Category Archives: Humour

Skating on the Thin Ice of Life

Skating on the Thin Ice of Life
“You’re skating on thin ice girl!”
Life is full of warnings, some overt and some less so. This one is pretty clear and was more serious than, “Stop, or you’re going to your room.” or even, “You’re cruisin for a bruisin.”
Skating implies movement, action, direction and a path or destination. Thin ice implies danger, warning, risk …high risk and a calamitous outcome if direction is not changed. Skating is smooth, continuous whether it is a forward, backward, figure eights, it is a confident motion that would seem not easily stopped or altered which increases the danger of being on thin ice. Once your motion carries you far enough there is no turning back and the only choice is to deal with the consequences of your action. This is a pretty good argument for thinking out plans beforehand.
But it strikes me that as we age skating on thin ice takes on a new meaning. Our footing may be ( literally ) less sure due to any number of circumstances including weak fragile bones or eye sight problems with depth perception, muscle weakness, blah, blah, blah. The older we get, the thinner the ice and our big rink just plain putters out.
Sometimes I think a zamboni is the only answer.
FYI….Wiki says…Zambonis do not really “melt the broken ice” in hockey arenas. The process of resurfacing the ice is the Job of the Zamboni at an ice rink between groups on the ice or periods of a hockey team. A Zamboni actually has a blade on it that cuts or shaves the surface of the ice (not much because the ice is only 1.5 to 3.5 inches thick!) This way the grooves and uneven surface from skaters is brought back to a more even surface. Then the Zam floods behind the cut with hot water (approx. 140 degrees) which fills in any leftover grooves or odd spots in the ice, freezes up and makes a fresh surface for the next group of skaters.



The Daily Post prompt; Would you rather laugh with sinners, or cry with saints? created a lot of questions for me.

What makes a saint a saint?
Why would a saint cry and not laugh?
Why would a sinner laugh and not cry?
 Hey! What makes a Saint cry?
Why would a Saint cry?
Why would a  sinner cry?
Are saints crying because sinners are laughing?
Are sinners laughing because saints are crying?
Is it possible to be a saint and not know it?
If I am a saint today and sin tomorrow do I have to resign my saint status?
Since I prefer laughing can’t I laugh with both?
If I am spending my day seeking the joy of life why would I want to cry with either group? 

Of course crying is good too. It’s a wonderful release of pent up emotion and thought, relieving stress, a toxin cleansing and it is very good for the complexion, but alas I do not cry easily.

I love a movie that stirs those tender emotions to tears, a soggy freeing expression without seeming morose. So if the saints are watching Old Yeller or Marley and Me I will cry with them.  To cry and moan and thanks

The best crying is laughing ’til ……

“Saints are only sinners who keep trying.” Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

I know lots of sinners, myself included.  I am not sure if I have ever met a saint although have met those with saintly characteristics, but given this limited choice I am all for laughing with sinners, as it would be a pretty lonely existence without them.  Take away the sinners and I may be only person here.  HAHA.

Where is Spatial Visualization When You Need It?

Where is Spatial Visualization When You Need It?

Thinking in pictures. Conceptualizing. Imagination with application. Good taste.  Classic lines. Feng Shui.  Positive Energy flow.

Heck, I am throwing ideas/things out there like partially cooked spaghetti against a wall, hoping something sticks.

Genes genes the musical fruit, the more you eat the more you …oops that’s beans not genes.  In my search for perfection or even comfortable mediocrity  I am forced to accept the gifts I have naught, as in ‘missed the train on that one’.

I am presented with a lovely living, creative, work  space in my son and DIL’s home and I am bereft, befuddled, beyond the ability to organize.  You see, I have no talent.  None.  In fact my good taste gene is so deficient I do not even have the skill to copy another.

Now maybe you can help.  Please visualize.  The room is rectangular and while actually measuring would be rather mundane I can describe it as a nice chip shot length, say 9 yards by a comfortable putt of 5 yards.

I have ‘things’ to place in the room and no idea where to begin because the flow of energy through the current design is nothing more than the bump and grind of error.

By days end there will be some sense of order, of comfort and no doubt a good degree of exhaustion, because thinking in areas where you were never meant to be is taxing on a soul who was I am sure destined to have all and sundry ready to do her bidding.  Reality bites.  Truly.

Is That a Light at the End of the Tunnel Or……

Is That a Light at the End of the Tunnel or….

I used to love the whole idea of a light at the end of the tunnel – the tunnel being a long and arduous path, some great feat, challenge or test of endurance – and then one day someone commented that instead of it being a light of attainment it just might be a train coming straight at you.

I am still in the tunnel!  As per my previous post on activities which included a Christmas party in August and moving, events are trotting along.

The party was amazing, organized by my two nephews and their Dad.  Two fire pits grilling corn on the cob and beef and chicken and enough salads of every imaginable kind.  And desserts.  Lots of desserts.

