Lucky 13

Today’s photo challenge is number 13… which coincidentally is Mouks’ present age, but thankfully not yet his foot size!  I am not quite sure where the time has gone, but Big D and I try to savour the family time we still get to spend with our young man.  Today we toted around town on our bicycles and made our way to the bowling alley where Mouks plays in a league.  The season is over, but he’s got one final tournament, so we thought we’d get some practice games in.  It’s our usual haunt, and offers up some good old fashioned fun!

 

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Following the Signs

Sometimes we see the signs…
Sometimes we ignore the signs…
Ultimately, we need to ‘watch’ for the signs…

Sometimes we speak the words…
Sometimes we write the words…
Ultimately, we need to ‘hear’ the words…

The Footsteps of My Past…

It’s been 3 years since my last confession…. (Well… since I’ve posted to my blog in actuality, as blogging seems to be my confessional of choice).   Since that time I have lost and regained about 30 pounds and found myself caught in what can sometimes be described as the mundane everyday hamster wheel of life; though I feel it is more accurate a scenario portrayed within the spinning thoughts of my own mind.  I have looked at various ways to reacquaint myself with the old ‘me’, and in full disclosure I admit that some of the old me is best left to the past, though we are all a work in progress.   But, I would love nothing more than to once again walk in the shoes of the carefree and expressive ‘me’ of long ago.

A number of years ago, when I sat down to write my first blog pages, I also wrote a healing short story about a painful memory from my past, which still remains sight unseen to others.  A memory that had once upon a time been selectively shared with family and close friends; a net which became wider and wider and slowly captured a larger audience as my inability to stay quiet became inevitable.  My hurt and silence was like a kettle of water on a low boil that would eventually whistle loud enough for others to hear, and, if unacknowledged, it would spill over and blow.  This written account of events was not publicly declared, as it was pages from my life that also caused grief and probably some embarrassment from a tight lipped and relatively private extended family tribe.  It’s a story of inappropriateness pushed on a young girl who did not have the adult capabilities to fend off her perpetrator.  Granted these unwanted sexual overtures from this heinous monster (which is a more than fair and very accurate description) were not as severe as perhaps some other poor child’s accounts may have been in similar circumstances, but they were in the very bold truth… a fact;  Traumatic, Terrifying and Criminal.  And I am not trying to trivialize what happened, (to you, or in my own mind) but there are instances of abuse that can be far more graphic and horrific in nature.  These memories I have though, unfortunately belong to me, and have repeatedly traumatized me throughout different stages of my life.  And, at various points over the decades the realness of them comes back to haunt me at odd and unexplained moments, even within the waking hours.  Engulfing me in fits of anxiety, rapid heart beat and the ever present memory of feeling trapped as I did as a young girl; hiding in a bedroom alone in the darkened night during visits to the farm, shielded by a thin chenille coverlet, with the flecks of dust floating against the faint light from under the door and praying to a god I wasn’t sure existed, as my aunt peacefully slept in the room next to mine, utterly and totally oblivious to the monster she lay with.  Vivid memories are heartbreakingly recalled as I stifled my cries and begged with my heart that the stench of his vulgar whiskey breath and rough calloused hands would no longer come within my reach, and despairingly I remember the struggle(s) to push him off of me and his deep menacing and evil laugh when I was finally successful enough to do so.

Over the course of the years I tried different approaches to deal with my anger, hurt and bewilderment that someone could in fact inflict such undeniable psychological trauma to a child who carried only joy and innocence.   But to such beasts, that must be the mass appeal; a gift that can be stolen from their prey.  As an adult, I sought counseling after full blown panic attacks and agoraphobia and thought I had beaten the burden I carried.  Later, again, years down the road I worked with a life coach, after noticing the various ways I was self-sabotaging aspects of my life.  She encouraged me to write a letter to the molester, which I did.  (I very deliberately refrain from the term ‘my’, as it represents the bonded connection which he sought through his abuse, but was never entitled to.)  It was not a letter of forgiveness, because it is unforgivable.  It was a letter forcing him to acknowledge what he did, and to transfer the burden and shame where it rightfully belonged.  And, in the act of writing, the realization became clear that there was no one to blame BUT him.  That my aunt was most likely also abused in some way shape or form, and that there was a naivety of that era, where trust in others was very easily misplaced; his opportunites to abuse being a testament to that.  Though I admit, such realizations offer no comfort on the dark days when my heart feels heavy.  The option I weighed was to send or not send the letter, though I don’t believe I was ever really reluctant to do so, and therefore I recall very deliberately posting it in the mail, and the act of ‘letting it go’ in the hope of finally finding closure.  To this day, if it was read aloud to him as he lay ailing in his nursing home, I will never know.  I don’t know if it was found among his belongings after he finally died, because no one dares speak of it.  I don’t know what it feels like to be blood related to a monster; to be embarrassed of a father or grandfather who could inflict such deliberate and calculated abuse upon someone.  And for this and many other reasons, I give thanks that my own family taught me what real love means.  I know him only as a non-biological uncle that had a pattern of abuse throughout his own life, who inflicted vile and wretched hurt unto others in a variety of menacing and cruel ways during his lifetime; which still does not allow me to offer pity upon him.  It is continuing hurt though, that still lingers at times…. that it cannot be openly spoken of freely.  That the reason for my hate and disdain of him are not fully acknowledged by those who know it, but do not speak of it.  The reasonable part of my brain, tries desperately to convince myself that silence is instilled to spare my feelings, but in actuality it does the reverse.  Silence is painful for me.  It is silence that breeds shame, and the spoken truth the key to its release.  If his memory and name, (which I can barely stomach to utter aloud, and seethes out between clenched teeth) “John Tatarin”, remains untarnished, and the pain he inflicted remains unspoken, it does not accurately reflect history.

