Toads, Teeth and Tinfoil

“S’up?”

Someday soon I hope to emerge from my Covid cave and join the bright lights of civilization. As with many people, I may have changed a bit with my cavewoman length hair and fluffier waistline. But I made it through the hibernation and I’m ready to see the light of day.

The last two years was a master class in learning how to live alone and finding ways to fill the silence with more than Netflix and Miss Vickie’s potato chips. I’m happy to say, I accomplished that by diving headfirst into my passion for writing and creating my own imaginary playmates. We didn’t all get along at first, but then we called a truce and became good buds.

First, I took on the really hard stuff and wrote my memoir, immersing myself in 70+ years of the good, the bad and all the stuff in the middle that brought me to where I am now. I called it Arriving Naked and I’m pleased to say I survived the experience, fully clothed and at peace with my life. It will be published next year by Latitude46 Publishing.

I also wrote a picture book for kids about what my life was like before electricity, circa 1955 in a Georgian Bay Metis community. Orca Book Publishers will release Memories on the Magnetewan River in 2024. Now I keep busy in between the ongoing production work for these projects by writing interconnecting monthly short stories for the Oakville News, which I plan to publish in a collection at some point. So all in all, my time of isolation, creativity and personal reflection has produced a big bowl of long-lasting fruit.

Have I developed some lazy habits like everyone else out there? Absolutely! I often stay in my night pyjamas all morning, only to shower and get into my day pyjama pants for the rest of the day. It doesn’t have to be pyjamas, as long as it’s soft and loose with an elastic waistband à la Covid haute couture. Some days are more exciting when I have a Zoom call and I get half-dressed.

My neglected wardrobe is feeling prickly and lashing out. My bras are so pissed they pinch me when I try to put them on. And don’t even get me started on how annoyed my hard shoes have become from being ignored. Last year, I even blew the budget on getting veneers on my front teeth. Of course I would choose to do this at a time when I’m wearing a mask! What a total maroon!

Speaking of toothy maroons – I look at mega-entertainers like Post Malone and can’t help but wonder why his earlobes have large padlocks on them? Is he trying to keep something in or something out? Did you know he has a tooth made from 40 carats of diamonds? Is it just me who finds this totally absurd?

And while I’m on the subject of absurdities – why did Katy Perry make herself look like a toadstool wearing assless chaps on SNL last Saturday? Why can’t singers just sing, without all that nonsense? It’s very difficult to enjoy music when the entertainers are contorting themselves on a stage filled with colourful fungi. To tell you the truth, the dancers on stage with her looked more like jiggling penises than mushrooms! These are the problems that occupy my mind good people of the blogging set. I’m flummoxed by the lot of it.

The world seems to have gotten wilder while we were cave-bound. More and more inhabitants on earth have become full fledged nut jobs, by proudly wearing tinfoil hats, spouting conspiracy nonsense and drinking bleach. And yesterday put me right over the edge when I read about the latest lunatic thing people are taking to escape reality – toad venom. Now that’s completely Bufo! And just plain crazy on a cracker people! Perhaps Katy Perry’s routine was a toadstool tribute to the new kid on the block of psychedelics. Toads and toadstools…get it?

In the end though, I’m probably just suffering from the age-old problem of generational-gapitis. And I accept that with as much grace and ongoing curiosity that my septuagenarian brain will allow.

See you between the lines.

Would You Like Me to Wax the Hair on Your Toes?

(Reposted from 2017)

What the fuzz?
Okay, I realize I’m off the charts here with asking you such a boldly bumptious question. Nor do I have any intention of following through on the answer if you say yes.

I’ve been under a wee bit of stress lately and decided I needed some pampering. So I scheduled myself into a day spa for the usual scrub, rub, soak and polish routines. It was deliciously decadent.

Who me?
But then something happened. As I was getting my pedicure, eyes closed, enjoying the ambient sounds of the soothing spa playlist du jour, the lovely young technician interrupted my zoned-out state by asking, “Would you like me to wax the hair on your toes?”

