Which Muppet Would You Be?

I’ve always adored the Muppets. In fact, I used to watch the show, (when it aired) religiously. I particularly love the Grumpy Old Men and the Swedish Chef. Beaker, was another fave.

Funny, because my first husband was a ‘real’ Swedish Chef. Well, okay, he was a cook with Swedish Heritage. His dad, however, was a true Swedish Chef and actually taught the Chef Training Course at the college I attended.

But I digress…

I’ve given this a lot of thought. Really! It’s a bit silly, but I need ‘fun and silly’ in my life, right now.

I truly believe I’m Kermit.

Lest you ask: “What is up with that?! Kermit is a DUDE!”

You’d be right. But…there is only really one true female character and I’m definitely NOT Miss Piggy.

So yeah…I’m Kermie. Kermie sans Miss Piggy. Or…just Kermit.

Here’s why:

  • Kermit struggles with himself. He’s said (and sung): “It’s not easy being green” I completely agree. I’m not green…but that can’t be easy. Also, it’s not easy being me. I don’t think any of us have an easy go at life, but I tend to torture myself (emotionally) just a little bit more than others. Also, he’s insecure about how he looks and what he can achieve. I’m not the only one who does this, but as a single girl, I tend to compare myself to younger, prettier, girls. I also have issues on what I’m really good at and just what I ‘can’ accomplish.
  • Kermit is a really nice dude. He means well and if he makes mistakes, it’s certainly not on purpose. I can relate to this. In fact, I’ve been accused of being TOO nice, on occasion. I also fuck up. A LOT.  Recently, I had a major award-winning, all-time book-worthy… fuck-up; I really don’t want to go there, though. Kermit is kinda like that, too. He feels the need to explain himself, a lot. Also, he’s helpful, kind and empathetic. I’ve been told I am like this, as well. I do mean well. Kermit does, too.
  • Kermit sings. I sing! Kermit may actually be a bit better than me; certainly he’s more famous…but I do okay with the vocal cords.
  • Kermit is short. I’m a little short. Not too short…but in my stocking feet, I’m a whopping: 5’4”.
  • He’s got a pretty decent sense of humour – albeit, it’s subtle. I can be funny! Not hysterical-type funny…but amusing, for sure.

Now, we’re not twinsies or anything, but the point of this is to pick one Muppet character that you identify with. I identify with Kermit the Frog.

Which Muppet are you?


An Experiment in Sleep Deprivation


I’ve been awake since Monday morning. From 4:30 am,  to be exact. The why isn’t important but what’s interesting is that I’ve been conscious for 37 or so, hours? My math skills are deplorable.

And…! I’m feeling great! I can stand, function, write (see? I’m writing coherently) and even entertain clients for dinner. Things got really fun when I came home to cat puke on my bedroom carpet and then, said kitty evidently had a runny tummy whilst I was slaving away at work.

This = cat shit all over his ass leading to being forced to wash him in the kitchen sink. (see pic, below). Normally I’d be pissed, but I’m totally fine with it!

Apparently not getting enough sleep (never mind being awake for going on 40 hours) is a bad thing. Funny…I kinda feel fantastic.  Here is the reason:

  • Sleep deprivation, such as pulling an all-nighter, can lead to short-term euphoria, however, your brain’s rational, decision-making regions largely shut down when sleep deprived, which means you may be in a precarious mental state that encourages you to take risks you normally would not. Wait, I’m taking a risk? It’s a blog for heaven’s sake! 
  • Sleep deprivation for as little as 29 hours has the same effect on your immune system as physical stress or disease. I totally get the stress bit.
  • Sleep deprivation is linked to psychiatric disorders such as anxiety and bipolar depression, while getting the right amount of sleep has been linked to positive personality characteristics such as optimism and greater self-esteem, as well as a greater ability to solve difficult problems. I’ve been not sleeping properly for a while -but I SWEAR I’ve been in a pretty good mood. Definitely not suffering from lack of self-esteem, etc. Okay, that’s a bold-faced lie. My mood is not good but lack of sleep isn’t the cause. And, the cause isn’t bipolar depression or anxiety. It’s more heart-related – not murmur but of the ‘relationship’ variety.

Now…I normally don’t do this (stay up for this long) but… circumstances and all that jazz.  I fully plan to go to sleep, or at least attempt to, shortly. I have lots of alcohol available but this will make it worse. In fact, alcoholics often suffer from insomnia. Don’t worry, I’m not one.

I took all my sleeping aids (to no avail, I may add!) last night.  Something is rotten in the state of Denmark because they did NOT work. In fact…here I am, 37 hours, later.

Still. Awake.

It’s been a long and hectic day, too. Somehow I managed three meetings (don’t forget entertaining clients for dinner), several lengthy phone calls, driving around town and …coming home to cat poop and puke.

