Showing posts from 2011

Reflections of.


Two. Zero. One. One. Two thousand and eleven, which sounds more serious. Serious like an actual year.

A year with some tough life lessons. My year in review?  Meh, you have it all amongst these pages. I just want to make it pass January 18th, not fall down and see what the other side of that feels like to wear.  Naked Emperor, indeed.

What's curious to me, besides that last sentence, is this blog. I had no idea it would interest anyone else but myself (and maybe Pixarian.)  But there you all are, day after day checking to see if I have made a new entry, encouraging me to keep going, saying my hilarity is infectious and not treatable. You've been Awesome-fied!!

I have a few things up my sleeve concerning this forum for 2012. Mischief is brewing.

So thank you for taking this ride with me.

Thank you Latvia, Russia, England, Denmark, Sweden, Canada, USA, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Kazakhstan...

Happiest of Poo Flinging 2012 to all of you.

It’s Christmas for chrissakes.

Happy Holidays. I'm cool with that sentence. The problem I have is with the whole "do not say Christmas, don't do it, just don't."  For the love of the PC god!

December 25th is Christmas people. That's when supposedly the baby Jaysus stuck in some itchy hay got three shitty gifts from kings who were lost following the wrong cardinal point star and now we must repent forever by buying crap at Walmart.

Yeah, that's what it said in the bible, 3 shitty gifts.

If one wants to wish me a Happy Hanukkah as I leave a store, I'd be thrilled as well! It's the thought behind the sentence. If I didn't celebrate Christmas, which I'm not sure I'm doing it right anyway, and someone wished me anything but harm, and go with an enthusiastic "Thank you, you too!"

"Happiest of Kwanzaa Ma'am!"

"Right back at ya kid, don't call me ma'am."

And you just know Bhuddha hisself in his festive sandals would be wishing me &q…

2011, a learning curve.

2011 has taught me a lot. I mean tons. I mean I am standing here near its end and I do not need to learn one more single thing. Nope, I'm full thanks. I'm actually scared of typing that, I'm sure the roof will cave in or my neck will crack a certain way and I'll be leaning over gumby-ish for the rest of my days and then where would I be?  I'm not that bendy.

If you have been following this blog, you all remember the biblical flood from April to June, you know the whole 70 days of this mayhem:

Not that those waves were crashing against my house, that would be insane....Oh wait. No what would be insane is to not evacuate and fight to save the house, who does that?

But actually the year started with a whiz banger of a bang in January.

For instance, a person learning he has cancer of the liver at noon then passes away at 11:30pm same day - who does that?  SURPRISE!

Then who does this, 3 days later, in front of a hundred people at his funeral and doesn't remember do…

I built it. It came.

If you start a blog under the premise that you hate people, they come out of the woodwork like brain eating zombies and throw themselves at your feet. They tap tap tap your diamond rings, they roll up onto your driveway in a tank, they cough into your swimsuit, hopefully giving you dengue fever and they ask you the definition of the word collusion.

It's like The Secret. If you really really want something or really really resist something, it magically sits on your lap for a 10$ lap dance or something. Can you tell I haven't read that book? Can you tell I'm not going to?  Stories, everyone has them, I just have an eye (two, actually) for them. So, off I go warning the online tribe that I will come back with a story, sure enough, the dancer has lap sat.

"Excuse me miss, can you tell me what the word collusion means?" 

Points for the miss.

I look over and see uni bomber hat dude is pointing to the paper in front of him. Being of a trusting nature I actually check to…

I'm 45 bitches!

If you are an obviously deranged single man and you want to troll for chicks at a concert, by all means pick me. Lottery!

I mean, of course I'm sitting there holding my Johnny's hand and you are ever so clever, you picked me!  I mean the Greek sailor's hat and trench coat alone say come hither. Good call pretending to smack into me to start up the apology conversation. I almost divorced right then and there and left with you, really, truly. I must give you credit for actually looking into my eyes on the third go around the room as you were zeroing in closer - I must have something wrong with my aforementioned eyes since you look like you needed your Mommy after gazing into them.

Actually, getting the "Hey baby how you doin'?" at 45 is unexpected, more rare now and delightful. Except, sometimes I want to pull the boy by the ear and tell them I am old enough to...know when to shut up!