Ditching the cucumber slices on my eyes, I bolted upright! “What did you say?”
“The hair on your toes,” she repeated. “Would you like me to remove it?”

“I have hair on my toes?” I said to her, like she would make such a disgusting thing up. “I can’t see that far down”…I insisted. “I have cataracts, I didn’t know I had hair on my toes. How long has it been there?”

Stay calm and breathe!
“I don’t know,” she said in her spa-soothing voice. “But don’t worry, just relax and it will be gone in a minute.” She proceeded to take care of the big hairy deal with the speed and diplomacy of the professional she was. Then she quickly followed up with a leg and foot massage that made me forget my bushy phalanges and put me right back into a zen state of mind. I left feeling relaxed, rejuvenated, and slippery as a mango pit…my Hobbit feet a thing of the past.

Hair today, gone tomorrow:
What is it about our obsession with body hair and why do we find it so unappealing? Studies have shown that many women hide their depilatory secrets from their partners, too embarrassed or ashamed to admit they keep up high maintenance routines to keep themselves basically as bald as baby kangaroos. The Daily Mail in the UK did an article a few years ago entitled, Top 20 Beauty Secrets Women Hide From Men.” The number one item on the list that women never wanted their partners to know was, “Pluck/Shave hair from the toes.”

Yikes!
We older women usually don’t go baby-kangaroo crazy in our plucking, shaving and waxing pursuits. But with hormone changes, we can have a few surprise visitors in the mirror. Pesky little hair follicles can pop out in unforeseen locations, like chin, nipples, belly, moles, knuckles, shoulders, forehead, upper lip and yes…even our noses and ears, usually reserved for the male species.

Hairy contrary:
Sometimes there are medical conditions that cause this problem, but most of the time it isn’t a problem at all. Just annoying as hell. And some women are embracing their inner-hairiness and growing their own leggings and dyeing armpit hair in rainbow colours. But that’s a post for another day. I worked with a woman many years ago who had a patch of long bushy black hair on the back of her legs above the knee. We wore mini skirts in those days and when she bent over the file cabinet, every chair in the office swung around to check out the view. I always wondered if she brushed it.

Let’s think about this:
So with all the maintenance most of us do to keep the forestry down, let me ask you this. What do you think we would morph into if we were deserted on a south Pacific island with our favourite heart-throb? Picture yourself in a bodice ripping story as a romantic castaway with…(fill in the blanks.) My own personal fantasy includes Nathaniel Bonner, from the book, “Into the Wilderness.” Honestly, I can’t get enough of that man. But I digress…back to the deserted island…

The story continues:
So after a few months or a year under a palm tree in the Pacific, and depending on our own personal speed of hair growth multiplied by genetics and dominant genes – our appearance may be more bewhiskered than bewitching. As our eyebrows spread slowly into a monobrow and we braid our armpit hair to keep it out of the oyster stew, will we still want to frolic on our hairy Hobbit feet into the crashing waves on the beach? And without our dream man’s manscaping routines, will we still whisper sweet and salty nothings as we do the beach tango, like a couple of hairballs in love? Hmmm….

Final word:
So the next time someone asks you, “Would you like me to wax/tweeze/shave that?”  know that you’re in the good company of someone from the Secret Society of the Hairy Sisterhood.

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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Cataract Surgery Gave Me Wrinkles!

What happened to my face?
Can cataracts be put back in your eyes once they’ve been removed? Can you hold your surgeon responsible for giving you wrinkles? I looked so much better when I was seeing myself through the  “Doris Day” world of my gauzy lenses. Remember her movies? She always looked out of focus and blurry on screen. That’s because she insisted the cameras use vaseline or cheesecloth over the lenses to hide her freckles.

I’ve had both cataracts removed. Now, everything looks shiny and new, like the world was polished while I was in surgery. But I suddenly find myself looking at a stranger in the mirror. Where did all those wrinkles come from? Why didn’t my family and friends tell me I was so old? I always thought I was holding my own for a woman of a certain age. But now that I can see clear vibrant colours and images of the world around me, I can also see a whole new me I didn’t know existed. Holy crap, when did all this happen?