I am thankful daily though, for the ears that listen when I need them to, for those who acknowledge the trauma it inflicted upon the child who felt scared and alone and unable to cope.  And from the memory I hold of the person who tried to protect me at the very beginning of the torment; my heart will forever be connected with theirs and full of gratitude and love which overflows from my soul.  In our own way, we must all learn the art of our own healing; how to continue to forge ahead with the memories and feelings from childhood, with the coping mechanisms we now have as adults.  And it’s a very fine balance; one that we must ‘train our brain’ to do.  We are no longer living in that moment in the past, but just remembering it;  though with the act of remembering we can inadvertently conjure up the feelings we had whilst of that  age, where time stands still.  Sometimes we lose our way, when we become enveloped in that feeling… but within ourselves we have the ability to find a way out of the hurt.  Through tragedy can come a deep understanding and protectiveness of others, which my soul carries – and it’s the side I often share with the world.   And, as I take this moment in time to once again heal my broken spirit, I look for ways I can reconnect with the joy I carry within, as I walk along my path ahead.

It is my hope that these written words do not cause hurt or angst to others, but that the sentiments shared find their way to help understand the healing process that can be associated with traumatic events; that PTSD can manifest itself at unexpected times, in unexpected ways and that support can vary between individuals.

This is only a small piece of the puzzle that makes me ‘me’… albeit the most challenging dimension, and my own story keeps unfolding, sometimes with different layers: hurt, grief, love, laughter, joy.  Thank you for walking with me a while, as I regained the courage to retrace the footsteps of my past…

Brunch /brənCH/

Weekends are divine, and brunch is my favourite time. I am soooo poetic! But, it’s true. I love brunch; I love planning brunch, I love prepping for brunch, I love having friends over for brunch, and I love eating brunch. And Sunday’s are my favourite day for brunch!

Last weekend, we had some of our amazing friends over (well, “technically”, as Mouks would say; all of our friends are amazing – seriously!) and these particular compadres we hadn’t seen in quite a while. Life gets busy, and with kids, activities, work and coordinating schedules, we seem to only ever have time for … you guessed it – BRUNCH!

I love trying out new dishes, and am thankful, that for the most part, everything just kind of magically ‘turns out’. At least in my head it does … and everyone seems to choke it all down with a polite smile and a degree of enthusiasm … so I forge ahead with delight!

Part of enjoying a tasty meal, is the art of setting the table. I like to putter and fuss, and believe that everything tastes even yummier, with a delightful presentation. For this particular brunch, I pulled out some of my favourite pieces. My Baba’s cherished green depression glass bowl housed a yummy fruit salad (I often speculate on how this beloved piece came into her possession), while my antique yellow and white napkins snuggly engulfed delicious bagels in a sweet little basket.