The sliding scale of what external beauty is slides to a halt somehow when th…

Death Star Canteen.

Asbestos abatement peeps are hilarious!

Wait? You didn't know that there was asbestos in my attic and it needs to be removed due to Irene leak? Of course it does, it's still 2011 silly.  Pay attention would you?

AW (asbestos woman) tells me when the removal time comes, it makes quite the impression and most people panic. I asked her to explain what a panic attack felt like. Crickets.

AW explained that the workers come with masks, suits, respirators and make decontamination corridors, depressurized air tents...She just wanted to make sure to set the alien movie scene since most people get frightened by the bio-hazard extravaganza.

Fight to the death? This is canteen.

Instead of thoughts riddled with anxiety festivals, I wondered if we could play a sound track in the background while colour coordinating the suits with my god awful floors and what size does a Dalmatian take. Ooh Ooh, will they wear adult diapers in their orange suits?  Is Dustin Hoffman available...

AW was still …

Not over until the fat lady sings.

The tension throughout my neighbourhood is palpable.

Things have changed. The post part 'em flood is not still waters any longer.

Men and women in trade trucks come down the road by the dozen every single day. Septic tanks replacements, french drains, new siding, rebuilt driveways, dry wall, insulation...All sorts of experts. We give them all our money in a crazed fashion hoping to appease the river and ground water levels.  Hoping to erase what cannot ever be unknown again.  Querying, asking, pleading to turn back the clock and do whatever it takes to make our abodes and lives as they were pre flood.

The river is at its highest it has ever been in November. For some reason, instead of waiting until next Spring for a just in case scenario, the need to do it now is akin to needing air. There is a driving force behind the flood refugees and no logic can stop them. Second and third mortgages, government helped, family bankrolled, co-signers up the wazoo - doesn't matter, winter …


Look alive people, they're out there. There I was minding my own business, getting vegetables, only talking to myself in my head, my version of being anti-societal, when this flies out of a woman's mouth:

"You have such childish eyes!!!"

"You mean youthful?"

"No childish. I bet you were a princess?"

What am I supposed to reply, if anything to this? I can't pretend to be mute, there is already a groan escaping out of my mouth for all to hear. Oh yes, extra bonus, we've amassed a group of people now awaiting for my answer.  Brilliant.

Um, no? I am not from royal descendants?  Are you asking me if I was a prissy girly girl? Are you calling me immature? Are you being nice and wanting to compliment my youthful nature? Are you saying my eyes are child like but the rest of me is an old bat?

I can see a smile on her face, so I am guessing she is either going to stab me or she means well, either way I went with:

No.  I am batman.

Is 4am an actual time?

Aside from bouts of insomnia recently, where it is wiser to not check the time, I just assumed there is 11pm then 7am, that's all I know. 4am, really? Who knew?

I jolted out of bed, bleary eyed just missing the door jam, upon hearing a sound that evolution has put upon women's ears; a high pitched whine coming from the canine. Men can't hear high pitched whines. Not even perfect Depps. The canine was also making another sound. The sound of "hey this is a great time to up chuck the grass I ate earlier, and I will sully the entirety of my bed, woot."  Whine. Whine. He whines so that I open the door outside. He prefers to hurl outside! What a good boy. He prefers it since it's what I taught him to do. What a good girl.

Well apparently everyone is awake at this imaginary 4am. Even skunks, and then, by default, neighbours. Boy, the screams were right up there with a pot of coffee smacking across the face wake the hell up y'all. Screams? Well, there was me, Hu…

You can't kill a vampire with a garlic treat, stupid.

Vampire don't care, vampire don't give a shit.

One of my first movie theater dates with Johnny Depp was one of the Blade films. You know the one where Ryan Reynolds takes his shirt off?

Let us pray.

Seriously, did the man swallow paint rollers?

Not my first merry-go-round with vampire porn - because let's face it people, vampires are sex on a fang - none of this virgin-esque new stuff. Okay fine, I did read the let's-never-have-sex-skip-to-school-hand-in-hand Twilight books. For the same reason I read Water For Elephants...I could be his mother! This is shameful! Don't tell anyone about my Rupert Grint either...

As a young teenager, my friend D. and I would scooter to the terminus, then take a bus, then the métro (subway) up to Montréal. Very determined kids. We would see anything in the horror/sci fi category. Thank goodness for that, it's how I first met Johnny Depp in 1984, A Nightmare on Elm street. We've been tight ever since.