When this new more mature looking me emerged from the mirror, it kinda freaked me out. But my family and friends are looking older too. Serves them right since none of them were honest with me.

The naked truth
I’ve worn glasses full time for the past fifteen years. So I’ve gotten very used to having my specs perched on my nose as part of my face.  Plus I’m realizing that glasses hide bags under your eyes, dark circles, crows feet, wrinkles and blemishes. Without glasses, everything on my face springs into prominence, including my eyebrows. I’ve never paid much attention to my eyebrows, but now there they are, front and centre demanding attention.

Some women I know continue to wear their glasses with clear non-prescription lenses after cataract surgery. Now I know why! I think sometimes we can actually look younger with our glasses on. Plus there’s a comfort in seeing ourselves with frames that have become part of our identity.

To make matters worse, we’re advised to avoid wearing eye makeup for a while after surgery. Having worn eyeliner since I was a teen, this was another big shock making me feel unadorned and vulnerable. This was a version of me I’ve never seen before – nor has anyone else. At least this was temporary and thankfully, my daily eyeliner routine resumed today. So I’m me again…well, for the most part anyway.

New adornments
Being the shallow human being that I am, I was looking forward to clear vision and being able to drive at night. But mostly I wanted to wear dangly earrings. I don’t like the look of glasses and long earrings; makes me feel like Dame Edna. So I was looking forward to dumping my glasses and wearing beautiful dangle earrings. So mission accomplished on that score, I have already purchased a couple pairs. Maybe if they’re sparkly enough, people will look at my earrings instead of my new wrinkles.

So all in all, the ordeal is over and the surgeries were a success, for which I’m very thankful. And although seeing this new version of my face with such clarity is a shock to my ego, I’ll get over it. In the meantime, I’ll use my clearer vision to learn to accept myself warts and all, and find more beauty in the world around me.

But I still may sue my family and friends.

See you between the lines,

Pat

If I Don’t Say it, I’ll Explode!

Okay, let’s not sugar coat this – getting old is a bitch! There’s no instruction manual to read or special training we can take along the way. The scary world of aging is filled with shocks and surprises around every wrinkled corner. And you know what shock does to aging boomers? It makes our hair whiter, our poop tighter and our pacemakers pound out the beat to Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire.

Mirror, mirror is that me?

Personally, I thought I would always be thirty-two because that’s how I feel on the inside. And in my dreams, I’m always thirty-two. Then one day…WHAM! Mother time kicked me in my assets and announced my coming of age into the crusty rusty years. I looked into the mirror this morning and found a seventy-three year-old grandmother with an aching hip, a double mastectomy under her belt, a few corporate battle scars in her wake and a closet full of comfortable shoes.

Putting one foot in front of the other

I once read that certain species of sharks have to keep swimming forward to keep oxygen-rich water flowing through their gills. This seems like a good rule to follow as a metaphor in human life as well. Standing still or hanging on to what we once had can be suffocating. When I stagnate and marinate in my own juices for too long, I feel sad, lonely and old; very, very old. So I make like a shark and try to keep moving, regardless of my growing list of limitations.

From fashion to constipation

Now here I am, in the dawn of my twilight years, surrounded by a gaggle of gently used human beings. I live in a condo full of seniors, I sit next to the senior-set at the doctor’s office, my friends are getting more aches and pains everyday and my dentist is as old as I am. Even my much younger sister is fast approaching in my rearview mirror. We used to giggle and talk about boys, designer shoes, stressful careers, bringing up kids and vacations. And while we still giggle over a glass or two of soda water instead of chardonnay (wine gives us heart palpitations), now we talk about which stores have the best scooters, hip and knee replacements, grandkids and constipation.