And no table setting is complete without added  height; so one of my many cake plates was layered with a coordinating red damask napkin with additional bagels gently laid on top. A secondary stand held a yummy homemade apple coffee cake, and a cute antique glass sugar pot with a lid, held some delectably delicious whipped creamcheese. I used a painted ceramic egg cup to host the capers and put it on a small rectangular glass plate with sliced red onions. To complete the look, everyone had a special ‘spreader’ at their place setting, lime rimmed crystal goblets for water, and red antique low stemmed juice glasses. I don’t segregate kids dishes from adult dishes. (I’m all about equal opportunity for breakage). Once Mouks hit the age of 3, we pretty much threw out the plastic cups and plates, and he went right to glassware and ceramic dishes. I think it makes everyone feel special, and particularly for nice occasions. In my head, I believe it instills a sense of confidence and the opportunity to act more grown up and “M” for mature. (I use this video game analogy to bribe Mouks into acting more mature, citing that he can start getting “M” rated games, when he can act like an older guy – hey! … whatever works – we gotta speak their lingo)! My mom (Bobs) did this whole dish deal for us as well … though I know I am certainly not scientific proof that it instills maturity, because I’m still a bit of a goofball AND a bull in a china shop!; but it sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?! And, in fairness to any youngen who’s eaten in Smackiland, they have not yet broken a dish or glass. Now, that’s impressive!

I did buy some lovely fresh tulips and put them in a butter coloured metal milk jug to coordinate with my vintage inspired creamy yellow dishes, meticulously placed on a faded red floral tablecloth reminiscent of a country garden. And… ahhhhhh… my ‘pre-spring’ brunch table was set!

I like to serve a menu with a variety of items everyone will enjoy. Here is a list of my latest offerings:

Bevvies:

• Big D’s ‘Stand-Up’ Lattes. The name says it all… a load of rich, luxurious caffeine, smothered in frothy goodness, and so thick your spoon will stand up.
• Juice d’orange.
• San Pellagrino, with fresh lime wedges.

Cold Delights:

• Flavourful fruit salad, consisting of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple and blueberries. Topped with maple infused whipped cream. Mmmm…. Mmmm… who doesn’t love just a little touch of maple syrup goodness?
• Kettleman’s bagels (only THE best bagels in all of Ottawa); poppyseed, sesame and ‘everything’ selections.
• Deli toppings: prosciutto ham (a.k.a. Moukie’s ‘special ham’), smoked salmon, with ultra thinly sliced red onions and capers.
• Assorted cheese plate: stinky Rouy cheese, double cream Brie, and garlic Boursin, garnished with grape clusters and strawberries.
• Whipped cream cheese. I find spreadable creamcheese, whipped with my hand blender makes it creamier for spreading with not a lot of fuss.
• Delish berry jam.
• Pads of butter.
• Homemade apple coffee cake.  Stay tuned for this uber awesome recipe!

Warm Goodness:

• M-mm-mmm maple sausages…. yummmm… sausages! Easy to throw in the oven on a cookie sheet, and voila!
• Egg nests! Yeah… you heard me.. but these are different, there are no birds. My latest experiment…. I found a little recipe online, so gave it a whirl! Here’s the Smack-Attack version:

Please call ahead to book your Brunch reservation in Smackiland!

Now taking appointments….

Public Transit – Bravo or Bust?

On most days, I drive my little compact SUV into the office, a quick 3km jaunt, taking an average of 6.376 minutes. On nice, sunny, summer days, I may instead, be seen venturing out to work on my bicycle, equipped with my helmet, messenger bag, and sporting my professional work attire, avec biking shorts sous ma jupe, (I’m practicing my French!  Translation: biking shorts under my skirt) for my quick “superwoman change’ and taking an average of 11.827 minutes plus 1.592 minutes to lock up. And, on rare occasions, when the Big D loads his mountain bike on the back of the Sportage, he kindly deposits me curbside.  The walk home takes an average of 29.72 minutes. (Including the pit stop at the BOKO bakery on Elgin Street, for Moukie’s favourite Angry Bird iced cookies). And in the winter, there are other times, when I take the bus home (12.831 minutes) … as I happen to, just the other day.

For the bargain deal (note the hint of sarcasm), of $3.30 CDN I will partake in the time-honoured tradition of utilizing public transit.  I suppose in many cities, $3.30 is a rock bottom deal, but I would prefer to spend my funds on a daily decaf non-fat butter pecan latte at Second Cup.   Yummmmm … butter pecan in liquid form.  This winter I’ve had more than my fair share of bus rides.  (Ohh…was that when the Big D lost my set of keys to the car you ask?  Why ‘yes’, yes it WAS the only set left after he lost HIS and not had them replaced … hmmmm…. coincidentally, it was also the same time we were out in the freezing cold with Mouks and the pooch for a New Years Day snowshoe excursion; and, you would be correct in noting that it was this particular instance in which we had to have the car towed to the dealership, and had to wait almost an entire week until we got a new set made….uhhhhhh…. Yeah.  Mmm Hmmm.. That was then.)  So, this winter, I’ve frequented the bus a number of times. And here are a few things I’ve observed:

1. People at the bus stop rarely look you in the eye in this fair city.
2. $3.30 is a stupid amount of change, but a great way to get rid of your coinage.
3. A ‘thank you’, can go a long way, so I make sure to say a kind word to the bus driver. He can kick you off… right? But not for jamming all your pennies in the money-box thingy, can he?
4. People don’t say ‘excuse me’ much.
5. And what’s with taking up TWO seats??!!! Is there any particular reason why your bag warrants its own seat during rush hour?!! I think not! So… move… either your dumb bag or entitled ass – over.
6. The majority of the world is attached to a digital device. Like, almost literally. I think implants will be next… If someone isn’t listening to music, they’re texting, talking on the phone or checking emails. Just an interesting little observation; I’m not offended.
7. That smell has to come from somewhere – and it sure the heck isn’t me!!!
8. There is a wide age range of people taking public transport.
9. Does it look like I want to jump over a mile high pile of snow to get out of the back doors in THESE boots??!! Thanks so much, but I think NOT!
10. And yes… of course I loved being splashed by that giant puddle! Heartfelt gratitude for your consideration!
11. Gotta love that the city silenced one of their drivers for singing on the bus. (Again… sarcasm, but true story). There goes the value-added for your whopping $3.30. Seriously? The guy is stuck there, on his little perch with nothing but the road ahead and a bus load of people … what’s the problem with spreading a little happiness? Check out this link oc transpo driver silenced   Note the video at the bottom of the article, with him singing.
12. And the City actually had to debate blasting a LRT tunnel through downtown?!!?  ‘Cause our roads are sooo spacious with the backlog of buses, taxis, cars, scooters, motorcycles and bicycles sharing the road while trying to flee the downtown core during rush hour. Not to mention the amount of pedestrians waiting for said transport. I mean, really, does a major city actually NEED a subway system?!  DOH! 
13. Presto! Auto pay passes… still aren’t fully operational. Shocker. They were only supposed to roll out, I dunno…. a year ago?! Nice idea – poor implementation.
14. Oh yes… let’s not forget the GREAT idea of double-decker buses in a city that gets freezing rain and ummmm record snowfalls. Yup. GREAT idea. THAT was a c-l-e-v-e-r.
15. And, similar thoughts on the accordion (articulated buses)…. though, it is a little fun to sit in one of the seats in the middle; kinda like a low-grade tilt-a-whirl when you go around a corner.

And each day, as I sit in my downtown office, overlooking the busy street, I hear the rumble of the buses, the squeal of their brakes, and I can even smell the slight faint stench of their exhaust through my sealed window; and despite all the frustrations and idiosyncracies of public transit, I am still brought back in time to the sweet thoughts of buses and babies, and the song I sang repeatedly to Mouks when he was just a wee young lad:

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round… The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town…”

“The money on the bus goes ‘clink clink clink’, ‘clink clink clink’, ‘clink clink clink’… The money on the bus goes ‘clink clink clink’, all through the town …” 

…   …  …

My father’s love lives on …

It’s crazy to think that 15 years ago today, the life of one of the most important people in my world, was suddenly over. Gone. Just like that.

I remember getting the call that he had almost died. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the fear. The tears. The anguish. And, that I was here. In Ottawa. Sitting in my little cubicle. Living my life, while my dad was fighting for his, and I didn’t even know it.

I look back on that time as though I was watching a movie in slow motion. I can hear the sob escape my lips, and see the desperation in my tears as deafening silence engulfs the office. Sixty people stop cold. No movement, no sound as the heavy hush falls. In my movie, I see my good friend rush over, grab my hands in hers, and my voice shakes as I tell her. Silence. Gripping fear. Real, desperate heartache. I hear my voice talking to the doctor, to see what shape he’s in now. And hear his deep soothing tone tell me “You’ll never regret coming, even if he was to get better”. And… it is at that split second… that very specific moment in time, that I feel the ‘crunch’ of my heart cracking; it’s jagged tear echoing in my ears. I will never experience life the same. He won’t be getting better. This the beginning of the end. A piece of my heart will always be broken. Forever.

In a blur, I take the next flight home to Edmonton, where my best friend is waiting to take me to the hospital. I remember sitting outside in her car, sobbing. Again. Trying to muddle up the courage to see him. The hollow “click clack” of my shoes resonate against the linoleum floor of the empty corridor as I sneak into his room after visiting hours. I remember holding his hand in mine, the raised purplish veins under his skin, and the familiarity of his kind, gentle, warm touch. I can close my eyes still today, and see the same hazel eyes looking back at me, and hear him tell me “I almost didn’t make it today”. How the words hurt to hear, but the relief of being with him, even for a few minutes, hours or days were of comfort. He must’ve made a joke, because I remember smiling a real smile, not a sad smile. He had that way about him. That charm. That gentle soul. The one I still miss.