Oddly enough in my 20'…

Playing sandwich chicken with a hoe.

Postpartum flood rebuilding is all the rage now, so are parachute pants with a different name, but, again, I fashionably digress. 2 Legit.

Every day you hear nail guns, trucks, doozy what's-its, drills, swearing, calls to bank managers and a bit of sobbing. This week is my week! I got me some trucks and hoes, bitches! They have delivered tons of big rocks to shore up the land near the river, dirt to level out the 3 yards, gravel for the driveway and seeds for grass. I can't wait to have an actual driveway!

If a 12 year old shows up in an army tank next year to ruin my driveway again, I will reach in there and snatch his smart phone and smack him with it.

Speaking of which, texting while spreading dirt backwards driving a 2 ton back hoe does not make you look cool a mere inches from my house. What does make you cool is peeing on my yard. I have windows, so do my neighbours we all saw your wiener, thanks for that.

Sigh. Unfortunately this is not my first merry-go-'round-peei…

Some answers, if you choose to accept them.

No, Hurley did not eat all of them! They're all dead. Big woop.

Now about my blog, some have asked questions from the About Me section.

"Why fling poo?"

It's what primates do when they are pissed, scared or bored. And flinging it? Well you can't get funnier than that. How better to define the purpose of this blog I ask? See? I have moments of brilliance...I'll let you know when they actually happen.

"Is Kathleen Lord really awesome?"

I'm sorry? I don't understand the question.

"Do you really hate people?"

I am flinging poo at them. No. Why do you ask?

"Are you really married to Johnny Depp?"

Totally true. I taught him French. He taught me how to wear bangles.

"Are you Greek?"

No, I am Irish Québécoise/French Canadian. Have you not been paying attention? Let's look at that map again, shall we? The big country on top with the socialistic anti-christ agenda that tends to use ice skates a lot? Yep. Okay look to the r…

Difficult, difficult, lemon, difficult.

It's not terribly difficult. If you find yourself standing outside a closed restaurant bathroom door, you only have to check the door knob to ascertain if a door is locked.

Jiggle the handle. Turn the knob. No give? You patiently wait.

Of course I am in this restaurant bathroom. Me. You've met me right? Inside a small room. Door locked. Paper towel in hand, about to do the whole turn the knob with a let's-not-touch-it-shut-up-I'm-not-a-germ-freak-I-just-want-to-eat-my-meal-with-clean-hands kinda way.

I'm trying my best to unlock the door and turn the nob, but the asshole (assuming) (correctly) the other side of the door, who has not read my first paragraph here, has been incessantly jiggling, turning, prying on the thing for what seems like a half hour now.

Finally I swing the door open. The woman, who should not have dyed her hair black at that age, nor have worn that shirt, but I fashionably digress, screams. I mean she SCREAMS screams. Halloween the 13th my leg …

Introducing the Dalmatian. Part 2.

"Madame, est-ce un Dalmatien?" (Is it a Dalmatian?) 

Same walk, different woman:

"Il est beau votre Dalmatien" (Your Dalmatian is beautiful.) 
-Um. Thank you?

Same walk (where the heck was I walking?), middle aged man with his wife and kids:

 "Wow. It must shit a lot."
-I'm sorry, what's that now?

"You know, it must shit a lot being so skinny?"
-Hey kids, good luck with that bright future.

Also, neighbour up the road, while walking my Dalmatian, obviously:

"Ça c'est un beau Dalmatien hein madame?" (Now THAT is a nice looking Dalmatian isn't it lady?)
-Why yes, yes it is. Not that I've known you for 35 years, not that I walk my dog twice a day every single day here for the past 9 years, not that you've asked me that every single time, not that I've corrected you every.single.time and we then proceeded to have a 30 minute conversation about whippets and racing and sighthounds each time, what's that? Yes, yes …

Introducing the Dalmatian. Part 1.

This is his eyeball. It's the one he picked me with. 

This is the view he eyeballs from my Nanny's chair.

Just so we're clear. 

Some people need their eyeballs checked.

4 times. 

Stop the puck.