My nephew’s country property sports a pool, swings, slides and a trampoline that kept the youngest generation in giggles for hours and triggered tears in the youngest when it was time to go.  A great big Santa stood proudly in the midst.  G1 and G2 could not make it as the whole house came down with a bug but a good time was had by all who did.

That was Saturday and Tuesday was THE MOVE.   I am in awe of anyone who does a move well.  I have gotten settled in..sort of… but must return tomorrow for final clean up which of course is in the  midst of more social activity – Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  Muscles I did not even know I had hurt….okay I probably do not have them but pain has settled where they should be.  I keep thinking I must look toned and ripped but a glance in the mirror, when it cannot be avoided, just reveals an exhausted not so hot looking shadow of who I think I am.

I can’t quite see the light yet but at least there are no train whistles.

Quick and Wonderful

Quick and Wonderful

The time is short and in my quest to perfect my procrastination I am about to embark on a feat attempted by only the bravest of fools.

I move Tuesday and have had plenty of time, emphasis on plenty here, to prepare.  Alas one of my genetic misfires that has increased with the march of time is organization.  I had it once upon a time.  Perhaps I inadvertently  packed it.  Anyway three sleeps to go and lots to do on a weekend filled with social obligations.  Go figure.

Fridays are dedicated to the garden my sisters and I have at the country home of my brother and his wife.  We toil in the soil then sit sipping while my brother barbecues and SIL serves up the results of said toil.  It takes hours to eat, drink and laugh, so no packing there.

Today is our family Christmas Party.  Uhuh.  We are a very social group and the challenges of getting multiple generations together indoors in December has become difficult.  So being the Einstein minds we are it was decided to hold the party in August where my nephew has a lovely large property and pool.  My Sis and her daughter had a big cake made with a Santa and Merry Christmas written across it.  That caused interest in the store when we picked it up!  So this day is spoken for.

I have been reading as many of my fav blogs as possible but not commenting or posting very much but come Tuesday a new era starts!!

My friend Joss Burnell at has invited me to play The Seven Links Challenge and I am so pumped but can only do so once the move is complete. (that’s my Mommy gene making me do that me do that!)

Missing you all my delicious woodcraft friends but looking forward to catching up on all your posts next week when I can take the time to savor!  I know I will have plenty of time then – I have it in my organizer!

I f You Don’t Post A Day Can You Ever Become A Post A Day Again?

I love the thrill of an empty page and BAM the post!  It’s invigorating, exciting, satisfying, generating, postulating, propagating and just plain fun!  From the moment of first consciousness even before my eyes opened my mind began thinking, considering, creating, building, manufacturing.  I am amazingly creative, genius level I believe, but only before my peepers peep, because once the inevitable happens and I face the day the gossamer veil of genius dissipates faster than a fart in a high wind. (I really tried to think of something more genteel than the expulsion of methane laced gas but alas could not.)

I have two peak creative times in a day.  First thing in the morning, which my muse or musette seems to prefer or post midnight which seems to work equally well for moi.  I prefer the a.m. as my mind is less cluttered, and I prefer doing it in bed with tea and brekkie.  Yes I am creative in bed.  There I have said it.  Make of that what you will.  The morning is also the time that I most enjoy reading your blogs.  In bed before life rears with it’s demanding lists.  My morning joy then gets caught up with true excitement delving into the world on your pages and I am happier than the proverbial pig.

It is exactly as it sounds – nirvana.  Problem is the morning can then extend into early afternoon as I comment, chuckle and commiserate with my fellows.

This glorious routine was interrupted by Organized Self (OS) who mercilessly bombarded me with accusations of the sedimentary persuasion.  So in an effort to attain balance I started hitting the track, no not offline betting, but a walking track my sis and her compadres habituate by 7:30 each and every day.  And there is a certain satisfaction in knocking off a few miles first thing.

But then life intervenes, and once in motion takes over, especially at this time of move preparation which takes place in two weeks.

So I am still reading blogs on the run with almost no time to comment.

I can only hope that by September I can once again join in the challenge as I am going through blogger association withdrawal which my alter ego blog persona believes will be relieved when I get back on track, not the running track but the writing track.

So I may be for the moment less than a one a dayer but will shortly be back to stay.  Cure is anticipated by August 24th!

If You are Going to Waste My Time, At Least Do It With a Little Style

If You Are Going to Waste My Time at Least Do It With a Little Style

So said I to my recalcitrant self, the part of me that begs in a whiny voice, ‘But it’s Saturday!’