I’ve got another client meeting, tomorrow, so if I don’t sleep tonight – things are going to get very interesting, indeed.

I’m off to bed…with a wet cat in tow.

Nighty night.


Hey there, me…it’s me…miss me?

My coworker talks nonstop to himself. And when I say ‘nonstop’ I’m not kidding. There’s a constant stream of dialogue going on inside his office and for the most part, it’s one-way.

Now, we ALL do this, from time-to-time. I am as guilty as the next person, but I DO try and limit my outer conversations to simple comments or, if I simply have to not use my ‘inside voice’, I make damn sure I’m ALONE. Because…people think you’re a freak if you’re jabbering away to no one in particular.

So. I had to look it up. Is talking to yourself an indication that your friends and family need to have an intervention that involve men in white coats? Or…is it simply normal to do this.

As it stands, the jury is (more or less) out. Some say that this is not only completely normal but good for you! Others disagree and I’m certainly not trying to make light of mental illnesses. There is even a wikiHow on: How to Stop Talking to Yourself.

It’s okay to chat away all by your lonesome if you are truly alone. So if you’re lonely or if you need to verbalize decisions, or if you just have to get something off your chest…and no one is around to ‘listen’ to you, I think it’s okay.

In an office environment where you are clearly NOT alone and DO talk to clients all day? I’m not so sure. When is it best to use our inside voice and when is it okay to let it all out (no matter who is listening to or watching you)?

We all have  self dialogue or “Intrapersonal Communication”. Sometimes our thoughts leave our heads and go skipping, blissfully out of our mouths.

I’m not really sure what to think on the matter and for ‘that’ matter…does laughing out loud, count? If so, I’m extremely guilty on that account.

I DO talk to my cat. He does answer me, quite often, but I can’t count that as a conversation. Not. Really… I’ve read that everyone talks to their pets. As I live alone, this happens all the time. I think he understands me a little bit but pretends not to and generally, he just doesn’t care.

Or maybe he does and thinks I’m a nutcase:

“Lady, you’re talking to a CAT. Don’t you know? I’m a CAT, you stupid bi-ped. Now go and fill up the sink with water. That’s right…do my bidding and stop answering me in that ridiculous baby voice.”

In all fairness, HE usually starts it.

Just sayin’.


(Insert Colourful Explanative Here)

You’ve probably heard the latest about the little town of, Taber, AB, and their new law against public swearing, spitting and yelling. Whilst I’m keen to ban spitting, (horking up a goober at any time, defies disgusting, I mean, c’mon, people! NOBODY wants to see that) yelling, has its place.

I don’t personally enjoy yelling, per se, but I understand there is a need from time-to-time. I mean, what if someone were to step out into traffic and they didn’t see the oncoming semi rushing towards them? What is one to do? Whisper?

“Hey! Watch out!” she gasped in a hushed tone, hoping no one in particular heard her… as the poor little old lady was squished beneath the giant wheels of crushing steel.

Swearing, on the other hand, is a MUST. At least, I think so.


It’s freedom of speech, for one thing. It’s also how many of us emotional beings deal with things like: stress, anger, pain, surprise, joy (think….bedroom), and general all ‘round bullshit.

Wait…what..? Did I just…swear…?

But, hang on for a sec… Fear not! I have a solution. I think we should create interesting acronyms. Now, I don’t use ALL of these words, mainly #2, 3 and 4. Next to never, #2. I do use # 5, a lot, though. Let’s start, shall we?

  1. For unlawful carnal knowledge.  I think this has been used before, but I’m stealing it, anyway. It’s a mouthful, I’ll admit, but hey – it works and it’s rather appropriate, don’t ya think?
  2. Cunningly ugly notorious terrestrial. Too much?
  3. Sudden, happenstance, interrupting time. I’m on the fence with this one but will take suggestions; look for the special “I don’t give a sudden happenstance interrupting time) what you think”, suggestion box.
  4. Any self-serving, highly oppressive, lunatic ego. This one is growing on me.
  5. Babe in total control, honey. Is this even a swearword??

I could go on, but you see my point; it would take far too long to express ourselves, properly! It’s madness, I say, madness!

Really, though, these are ‘just’ words; stick and stones, right?

My guess is that this was brought on by the Religions bunch.

Oh, YOU know who you are!! Don’t think we don’t know.

Southern Alberta boasts quite a Bible Belt of Holy Rollers. I should know, I used to live there. In fact, I’ve been to Taber many times.

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far, away on a dark and stormy night…I sold crummy ads for a local crummy weekly newspaper run by a bunch of crummy people. The HQ was/probably still is – in Taber, AB. Yup. I used to have to go there, once a week, for proofing said crummy ads.

