And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

I paid a professional to murder my heart on four legs.

I understand they do not call it murder at the vet clinic. I understand that it isn't murder. I did what was best. The humane thing to do. I get it but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what to wear to a killing.

I mean should I wear a poncho whilst chewing tobacco à la Clint Eastwood in one of those western movies? Or maybe a black veil and giant crucifix since the funeral and viewing of the body happens straight after? If only I spoke Italian, I would wail my sorrow loudly to make sure the Italian deity could hear me and let me have a place in the Italian heaven, because pasta.

Now dear readers you are wondering if I have finally gone off the deep end. Is she that callous to make light of such a sad and horrible time? Did she not love that poor soul?

The answer is whatever you want it to be get your own blog. Wait that was rude...You see Humphrey was (I just typed the word 'was' and may have vomited) a pr…

He's just a dog.


The Dalmatian, the Mute Deer Goat and now....

I am thinking that random strangers now know I have a blog because there is no other reason why they would come up to me in broad daylight and say things. I am wearing a T-Shirt that says 'Don't Talk To Me I Hate People' but apparently I have a friendly face.

Stupid face!

As you may recall I run with whippets. It's what I do. Granted they are not a breed that is seen frequently in my part of the world which is fine, more for me. 
First we had "Is that a Dalmatian?" (5 times by different people. I'm not even joking.)

See? Exactly like a white dog with black spots. I know! Firemen and women all over North America try to get ones like these.

Oh maybe I look like Cruella de Vil?

Then came The Deer Goat. That is just too out of this world to be insulting right?

I was walking her right next to The Dalmatian when she came home and a neighbour asked if she was a goat. Um. No. No lady it isn't a goat. Her next comment, because apparently my appalled look needs…

Rock. Paper. Scissors. (part 3)


On the big day JD, The Pixarian and I carted off our various mothers into my mother's home so they could either have a good time or set the entire house on fire.  They looked a bit shifty eyed for a couple of old ladies so we left The Dalmatian, The Mute Deer Goat and The West Highland Terrorist to keep them an eye on them.

Us 3 concert goers had a quick meal. Well they ate, I squirreled away food in my hair from my hiding spot under the table while making loud smacking sounds with my mouth to appear as though I was chewing. You know, casual. I was also blinking out questions to JD:

"Traffic cams okay?"

"Do we need to take the Métro?"

"Does this panic attack make me look fat?"

"Why are we doing this again?"

"Do we have cash for the parking?"

"Did you check the traffic cams a 7th time?"

"I have to poop."

That last one wasn't a question but it is good to state that out loud then blog about it. No tim…

Rock. Paper. Scissors. (part 2)


So that fateful day in January, by some sort of miracle, e-tickets magically appeared in my email account via the people that live in my head, or more to the point, the interwebs. VIP ones too! In that same exact moment I happen to come upon that precise amount leaving my credit card account. How fortuitous! Serendipity right there, meant to be!

I instantly printed the tickets out even if the show was 7 months away. You know, in case the entire world collapses into new world order with no internet, no electricity, no food, humans wandering the earth talking to each other and meeting their families for the first time in years - I will still have these papers and the show will go on! It must, apparently.

Now Johnny Depp said we could just leave them in my email and have them swipe the barcode with that miracle wand at the concert via my phone the night of.  Clearly he doesn't know just how many tickets I am printing out on a daily basis! Nor just how many people I have hired …

Rock. Paper. Scissors. (part 1)


In the run up of trying to get myself out of the house more, I decided the best way to go about this was to see live music with 75 000 screaming people. Like real people. Screaming. In the dark. Shoulder to shoulder people that move around and breathe. Weird.

On this go around it was only 17 000 people. Pffft. Easy peazy lemon squeazy.

Not so much.

Some of you may have realized by now that I hate people. And places. And travelling. And traffic. And new things. And just about everything and everyone.  No, not you. Well, maybe? Take a good long hard look at yourself and get back to me.

In January these two ding bats decide to announce a summer tour together:

Look at them, all jovial and peaceful. Assholes.

Three minutes after they announce their tour, I hear about it from the people that live in my head. More specifically though, the interwebs. I sat there staring off into the mid distance trying to absorb what this information meant in my life. Then I left my body. It wasn't …

Sloth pool.

After a few years absence, I've decided to see if I can still swim. The last time I re-booted the swimming external drive, this happened : click here-> Covet Thine Mouth.  How bad could it be this time? Nowhere to go but up I say.

They renovated the old pool! It was the grand opening yesterday. They have added windows. It used to feel like I was drowning in a sarcophagus in there. Now it feels like I am drowning in a nice airy relaxing place. If you're going to die, might as well be in a pleasant room.

They have added new and improved 12 year old lifeguards too! They are lovely little creatures that smile, bounce and flip their hair a lot, so exciting! Now the third time they ask you if you have read the rules on the wall - you know because we've all been swimming there since the 80's (the year their parents were born) and we need to be reminded SEVERAL times not to run on deck nor push each other - it can get a little tedious.  But no worries, I am super stoked ab…