Ran errands this morning knowing I would have the afternoon and evening to play catchup on some pretty vital stuff, shelving the idea of going to the Bluesfest, hoping as a reward I would treat myself tomorrow.  Puttered around trying to decide on arranging more things for packing or actually workimg.  Maybe I should vacuum and dust first.  RS pipes up with a twist of sarcasm about the room littered with boxes, possessions on every available horizontal surface and disturbing the ambiance of a life in transition.

Sat at the computer when I was suddenly attacked by a game of Galapago and did not deem this a waste of time as it would exercise my mind taking my cerebral function to genius level.

Called my sister hoping for a diversion there but alas she is actually doing housework.

Argued with RS relentlessly about my choice of activity.  No problem knowing who is boss today.

Took another look around the room wondering if I should call a missing person on my organized self because darn if I know where I set her down.  (RS hates OS).

Finally came to an understanding with RS and told her point blank – if you are going to waste my time at least do it with a little style- so we agreed….after a crazy busy week I will take two self indulgent hours and read.

So here I sit about to start Kathy Reichs Deja Dead.  Reichs is a forensic anthropologist in real life and the heroine is Temperance Brennan, of the Bones TV series, which is kind of cute since in the series Temperance is a forensic anthropologist and published author whose heroine is Kathy Reichs.

Well I best get cracking but before I can read I had to promise OS that I would at least post first.  Yeah! One thing off today’s list completed!

I Swear -The Worst Movie Ever

I Swear The Worst Movie Ever

 I put little faith in movie reviews and think it is too bad when critics pan what is truly a good movie, but worse yet are the ones they rave about making me wonder who is getting payoffs AND makes me wonder when the public responds with a hellya are they just trying to fit into what is popular? I know, I know…. Personal appreciation and perception is well…personal but my head swims and my tummy does somersaults.

 Last night after a nice patio dinner out my sister-in-law and I decided to see BRIDESMAIDS. When she mentioned it I was all ‘Oh I heard such good reviews, lets go!”

 One review I read said it was, “An unexpectedly funny new comedy about women in love.”

 It has nothing to do with women in love, in fact it is about the Kristin Wiig character who is so screwed up she settles for the worst kind of lover, the booty call only, and clumsily tries to deal with the downside of her life not very well.

 We watched as the movie started, flat and boring thinking that any minute the story would start to flow, that something or somebody would connect but it never happened.

After about thirty minutes my SIL looked at me, brows furrowed, and said, “Seamus O’Reagan at CTV said it was a great movie.”

 We suffered through hoping that redemption for monies paid would miraculously appear.

Alas it never did.  The theatre never did rock with wild laughter but there was a chuckle or two at the banal scenes. Go figure.

 There was never at any moment chemistry between any of the characters.  It really did seem they were just reading their lines, no passion, and no connection as if they each said the lines alone on a stage.  Just saying words.

Mind you the writing was flat and that moment of humor that should have occurred was missed.  The timing was awful.

 The cast was wooden apparently unable to show appropriate emotion, or any emotion and the writing was equally as flat lacking any revelation of something more than a sulk. I am not sure any actor on earth could have accomplished the goal to entertain as it was written.

 Even the worst movies have a redeeming feature and in this one it was Melissa McCarthy who I had never seen before but she could well become a big star.

 If your tastes go to inappropriately used F* shots, and bridesmaids with food poisoning barfing in porcelain thrones while another defecates in a sink and another says the most horrible things about her children including profane name calling, and do not require well written wit you may enjoy it.

PS It was interesting watching other viewers.  One young guy probably about 25 was riveted in his seat; leaning forward, chin on his hands smiling to beat the band.  Another young, no older than 20 wearing minus 0 size clothes girl overheard me say it was the worst movie ever as we left, and she looked at me and said, “ You’re kidding? I thought it was so beautiful I cried.”

 Go figure.  Maybe it is an age thing.




“When Men were Men and Women were Women” and Nursing Students Were Young Ladies.

I have no idea where this saying came from except it is pretty old. I think I heard it as a child in a song about the early west, when…  Thinking of things old got the memory blister starting to bubble and boil.  Again.

Some people came to see to see my apartment the other day and one of the girls looked at a print I have on my wall which depicts a modern day nurse with a young patient and In the background there is an apparition of a medical scene with a nurse but the ghostly scene is as it would have appeared probably fifty years prior.  She asked if I was a nurse.

Friends of mine who were in the teaching profession have the same type of pictures but the depictions are of classroom scenes present and past.  Tonight when sleep dodged my tired brain my thoughts went back to what it was like when I was a probie in 1966.

Male nurses were rare.  I don’t think in three years of training I ever met one.

It was expected that ‘young ladies’ who entered training did not have part time jobs, because after all we were young ladies.

Our uniforms and caps were washed and starched heavily by the hospital laundries.

Nursing students lived in residences that had connecting underground tunnels to the hospital.