And then there’s Taber corn. Truly…it’s as delicious and delectable as they claim.  I mean, mouth-watering, taste bud tantalizing, good! There is a serious ‘yummy’ factor with this corn.

And that, my friends, may actually be the culprit that has Taber Teens running off colourful expletives from their little baby-like mouths, in PUBLIC, no doubt!

Clearly they are all a bunch of hooligans and this is completely out of control. It has to stop…really. I mean…any cunningly ugly notorious terrestrial that has sudden, happenstance, interrupting time (for brains) can see that a teen doing this is either a babe in total control, honey ….or any self-serving, highly oppressive, lunatic ego. For unlawful carnal knowledge’s, sake, already!

Yup. When in doubt, blame religion. I think we can safely say it has a lot to answer for.

May the corn bless you and keep you.

The Significance of Toast

I’ve always found it rather interesting how we sometimes associate a taste, smell, texture, etc., with an emotion or positive/negative memory. While it all makes sense and our memories a are vast cornucopia of events with a multitude of minute details (like food) attached to them, I still find it amusing that toast makes me happy.

I’d have to backup a bit (okay…a lot) into my past to explain the significance of toasted bread; perhaps you can come long with me in this journey and remember your own associations with food.

Before we skip along memory lane, there is something you should know. My childhood sucked. Well, most of it, anyway. It sucked A LOT – and it was so sucky that I had (and sometimes, but rarely still do have) terrible nightmares related to my father.

I won’t get into details, but the point is not ‘everything’ was terrible/horrible/awful. There were good memories, too. This is a good segue into the whole toast thing and why I love it. More specifically: cinnamon toast has a special place in my heart.

Long before my father changed, (and not for the better) he and I had a pretty good father/daughter relationship. I was about 4 and he was my hero. He was my hero for a number of reasons but particularly because he LOVED cartoons.

And I mean…




He didn’t have them, growing up as a child seeing as the cathode ray tube had yet to be invented, and like many men, he was really just a big kid at heart. He loved cartoons so much that when we were older and playing games outside with our friends, he’d open the front door and call us in to watch the Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour.

I’m NOT kidding.

There we were, being kids, playing outdoors, getting exercise in the sunshine and pretty much having a good time doing ‘kid stuff’…when he’d want us to come indoors and watch cartoons with him. Clearly my father didn’t like watching them, alone. My mother, although never understanding this, found it humorous.

“Let them play outside!” she’d yell at him.

“They want to watch it with me; they asked me to tell them when it’s on!” he’d yell back.

Part of that was true. When I was really little, I DID want dad to tell me when the cartoons were on. This was partially because I didn’t have a watch but mainly because even if I DID have a watch, I didn’t know how to tell time, yet. Plus…when I was that little, nothing mattered more than cartoons , except for maybe candy and toys. Those two joys were right up there on my small list of must haves.

So, back to the toast.

When I was ‘pre-school’, I used to wake up early, anyway, and as dad was getting my older brother off to Galbraith Elementary School and mom was looking after my little sister (she was still a baby)…he’d make me two things that I still LOVE, today.

Cinnamon toast and a teensy little bit of coffee.

Yup, coffee. I doubt my mother knew that he was feeding caffeine to a four-year old but I adored it, he only gave me a tiny little bit in my little girl cup, and he put tons of cream and sugar in it. I think he felt a little bit guilty about allowing this small luxury to his oldest daughter, but every morning I BEGGED him for it and loved him dearly for obliging me.

That, and the cinnamon toast were delectable, delicious and as I sat watching Rocket Robin Hood (after Batman and Robin) and then, Spiderman…life just didn’t get any better! My mornings with my dad were pure bliss.

He’d sit in his chair with feet propped up on footstool in front of him, before he got his deliveries ready for the day (at that time he was the Watkins Products Distributor for Southern Alberta) and I’d either be lying on the couch or sprawled out on the floor in front of the black and white TV.

If I choose to remember things about my father and I, it’s the smell of creamy coffee, the aroma of cinnamon toast and the two of us completely enraptured by an episode of Batman and Robin.

So, whether it’s cinnamon toast, banana bread or cookies that bring on the positive/happy memories, I say relish in them. Too often we focus on the bad stuff that happened in our past and forget the really cool fun stuff…

Like watching cartoons and Batman, on a little black and white TV at 6:30 am, when you’re four…with your dad.


A Lesson In Communicating (Or Lack Thereof)

Besides being the dominant form of human communication (be it written or oral) – words are power. As a blogger, poet and fiction writer, words have been my best friend (and when I’m really pissed, my ultimate weapon) since I could talk. By the way, I talked at 9 months so you can imagine I’ve had a lot of time to practice.