I tend to have quick reflexes. When I say quick, I mean NHL goalie quick. If you don't know what NHL means, get off my blog. 
I once caught a cast iron frying pan that had only 1cm left to go before it hit the floor, reached down hiked it back up, while still doing the dishes and talking on the phone that was lodged between neck and ear. The person who saw me do this is still frightened of me. I'm harmless, most times.
If you don't know what a centimeter is...well, really, who does?

A few weeks back, after the flood refugee free concert, my Johnny and I were at a stop sign and this scene unfolded right in front of us in a blink of an eye: 
(Before I recount this, I CANNOT believe I forgot this story until now! This is all true, I have witnesses.)
In front of the the building directly across the boulevard and elderly man was trying to walk his furry white thing of a dog. Or rabbit, not sure. Now when I say elderly, I mean good for him with his ancient stooped posture, shuffling …

Covet thine mouth.

If Moses hisself came down a mountain, bushes afire, with iPad tablets written in e-ink specifically stating:

"Thou shall cough on thy neighbour's wife"

- it is still not allowed. Nuh uh. Go on with ya. Go.

And while I am here in going to hell land, the first draft of that commandment was "thou shall not covet thy neighbour's ox."  What's that? Not wife. Ox. Good to know. I and my ilk of uterus toting partners, are just a rib or euphemism for a cow. Brilliant. So you can fiddle with the wife, not the ox, got it? Put that in your pipe and covet it.

Back to me now. Apparently the universe thanked me for signing up for swimming again. I had the pleasure of being delegated to the "oh-my-god-I'm-so-out-of-shape-slow" lane. There are 3 qualifications for lap corridors, slow, medium, fast. Or in this Québec case, en Français, the signs say: Lent (no candies), moyen et rapide (for those who don't have their rabies shots and are rabid).

I stoo…

When life gives you lemons.... throw them at Irene.

I don't know who this Irene thinks she is coming here shaking my hundred year old maples loose, leaving me without power for 24 hours.  She even took my 75 year old fridge for the love of all that is holy! I mean did she not read my blogs about the monster flood? Illiteracy is a sad state of affairs but surely she saw it on the news like everyone else? Even our PM can turn on the news...One assumes.

Irene does have a sense of humour. My Johnny and I were having a romantic supper by candlelight - okay there was no electricity, we needed candles and, for this little ditty, we will define romance as eyes bugging out looking at the wind and hoping the generator was going to start. The entirety of  my left side was nervously twitching. Sexy. Then twelve minutes, not thirteen nor eleven, since my twitches were perfectly timed, after power went out, the dining room chandelier started to drip water on my forehead. This being incomprehensible to me, I just wiped…

Botox or Anti-Depressants?

Now, there's a million dollar idea, I can shoot Paxil straight into my forehead. I can see the ad now...

A woman (why is it always a chick?) running on the beach in a bikini, perfect body, she's 19, no lines on her face, if she tries to frown, she giggles instead, wind swept hair, she can lift a car over her head she has so much energy, she drops car on herself, she never cries out, unable to feel pain, she's oh so happy....

[Stop taking this medication if you are lactating a giant pig, if you are dead, if you experience unexpected urge to throat punch random strangers- unless they deserve it. Side effects may include wrinkles, depression, urge to write blogs, delusional ideas of being married to movie stars....]

Wait, what?

Either way, I need to stop worrying about things.

Worrying begets insomnia which makes challenging tasks almost impossible. You know, things like pouring orange juice, opening the lid of a laptop before typing, operating heavy mascara. I can never get th…

Planet Zircon.

The title begs a story.

After one of my Nazi CBT fun filled adventure Friday trips (explanations will come at a later date), on a whim, I decided to treat myself to lunch in the city. Ah the fresh food indoor market with all its smells and lovely little boutique cafés, a girl's dream really. Fresh veggies, sandwich, café au lait avec pâtisserie, yes please!

It being Friday, noon on the dot, I take my tray ("you'll need a tray") and carry it to the only available table left, a table for four. I look 'round searching, not wanting to "waste" a table where other people could sit, but I have no choice, so I sit.

Ah, now this is the life. I got my giant newspaper, my lunch and a smile. Unfortunately, from the corner of my eye I see a poor woman with her tray ("and this one is wet") in the same predicament I was in but a moment earlier. No room, and none of the city busy folk letting her in on theirs, so I offered her a seat. Yes it's fine, go ah…

Tales from the flood. The end, after the math.