We had a Housemother whose apartment was on the first floor close to the reception area.  If we left the residence we had to sign in and out and mark the times.  Very strict curfews!  Young men calling to take a student out on a date never got past the reception area which did have a seating area.

Nothing was disposable.  Everything was metal or glass including syringes.  Needles were resterilized and you had to look for burrs on the end of them which occurred after multiple use. (Very difficult and painful entry for the patient if you missed one!)

Morphine came in pills which we had to dilute in saline and draw up for injection.

Doctors were very much the boss and we the handmaidens.

We mixed and applied mustard plasters for chest congestion.

There were no nasal cannulas or masks.  If someone needed oxygen they went into an oxygen tent which was moist, noisy and cold.

First years were at the mercy of the older students in subtle ways.  On my first day there was a lovely reception held for us and our parents.  Cake and tea for the adults.  We had a delightful punch the middle years had made for us.

On arising to knocks on the doors the next morning we hustled off to the large bathroom to get ready and everyone of us believed we might be dying.  The punch had been spiked with Pyridium a drug typically used for urinary tract infections, a side effect of which is red urine.  Some people see red, we peed it.

They were fun years of learning, of laughing and more than once crying.

They were great years, Pyridium and all!

First Failed Flush of Love – Actually

Ah First Love

First Failed Flush of Love Actually
These slightly overcast hot humid July mornings sometimes serve up, in addition to a light sprinkling of temporary rain, a particular memory from a land far away, a time long ago. Actually a time long ago not so much on the land faraway, except it does seem in my mind to have been a million miles away. A land distanced by time I guess.
We were going on vacation to a cottage probably somewhere in the Haliburton or Muskoka region of Ontario where lakes meet forest meet city dudes for a limited week or two each year. It had to have been the late fifties, a time before, air conditioning, seat belts, road service and car radios that could receive signals outside a city limits.
Cars broke down all the time, or at least threatened to, but were easily fixed with a patch, hot air, or a good smack along it’s frame. I remember one trip where the engine kept overheating and the only solution was to drive with the heat blowing on max on the hottest day of the year.
There were seven of us that year, two parents and five kids and I cannot remember what kind of car it was but it easily accommodated four or five wee bodies. I’m thinking we were between twelve and six years old. I was the oldest and considered myself a diva of sorts without knowing that word existed, and for sure possessed that false prepubescent sophistication where really, nothing associated with family was good enough for this princess and Mom and Dad became Mother and Father and really, what kind of car we drove and where we went was below my level of interest..sigh.
I don’t remember much about the cottage except it must have had walls, enough bedrooms and probably and indoor loo as that is one memory that would have caught my royal attention.
One day on the beach, no, not white sand, probably a stony beach with large rocks lining the shore, I found myself talking to a boy. There was none of the discomfort or awkwardness that preteens often start to feel, just nice pleasant conversation. It turned out that he lived very close to my house and knew my brother. Then the conversation took a turn that screamed, ‘hormones at work here!’ but of course I would not recognize that message for a few years.
“How old are you?” he asked.
Not sure what to say here as all of a sudden it occurred to me that I did not want him to know I was just a silly kid (it seems the diva devil flees in the face of true love). After a pause I countered brilliantly with, “How old are you?” feeling much like Baby must have felt when she uttered the words, “I carried a watermelon.”
“Fifteen,” he replied, head down, hands in his pockets and kicking dirt with his right foot.
Whew, I knew it was safe to lie since he obviously was not fifteen.
“Well I’m fourteen,” and he nodded. He said that his family was going home the next day, (and mine still had a week to go), and asked if he could call me for a date sometime.
Our week passed and I soon forgot about the encounter but a few days after returning home I got a phone call. Now phone calls back then were rare. No one actually phoned unless there was a specific purpose to said call. And there were party lines so every conversation could be heard by most of the neighborhood.
Anyway, the call came on a Saturday morning and he asked if I could go to the matinee that afternoon with him?
I asked my Mom, and explained who this fellow was, and my brother corroborated his decent character, and Mom said yes.
I was a bit in awe at the potential of a first date but was pretty cool and calm about it, while my mother made me put on an actual dress and comb my hair (I was pretty much a tomboy like Trixie Belden then so gave no thought to ‘dressing up.’
Then I waited. And waited. And waited. I was not particularly upset, just a little confused maybe but I had not invested any hopes and dreams in this guy so it was no biggie, although looking back; it probably was for my mother.
Later that day a hurried whispered call came from my suitor who apologized for not showing up because his Mom had gotten mad at him and grounded him. He sounded totally humiliated and embarrassed.
“No problem,” said I, quite sincerely and meaning it. And then I promptly forgot about it, except every now and then on a hot humid overcast, July morning, my mind does that little time travel thing, where I find myself standing on a stony beach.

*The ‘Actually’ series are stories of childhood and family and memories.

Thanks to Photobucket for providing photos.