As the days passed, and we were all around him, I felt the warmth of his love mixed with the fear of losing him. Of never being able to see him again. To ask his sage advice, to sit with him in silence and watch the squirrels on our deck, to lay beside him, match his breathing and hear the ticking of his mechanical mitral heart valve pumping the blood in and out, or to hear the unexplainable joy in the sound of his laughter and telling of witty jokes.

The day he died, my sister and I were trying to coax him into eating his lunch. My niece was just a baby (the apple of his eye), and my sister and I were both on the verge of bursting into tears, because it was just too hard. It was – too hard. It was hard for each of us, in the same ways, yet differently.  But mostly… it would’ve been the hardest on him;  in ways I can’t even begin to comprehend… or face.  My mom and brother were talking to the doctor… my sister had taken my niece to the lounge… and I sat with him, and tried to convince him to eat something. I heard the rasping of his shallow breathing, saw the very distant far away look in his flecked hazel/brown eyes, and knew something was… wrong. I remember desperately trying to press the nurse’s call button – and choking out a plea for help – and then running down the hall as fast as I could to find a nurse. I could feel the pounding in my chest, the panic and the feeling of wanting to scream as loud as I could; but not being able to.

By the time I had found everyone, he was with my brother and had taken his last breath. And … I had missed my chance to say goodbye … to hold his hand and reassure him so he wouldn’t be afraid and to tell him how much I loved and admired him. In my heart, I knew that he knew all the love we each carried for him, but… my heart’s regret is that I didn’t just stop and hold him… that I ran to find help… and that for a fraction of a second he may have been alone.

On the way to his funeral, we were all sitting in the car, and I can’t remember which one of us said it, but it was his classic line. “I’m okay… you okay?”… And I remember looking at my mom, and I think that was the first time we were all able to smile. And it was because we felt him with us. That he would always be with us, in the big and small ways. And that in moments such as this, we were reassured that he would always be a part of us.

It took at least 6 months of deep hearted sobs every day, which tapered to every few days, then weekly, monthly and now, fifteen years later, in moments when I least expect it. The tears will trickle, and I can feel the ache of that hairline fracture that remains in my heart.

In our culture, we celebrate the lives of the people who have passed. At a young age, I was introduced to open casket funerals. I was five when my dad’s dad passed away, and I was scared to view his body at the funeral. My dad gently took me by the hand, and reassured me that everything was going to be okay. He led me past the pews, up the long red carpeted aisle to the coffin, where we stood in front of my grandpa’s body. My dad reached out and touched his hand, and took my hand to do the same. Nothing happened, and I remember distinctly that any fear I had , dissipated. We had annual gravesite visits at Provody; where baskets of food and Ukrainian bread lit with candles are laid on the graves, and they are blessed. The baskets are then given out, in memory of our loved ones, and the lives of those who passed are celebrated. As a young child, I knew that death was a part of life. And to this day, it brings me comfort knowing that each and every day my father’s life is celebrated in everything we do.

The crack in my heart is still there, but it is healed by his memory; filled with joy from the time I spend with my family, and blessed with the love I see in my son’s smile when he laughs and expresses himself in ways that remind me of my dad, even though he passed before Mouks was born. It makes me think that my dad lives in more than just my memory, that he really is a part of each of us.

My dad worked hard, laughed heartily, enjoyed life, and loved deeply. He lived his life with integrity, joy, humour, trust, kindness, generousity, optimism and enthusiasm. It is my wish that I can live my life with the same abandonment. That any obstacles I am faced with, I can rise above them, and see the hope for tomorrow, the beauty in the moment I am in, and appreciation for the life I have been given. And to know, that no matter what, we’ll all be okay.

“I’m okay…..you okay?” Johnny Huculak

Friday(s)

I have always wished that every day could feel like Friday.  Ahhhhh… Fridays.  A day, where you wake up with optimism; a keen new perspective on the day ahead and inner reflection on the week that is ending.  I’m deep like that.  Friday’s fly by quickly (making the rest of the week seem even longer!), people aren’t as serious (they’re sometimes even dog-gone pleasant!), and you know with a degree of certainty that you won’t have to hit the dreaded ‘snooze’ button five times on Saturday morning.  Oh, glorious Saturday!  You carry a sense of anticipation throughout the day for the never-ending possibility of what Friday night’s activities may entail; where you can do as little or as much as you would like.  Well, I can; everyone else must adhere to my delegated task list!