It’s interesting, though, that despite humans using their ‘words’ since they could figure out how to…people don’t often communicate very well. There are a lot of misunderstandings, misinterpretations and general clusterfucks of people not understanding what others are trying to say. Or, what seems quite cut and dried/to the point/obvious – is over analyzed to death by the other person and the ‘true meaning’ is completely lost out to sea.

In hindsight, there have been plenty of times where my communication skills have sucked. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t express yourself well. We’ve all been there.

How does one solve this? How do we ‘know’ that our message was received/deciphered/understood? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve S-P-E-L-L-E-D things out to the point where I didn’t think it would be possible to be more concise, but somehow my words were misconstrued.

A good example: Last weekend, I was spending some time with ‘that boy I really like’. Well, my sister texts me. Now… I’m busy with that ‘boy I really like’ but I’m polite and I don’t want to ignore her. I tell her –   I’m busy (insert his name here) is over.

My wonderful sister immediately thinks I’m saying the budding relationship with ‘that boy’ is OVER and proceeds to threaten to HEX him if he’s hurt me. Well…this brings up another, and closely related, subject of punctuation… as in ‘Commas’…but you get the idea.

The boy and I are definitely NOT over. But he was…standing in my kitchen as he was ‘over’ at my place.

It’s an easy thing to do. Thankfully, I quickly corrected her and tried to send her on her way. Thus, the hexing was (although narrowly) avoided. This didn’t end, however, because I stepped out of my typical sister-communication box and called her: “hon”.

Setting off a whole new set of alarms for my darling little sis, she now is concerned that maybe ‘that boy’, or God knows who else, has borrowed my phone and she’s no longer texting her own flesh and blood, but a stranger.


The next text was: This doesn’t sound like you… What’s my middle name?

Now ‘the boy I like’ and I (still standing in my kitchen) are laughing! He wants me to text her a middle name that isn’t hers. I didn’t – thinking I’d much rather pay attention to him than carry on all night with my sister.

So, I called her. It seemed the right thing to do considering my frustration at trying to tell my suspicious-hexing, baby sis, that I was BUSY.

We chuckled…there was an awkward moment when I asked ‘the boy I like’ to say hello and the call was quickly ended.

And all because I forgot a comma.

See? It’s easy to miss-communicate.

Words have power. They can hurt (and possibly hex) and heal. They can create and tear down. They can bring joy and pain. They can make us laugh…and cry.

We achieve nothing if we can’t communicate, properly, with each other.



When We Were Wee

Remember the good ole’ days? Specifically, I’m speaking to the 45+ crowd (or so…). We didn’t wear seat belts, there were no air bags; wearing a crash helmet whilst riding your banana bike would get you beat up…or at least laughed at.

Computers were the size of an entire building and our telephones used a little turn-thing called a rotary dial. If you were lucky, you had a ‘private’ line rather than a party one. The concept of smart phones, the internet, texting, Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn were not even a twinkle in anyone’s eye.


Social media? Was that some sort of Tupperware party for newspaper reporters? Our cars were big, our dreams were even bigger. Mine were humongous.

No one had a cow and thought you’d die of poisoning (possibly within seconds) if you drank from the garden hose. In fact, it kind of tasted good; it had an interesting bouquet with a hint of sunshine and July-rain notes and was warm and earthy on the palette. It tasted like summer holidays, hot afternoons, oh, and rubber.

I grew up on the Southern Alberta prairies. For fun there were no video games, iTunes, home theatre entertainment or any of that sort. We built forts in the dirt and weeds. The day consisted of being covered in mosquito bites and smelling like stink bugs. Oh, and we had a fine coat of dust from the clay dirt; it was very windy in my town.

In the winter we froze our little bums off – again building forts but this time in 10’ of snow.  Fort building should have been a career choice for some of us. I hung out in alleys playing games of hide and seek with a group of 8 or so, friends. Our territory extended for about 3 blocks. We had a game of monopoly going for 6 weeks straight.

We had fun.

Life wasn’t glamorous but it wasn’t hectic, either.  I liked life, back then. We got hurt, dirty, were bullied but we learned to fight back. In third grade, a boy stole my hat and smacked me in the dead of winter. When I caught up with him, not only did I get my hat back but I nailed him in the kisser (with my fist, not my lips). He never bothered me again. And if he did? I had a big brother who was 6 years my senior.

We dealt with things and life in an almost wholesome way. I didn’t swear for fear that somehow my mother, who had ears like a cat, would find out and I wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. We got spanked and then we learned to behave. I had the fear of authority in me and I respected it.

I didn’t grow up to become a killer or victim and I didn’t die from rubber poisoning from the garden hose; when I fell off my bike, I healed.

Despite not having Facebook, seat belts, electronic readers, smart phones and every other wonderful thing that we seemingly can’t live without when I was young – I’m actually thriving!

Go figure.