Large and in charge

It’s way too easy to become marginalized as we age and have our voices drowned out by the ubiquitous chatter in the world around us. It’s important for my happiness and wellbeing to stay relevant and be heard. So a big part of each life-breath I take, is the ranting and raving I do about how I see the world around me in all its glory and carbuncles. I write my boomerrantz blog, I address incompetence at businesses I deal with, and I don’t hesitate to challenge those in charge, by asking questions and advocating for myself at every opportunity.

Flushing it out

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of cranky old senior who always feels perpetually aggrieved. On the contrary, I’m actually an unusually happy septuagenarian and my half of the glass is always the top half. But the act of ranting about things I find unjust or unfair is like a good liver cleanse; it helps to flush out the clogged arteries of my cranky zones and restore a sense of balance to my life. Sometimes the rants in my pants simply need a good airing out, and blogging about my aging boomer opinions seems to do the trick.

Balancing the scales

But it’s not all about the dark side of sixty that has me blogging my bony fingers to the nub today. I love to do my share of raving as well. There are still many joys in this world and I’m at the front of the line to appreciate the good things in life; as simple as a morning smile, or the tip of the brim from a stranger. And I am first in line to compliment anyone who gives me exceptional service in any capacity.

Our point of view matters

But here’s something about many older women. We love to worry about wrinkles and waistlines, instead of celebrating our cellulite and the wisdom of our years.  We worry about that dreadful whisker that popped out on our chin overnight, instead of taking comfort in the freedom that comes with getting older. We worry about our white hair and thinning locks, instead of enjoying that second cup of coffee in the morning, happy that we no longer have to strap ourselves into a pair of pantyhose to go to work.  And we wear far too much beige and black and never enough electric blue, fire-engine red and emerald-green.

One more thing…

For those of you who love to write and have never tried it, blogging is a wonderful way to stay connected with a talented online community and get our voices heard. It’s a way to organize our thoughts and tap into the things that really matter to us. It’s a way to simply have fun and entertain our friends and family with our stories.

The way I see it – blogging is like opening a steam vent on a pressure cooker of unspoken words.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you between the lines.

Pat Skene

 

 

 

Help! I Want My Life Back!

Etched in My Brain

I remember the day in 1953 when we got electricity in our town.

I remember the day in 1963 when President Kennedy was shot.

I remember the day in 2015 when I became obsessed with Donald J. Trump.

It was June 16^th when he rode that escalator like a vainglorious king, declaring his candidacy for president and announcing that Mexicans were thieves and rapists.

“How long can this guy last?” I laughed. “It should be fun to watch this asshole crash and burn.” And so my CNN addiction began.

Trump News Junky
Now 2 years later and 190 days into his presidency, I long for the days when I only watched TV in the evening hours; for the days when I spent my time with non-Trumpish things, like reading novels and writing children’s books. Instead I watch cable news and scour the online pages of the New York Times, the Washington Post, Politico, The Daily Beast, The New Yorker and the Wall Street Journal for the latest POTUS wrecking ball disasters.

Life was simple before all this frightening nonsense and I wonder if things will ever be the same again. As the alt-right seem to take over the partisan brains of America, I can only hope this is not the new normal.

One Angry Creamsicle
After working 35 years in corporate life, I can’t even imagine treating people like this vulgarian. How can any company survive by encouraging infighting between competing power centres, or by publicly humiliating employees and colleagues? Staffers for Trump are disposable and discarded once they no longer serve his purpose. And he’s a coward. Despite his image, he would rather humiliate someone out of their position rather simply say, ‘You’re fired!”

Plugged In 24/7
Occasionally when I pry myself loose from CNN or MSNBC to venture out to attend to my life, I constantly check my phone for the latest Breaking News flashes and tweet-storms from the bully-in-chief. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t seem to stop.

This Mein Trumpf administration is like a freight train filled with explosives, heading straight for American democracy. Yet there are still many who support him and his vengeful obsession of annihilating all things Obama, destruction of the environment and everything else in life that’s decent and good.