Mouks loves Friday’s because school’s out for the weekend, and it’s ‘Pizza Day’, where he can gorge himself with his favourite food.   (Because, seriously, what 10-year-old boy does not love a little ‘ZZA?!)   He is excited for a full night of hangin’ out, and staying up late – and he literally radiates with anticipation for his first buddy to arrive for what will be an ENTIRE marathon weekend of Lego and Wii.  Whereas I am carefully devising my ‘mental preparedness plan’, which includes when, where and how long, to nap.

When I asked the Big D, why Friday is his favourite day he replied with his usual philosophical wisdom (and witty chuckle; the one where he laughs at his own joke before he tells it),  “‘Cause it’s Friday”.  Ahhh yes…. profound.  What’s not to love?! 

Friday’s are Hopeful.  Optimistic.  Joyful.  And now, every day is Friday, in Smackiland.

Exactly 363 days after our beloved Snor’eo passed away, many months of mourning and oceans full of tears later, we welcomed a new pooch in the ville to share all of our pent up puppy love with.  No shortage of a supply in our abode!

And, very fittingly, her name, is FRIDAY. (T.G.I.F!)

And now, every day, we are greeted as though we are the most awesome’est pack in the whole animal kingdom, with full body tail wags and slobbery kisses.

Friday’s Favourite Pastimes:  Hunting for duck stuffies, snorking the stuffing out of ducks stuffies, chewing rawhides (and duck stuffies), tearing apart boxes (ohhhh, and did I mention, duck stuffies?), begging for food, running, playing, hugging, sleeping, cuddling.  (And hogging the bed).

Date of Birth:  Some time mid-July 2012.  Six months and still growing.

Breed:  Catahoula / Mountain Cur Mix.  (Yup…. Gotta love ‘google’; apparently, the Catahoula Leopard Dog is the official dog for the State of Louisiana!)  – We lovingly call her our little Catahooligan! 

Place of Birth: Ashland, Kentucky (American born; Just like the Big D!)

Originally Rescued by:  AARF, Ashland Animal Rescue Fund in Kentucky
Ottawa Rescue Agency:  Catahoula Rescue Inc. (Ontario) Ottawa

Heartfelt thanks and gratitude to:

• Those who first rescued this sweet little ‘pupper-do’.
• Those who pulled her from the shelter and saw her potential.
• Those who housed her, fed her, cared for her and gave her medical attention before she even made the trek to the Great White North.
• Those who transported her and nurtured her during what was surely a very long journey.
• Those who pulled the strings behind the scenes in Canada to bring her here knowing that eventually she would find her ‘pack’, and for continuing to  save the lives of countless other furry friends.  Gloria Baggs, the rumours are true; you are amazing!
• Those who donated funds, food, supplies, time, effort into helping our little Friday, and all of her puppy pals.
• Those who adopted from a rescue agency opening up a space for her to be saved.
• Those who foster these sweet dogs with comfort, understanding and unconditional love, until they find their new families.  Trish McQuhae you TOTALLY rock!  And Diesel, you giant great dane puddy-tat, we have photo evidence of some Friday cuddles!
• To all those countless others who understand that a rescued dog may actually be the one rescuing you.
• And to our beloved dog Oreo… thank you for opening our hearts to how truly amazing life can be, when a ‘pupper-do’ becomes part of your family.

Sized up

Okay… so I’m irked. I mean totally ticked, agitated and pretty much, more than unimpressed. That is my way of trying to edit my language to keep it clean for my readers; okay, okay… I mean for my mom. Yesterday, a colleague at work showed me the YouTube video of the WKBT Reporter, Jennifer Livingston (who by the way has a very famous brother from the TV show, “The Office”; and, YES… we were YouTube’ing during work time, but that’s okay, ’cause the big boss watched it too), who received a degrading email from some guy (and by that I mean ‘knob’) about her weight. Like it’s any of his business what the size of her waistline is. I’ve read a load of the articles out there on it (’cause there’s about a million of them, as it’s pretty much plastered all over the internet). And I guess I’m gonna re-hash some of the same ca-ca that’s flying around out there:

Some dough-head writes this Wisconsin news anchor an email that in a nutshell, calls her fat and that he hopes she doesn’t consider herself a role model for young girls. Because, “ohhhh, yes, of course the size of someone’s ass determines whether you can be a role model”. Seriously? I guess a woman’s intellect, compassion and generous spirit would have nothing to do with it… at all? What delusional world does this guy live in? It appears from the media reports that he is a fitness fanatic and, based on his trade, would be deemed as highly educated, tho through his actions, he appears to have some kind of ‘holier-than-thou’ complex. My assumption, is that’s he’s been rejected by women for being so arrogant (I would say that’s probably a safe bet), which masks his insecurities (we all have them), that he potentially (a little butt covering here) lives in a love-less life and obsesses about exercise because it’s the only way he can find any real pleasure (a guess, but plausible). The fact that he even gives a rat’s behind what a television news anchor looks like is beyond creepy. (Like c-r-e-e-p-y kinda creepy). Oooooh.. and get this…. he’s now saying that he’s trying to encourage her to lose weight and wants to help her. HA! Okay… need I say more? I don’t have a degree in psychology, but I can smell a l-o-s-e-r a million miles away!

I do wonder a teeny smidge, in the back of my mind, if he would’ve written this same email to a male news anchor? I would take a stab in the dark that he probably wouldn’t. No offence to any of you fellas out there; consider yourself lucky he’s neglected you. AND… by the way, no where have I read yet, how attractive she really is. And she is. Beautiful. Very much so. And articulate. And darn smart. Who cares what size she is. All I’ve read is that she’s fat. Though, I do have a preference for the term ‘chubby chick’, personally. And… I have a ‘zero tolerance policy’ for people who can’t see internal and external beauty beyond someone’s physical size. We all come in different packages. How amazing is that?

Dove Campaign for Real Beauty

So, October is Anti-Bullying month… and, she’s fighting back, while teaching girls that they can stand up for themselves. “Girl power!” Yes, we could take over the world if we wanted to. One of Jennifer Livingston’s quotes was “Do not let self-worth be defined by bullies. Learn from my experience that the cruel words of one are nothing compared to the shouts of many”. I suppose that if I sent him a copy of my blog, maybe he’d think I was a bully for calling him a knob … hmmmm… food for thought. (Mmmmm…. double chocolate hot fudge sundae; Kidding! Gotch’ya!). I guess my rant is really directed in general solidarity. Chubby chicks. We’re everywhere. Get used to it buddy.

One of my favourite Dove ads … she is stunningly beautiful.

One of the most amazing marketing campaigns I think I’ve seen is the “Dove – Campaign for Real Beauty”, which targets real women. All women. All inclusive. I find it inspiring.

And, here’s my appropriate quote for today:

“It’s not the size of our butts that matter…. it’s the size of our hearts”. – Smacki

Me and Mary Jane

Today I met with my friend, Mary Jane.  I haven’t seen her in a really long time.  It was quite nice.  She is quite practical.  Cute in a mature kind of way.  A little flirty, and fun.  Today she made me feel great!!!  I felt taller, and slimmer and  it made me wonder why I don’t hang out with her more often.  She is quite the fashion icon, and everyone seems to know her.  In fairness, I have to be in the mood to chill with her, and feel a bit self-conscious unless I am wearing just the right ensemble with some fab accessories.  I guess it’s been about a year since we’ve hung out, and today we did a fair amount of walking around.  We tend to see each other mostly in the fall, when we are better able to find the time to spend together; particularly when the weather cools and the autumn leaves start to fall.  And then, we’re practically inseparable until  late spring.  I suppose you could classify her as a seasonal friend.  She was locked in my shoe cabinet until today, when I broke her out of retirement.

Yes, I, like many others, have a few Mary Janes stashed away.  And, I am quite fond of them all.  I always wondered how the name of these utterly fabulous shoes came to be, and here’s the scoop:

Many a moon ago, in 1902, (yeah…. that was a l-o-n-g time ago), there was a comic strip called ‘Buster Brown’.   He looks kind of girly in the comic above, but I guess for the time, that’s what all the young whipper snappers were wearing!  The story goes that Mary Jane was Buster Brown’s sweetheart/girlfriend/babe/hot tamale (coincidentally the same name as the creator’s daughter).  Apparently, a couple of years later, Richard Felton Outcault, licensed the use of his characters to a load of companies to advertise their wares.  The Brown Shoe Company, being one of the most famous of course.  So, both, Buster Browns and Mary-Janes gained in popularity, mostly due to some live skit that travelled across the country, where actors were hired and … yada…yada…yada – kind of interesting from a marketing point of view; very ingenious for the day.   I’m sure I must’ve had a pair of Mary Janes as a young girl (or that would’ve just been wrong, on many levels), but for some reason I have a very vivid memory of little Kevin Horner from elementary school, in his adorable lace up buster brown shoes.  Could the impact of his impressionable soles become the stepping stone for my shoe obsession?

