to plant seeds in my mind that I would rather not see take root.

My solution was to turn it all off. I went for a walk in the ravine and sat by a wild riot of bluebells near the river, listening to robins, red-wing blackbirds and blue jays punctuate the sound of the rushing water until my equilibrium returned. I meditated on the innate good in people, and hoped that the good people won’t be turned to hatred or despair by evil actions. As I sat, a coyote the size of a small wolf came to the river on the opposite back, and after drinking its fill, stared at me for one of those moments that contain an eternity in a second. The call of a blue jay startled it, and it turned and loped along the bike trail toward the wilder part of the ravine.

Then I went home, hugged my husband, talked to my friend. Life is short; shorter than you might think. Enjoy the moments you can, however you can.


Huh. Looks like I’m blogging again.

it’s not you, so it must be me

It could be the week-long cold, a lack of sleep and/or a stray comment from a friend that keeps rippling through my head, that has put me in this navel-gazing mood.

(this is your cue to, as the Monty Python boys would say, run away.)

The upshot of this introspection of the ill and sleep-deprived has led me to feeling that I am not that nice a person. My list of negatives is a long list; I’m not writing it all down. It’s depressing. I know there are positives, and I’m not writing them down either as tonight it seems like a very short list, which is even more depressing. It’s funny how I can strut around, bleating how I like myself the way I am, I’m happy with who I’ve become, and then hit one of these moments with no warning, like a car careening around a corner expecting open road but running smack dab into an unexpected brick wall.

So messy.

Clean up on aisle four.




Written Sunday, November 18th as part of NaBloPoMo.


I am not a fan of Sunday, especially when Saturday has been so good and you just know that there is no way the Sunday can even hope to compare, what with knowing that at best there is only time to have one last loll about in the hot tub before the fire in the fireplace that been alight since you arrived Friday night has to be extinguished, and no matter how much you ignore the clock in the kitchen as you read so casually on the couch on the living room you just know that time is marching inexorably to the precise moment that your beloved will look up where he is reading his book at the other end of the couch to say, “well, shall we?”, and you know that even though you'll say something along the lines of “shall we stay another night, you mean?” you'll be closing the book and getting up to start packing away the food even as you say the words, because the cottage is only rented until Sunday and even though the nice man who runs the place said you can check out at 2 instead of 11 so you can take advantage of the sunshine and go for a walk and pull the last of the seeds from the brown milkweed pods and scatter them on the breeze or have one last loll about in the hot tub or just sprawl on the couch reading your book, you know that real life awaits, REAL LIFE, with marking and bills and class prep and light pollution and noise pollution and pollution pollution, REAL LIFE that means taking the bus with the man who smells like he crapped himself and teenage girls who smugly just know that they know more than you and by so doing hold up a mirror so you can see just how annoying you were as a teenager and cringe, so yes, you are understandably reluctant to leave this secluded quiet space that smells of pine and deep fresh water, and even as you act like a responsible adult and prepare to go back to REAL LIFE, deep inside you there is still an incredible irresponsible part of you that would say fuck it all, chuck REAL LIFE for a chance to sit under the stars one more night and watch comet bits fall through the atmosphere, making you gasp with wonder every single time, like each is the first one you've ever seen.