There are the tangibles.

Damages in 4D.  Containers holding what's left of houses. Trailers in driveways in lieu of being able to live in the actual mold infested houses. Oh how you can smell those from a distance. Tents for the kids to make it fun, an adventure really. A variety of boots, pumps, hoses and sandbags grace our front yards as, just in case, art. Eroded land, dead trees, broken....well you name it, it's broke. Odd river reeds sticking out of driveways. Not having an actual driveway myself any longer, I am jealous of those oddly perched reeds.

River wrote its name on everything we thought we owned.

The sounds of new wells being drilled 24/7 is akin to a science fiction flick which I am sure the human race is losing in this sequel. Trade trucks parked here and there, making a fortune off of our flood while we empty our bank accounts and go into massive debt. I must to get comfortable with these words - massive and debt.

There is a special place in hell for tradesmen…

Tales from the flood. The Third.


After three weeks, the PM sent the army in. Those first 2 days the soldiers filled a lot of sand bags. And then apparently distributed them. We saw them on the news filling sand bags and distributing them!  On the news! Lots of politicians filling sand bags too! They even had rolled up their sleeves for the photo! Bless them. I was hoping to see a flood baby kiss. The people far away from the river, the city folk, needed their sandbags desperately. Made perfect sense to me. Those closest to the river, we had 5ft of water on our yards, we were stranded, scruffy, scared and could wait it out without sandbags, of course we could. Clearly they were on the ball, yay!

This was our first Army peeps passing on our road! They waved and zipped by.  Not daunted by speed, I hauled ass through the water like I was angry and blocked their zipping. Trapped, they now found themselves surrounded by happy happy refugees. Hi! Hi! Army peeps! Thank you for coming! We n…

Tales from the flood. Second Edition.

Now, from the previous post, we've established that The Mentalist (heart shaped bath owner) does a whiz bang up job with opening lines.  So I was a bit twitchy walking up the road one day seeing him already chatting up another neighbour, no avoiding. Well, I thought of diving into the water and just swimming by them, but it would have ruined my Italian leather purse. Besides, I didn't read the instructions on the 40lbs hip boots, but I gather there may have been some drowning.


Oh. Good. Christ. Not that that's rude or anything.  Okay, I admit, curiosity got the best of me.

"I'll bite, I'm 44, why?"


Ladies? I'll get his number for you.

Pixarian mentioned that we should be grateful the 12 year old tank dude didn't blow our house into oblivion while pressing all those nifty buttons. Well! I'…

Tales from the flood.

When entire neighbourhoods are surrounded by water, for 70+ days, it gets very quiet. The lack of people, cars, wildlife made an eerie aquarium vibe. On our road, if we heard splashing we would check to see which neighbour was wading home in hip boots and ask them appropriate questions such as:

"Water in basement? Pump working? What news have you from the outside world?"

The up the road neighbours never asked me those questions, they always wanted to know my opinions on the river's moods since I live closest to it and have been my whole life. They would gather around me, too close really. I once asked how they knew it was me coming up the road before even being able to see me from their houses. Simple, they said.

"No one hauls ass up the road the way you do. You walk in those boots like you're angry."


Rainy cold day, I'm hauling 3 weeks worth of laundry in the canoe like I'm angry, apparently. I'm h…

How Jaysus met his maker. Part 6/The (for now) end.

Now it may be important, at this venture, to inform you that I live in the country of Québec. Well, it isn't a country, it's a province of Canada, but when was the last time you checked a Canadian map hein? For les Américains, we are the big country on top of you. CANADA. Yes, snow banks in July uh huh...Teasing! Please don't invade us, thank you.
Now this country of Québec is a drivable distance to Virginia (fictional place) but there tends to be a border crossing in between the two. You know, to keep the riff raff out. All those illegal Canadians trying to get in so they can now pay for their shitty healthcare instead of having free shitty healthcare. And all those illegal Americans trying to marry those Québécoise women because of love and their river frontage houses, riff raff, I tell you! 
Anywho, in my mind, once Jaysus strapped on (hey now!) we were going to tour the internet tribe on the way to Virginia (fictional place). A pilgrimage really. To touch a fin for luck.…

How Jaysus met his maker. Part 5.