These totally cute brown Mary-Janes I wore today, were must-haves for £5 when my Sistah and I were perusing through a ‘car boot’ sale in England a couple of summers ago.

“The future’s got a million roads for you to choose, But you’ll walk a little taller in some high heel shoes” – Hairspray
Ain’t that the truth! 

Doggy Days…

Once upon a time there was a beautiful hound dog named Oreo, that snored her way into our hearts. (a.k.a Roar’eo, Snor’eo, Big O).  When the Big D and I got our first apartment (after a brief stint in his bachelor pad;  yup, those were close quarters;  we MUST’VE been in love!), we saw an ad in the community paper for some puppies that had been abandoned in a knapsack on the side of a road; 2 had suffocated, but 10 survived.  (Yeah… I know… it breaks my heart, disturbs me, and makes me so sad and mad all at the same time.  We said all the same bad words, so don’t hold back on my account)!  Anger aside, we opted for a visit, and there was one itty bitty black and white pooch left, named Oreo, who was about 8 weeks old.  We went to see her, she sniffed us, gave us slobbery kisses and showed off by  ‘peeing on the potty paper’.  It was love…. we brought her home the day after Valentine’s 1997.  She immediately made herself at home, flopped down on a floor cushion and proceeded to saw some serious Z’s.  Even though she was only the size of a football, her snores echoed throughout the apartment (and down the block).

We took Snor’eo everywhere.  One year we packed up my little red Festiva (ya-ya-ya-ya!!!) and drove to PEI for a bit of October car camping.  Okay… so we didn’t put a lot of forethought into how cold it would ACTUALLY  be and “yowza!” it was c-h-i-l-l-y!  In our little 3 man tent, Snor’eo kept us warm and she loved to chew on freshly cut firewood and hang out by the campfire in the hopes that a few dropped marshmallows would roll her way.   We explored the island and had a great trip.

Confederation Bridge

I remember being terrified to drive over that crazy long Confederation bridge that connects PEI to New Brunswick.  So, there I sat, petrified, as the Big D calmly maneuvered the car onto the bridge for the trek back home…. and then, as the car was gently rocking back and forth in the wind, I noticed it.

It was quite faint at first, actually.  I gave the air a quick ‘sniff’, and then it increased in pungency, creeping its way from the back seat, engulfing the car with its wicked stench.  It was the overpowering smell of terror that had escaped from Snor’eo’s bottom side.   She must’ve ‘passed wind’ in fear, and the stench was even more ferocious than her bark!  So, in true smacki fashion I made up a wee song to ease her nerves and mine, which I sang until we reached the other side safely…

“Your bum’s as big as PEI… as PEI… as PEI”
“Your bum’s as big as PEI.. and it smells like ocean fish!”

Some days, like today, I get very melancholy, especially when I remember her fondly in her heyday. It’s been just over nine months, since she passed on to the big doggy bone heaven in the sky, and not a day goes by in our house that we don’t miss that big ball of burly love.

She died the week before Christmas, 2011;  just shy of fifteen years old. It shook us all, even though we knew the days we had with her were getting shorter.  On that fateful Saturday, she faithfully followed the Big D into work, hoping to get her share of pepperoni from the pizzeria next door, and maybe some extra crust, as she did on most days.  It was there, later that morning, that she had her last bite of roasted chicken, and took her final breath in the Big D’s arms.

We all miss her.  Mouks had a really hard time, especially for the first few months.  He was nine at the time, and would lay in bed on many nights, write her name in the air, and cry;  deep hearted sobs of loss in the darkness, over the dog he loved so much.  It is one thing to lose your beloved pet, and to have to cope with that loss.  It is another, to see your child in despair, as he mourns the loss of his cherished pooch, and to watch him struggle to try and comprehend what happens when one dies.

I remember crying (well, more like bawling, with gushing tears and wet boogers) to the Big D one night and saying that I didn’t want to get another dog (EVER), because I didn’t want to feel this overwhelming sense of loss again.  But now, 9 months later, I feel differently.  A void is still left in our little family from the place she held in our lives.  We all know that big ball of love can never really be replaced, but we are getting closer to the stage where we can imagine another exuberant hound dog becoming part of our clan.   NOT, that I’ve been scouring through all the Ottawa rescue sites on a frequent basis, searching for the right ronker to live with us in Smackiland, or anything like that….   But, secretly, in my heart, I know that Roar’eo would like us to save another furry soul and open our hearts to loving another pooch one day.