The flood waters having left my driveway, my car being at my disposal again, hunting she shall go. My arrival at the now defunct gas station, having not been marred by running over any pedestrians, was no less horrific. NOT FOR SALE. The gas station had sold and was now a scuba shop slash paint ball shop, which makes a giant shark relevant to its business. Personally I would have shot the shark up with paint balls to get the point across, but I digress. I opted to get out of my car after sobbing for a good 20 seconds, and take photos. The owner, who again had no paint balls splatter on him, walked slowly towards me with a look that said let's try  to not scare the crazy lady. The walking on tippy toes, arms stretched out in a "I am harmless" way, like he was going to bag me, was a bit much, no?

I tried that whole banter thing I've seen other people do with strangers. I've been observing this in humans for many years now, so I gave it a go.


How Jaysus met his maker. Part 4.

Now the family and friends started rallying after seeing videos of my flood predicament. Because let's face it, when you make the 6 o'clock news, every single day for 70 days, your loved ones start to get a little antsy, if not down right apoplectic. The variety of encouragement was no greater than the people I hang with. The local tribe, seeing me stranded and not a thing they could do to help, were calling me frequently and offering all sorts of refugee perks, this was a beautiful gesture.  Of course they figured out not to call me on the 110km windy 5ft waves days, my fears so grand, I could only blink in Morse code. You need video chat for that shit.

So the online connected tribe decided to chip in with their own versions of help. Aube, for instance, who loves 80's music, would send me metal hair band videos. I am so happy for her. I am happy she lives far away since I could not canoe to her house and smack her with an oar. Two oars. The pointy ends. I know oars are no…

How Jaysus met his maker. Part 3.

Now granted, I was lazy about getting out the canoe and paddling in 110km winds with various evacuees, dogs and relatives, frankly the whole fearing for my life and my house was a lame excuse for not jumping right into the 5ft waves hitting my house (waves hitting my house on all four sides) and just getting that giant metal shark. I mean come on! Certainly there were the logistics of how to ride a shark while carrying the canoe over my head. But in the end it was better to live another day, wait for the end of the mother flood, and try to stay sane whilst.

Sanity depended on how much pie there was in the house and wearing hip waders 24/7. Pecan pie especially. You can pronounce the word pecan any way you like, just leave me alone. I was eating anything I could get my hands on and the boots didn't make my hair look fat at all. I was eating like a pig and losing weight, it was awesome. My mind also needed hilarity to take the edge off maybe having to evacuate my home, so this came …

How Jaysus met his maker. Part 2.

After a painful whirlwind first three months of 2011, that may or may not be discussed at a later date, the fourth month, April 16th to be exact, brought this terrible thing to my backyard:

(What the hell is she talking about? A little water over the edge, total drama queen...)

Then that turned to this on April 17th, it was a birthday gift for my most loved one:

(Okay, well that is bit more water, but still, quit your whining...)

Then, for Easter, I went scuba hunting for eggs and may have eaten my weight in chocolate:

(Yes, yes, we get it, water, bla bla...Wait. IS THAT THE ROAD???)

My shark-less house was surrounded by water. Hip deep water.  For 70+ days, it looked like this:

How, um, inconvenient.

Well, as it turns out, this was a national disaster, 10,000 homes affected in my province and 3,000 people evacuated. Thankfully, I wasn't the only one with an army tank in her driveway. I must say, when an army tank rolls up to your house, you have two ways of going about it, you ei…

How Jaysus met his maker. Part 1.

What? This is a perfectly normal photo. Oh, the story attached to it? Yes, I see your point.

Well, it all started over a year ago, the best set-ups do. Near my home there was a 6ft giant metal shark as a business front ornament for a gas station. You know, nothing says gas like a shark, frankly eHarmony was certainly involved, so perfect the match. I drove directly into their parking lot hearing angels in my head, or that could have been the people I ran over. I stood there gob smacked, grinning.  It's on metal posts 6ft in the air, sexy subtle. I wasn't really hugging it, I was trying to see if I could budge it more than a centimeter. Then a thought occurred to me that my actions could be interpreted as stealing, and after running over those people, I may be in trouble. "Not for sale" gas station man said when I offered to buy it.  He had to repeat himself apparently I had gone deaf.

Back at home Johnny Depp laughed at my description, but oddly enough, he did not w…

In which she begins.


He died for your fins.