Conspiring Conspiracies
As Team Trump stands firm, I wonder if a mind-altering chip has been inserted into their cell phones – like in the ‘Kingsman” movie. Or has some malevolent drug been drip-drip-dripping into the US water supply? Right now I would believe anything after witnessing the surreal sideshow of this vile Trump Administration.

Vipers and Wiseguys
And just when you dare to think it can’t get any worse, “Tony the Mooch,” gets added to the White House cast of liars and ass-kissers; a character right out of the Sopranos. And while they all slither and hiss like a pit of vipers, vying for his attention – Prima Donald sits on his golden throne tweeting and eclipsing his own agenda. (Update after this post was published…the Trump tribe has spoken and the Mooch is out after only 10 days on the job!)

So What’s Next?
Everyday, this episodic Republican reality show is filled with backstabbing paranoia, attacks on basic values and more proof of dangerous Russian connections. Everyday, I hope this horror show will stop. And everyday, I’m disappointed that once again, I’ve wasted yet another day of my life hoping and praying that the dark hidden secrets of Donald J. Trump will hit the airwaves and catapult him into a jail-cell.

Final Word:
It’s all so mesmerizing and nuclear grade bonkers, I simply can’t walk away until the story ends. Even as I finish this post, Trump continues to humiliate and diminish everyone in his orbit. Yesterday Benedict Donald announced the firing of his Chief of Staff…on Twitter!

Buddha said, “Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” Let’s just hope this ancient sage knew what he was talking about.

In the meantime, how do I disconnect and get my life back?

See you between the lines.

Pat Skene

 

 

 

Are Restaurants Too Loud?

WHAT? Remember when you went to a restaurant and you didn’t come home with a raging headache and hoarse from a night out? Remember when you could talk to your dinner partners and have a meaningful conversation – and not have to shout above the music playing at inhuman sound levels? Can anyone remember those good old days?

Pounding baselines: It’s not just the music in some restaurants that beats your ear into submission. It’s the noise bouncing off the naked surfaces. Somewhere along the line, carpets, tablecloths and finished ceilings disappeared and were replaced with stone floors, wooden tabletops, gleaming chrome fixtures and open ceilings with plumbing and heating pipes on display. So there’s absolutely nothing to absorb the sound as it ricochets from one hard surface to another in booming echoes around the room.

Is it just me? What’s happening out there with this new dining trend? It used to be that I would research a menu carefully before making a reservation to eat out. Now, the menu is secondary, as my first question is always, “Do you have live entertainment?” A live band is the worst, but playlists can be piped-in at absurd volume levels too.

Up close and personal: Did you know that many restaurants play a certain type of music on purpose? First of all, research has shown that a noisy restaurant draws people in because it sounds like a fun place…and we all like fun! Second, studies have also shown that when they speed up the beat, the sound waves energize us, so we eat faster and drink more. That means they make more money on food and drink that we may not have otherwise consumed.  Plus, if we eat at turbo speed, they get to turn the tables faster with more butts in the seats. Certainly a win win for them, but not for our waistlines or our wallets.

I  can’t hear you! The basic principles of going to a restaurant is to enjoy a shared meal and have a conversation – not to sit mute while we listen to music or scream at our partners to be heard. In my view, the guest experience is ruined, when the restaurant is cluttered with room noise. Now I’m not talking about the normal buzz of conversation, the clattering of dishes or the lovely jazz trio in the corner playing soft background music. I’m talking about the musicians who crank up their amps like they’re playing a rock concert for a bunch of teeny boppers. The same goes for music blasting through speaker systems. And even if you ask the wait staff or management to turn it down, my experience is that it won’t happen.

Tweets not talk: Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned about this whole thing and people today like to speak in “tweets” mirroring their online interactions. Maybe people prefer to live more on the surface these days, without the added burden of actually being interested in connecting with another human being. And again…the less you talk, the more you eat…the more you eat, the more you drink…and so it goes around and around. Are you seeing a pattern here? But if the younger generations are becoming accustomed to communicating in this way, are we losing the art of conversation in the process? This is another whole issue for another day.

What can we do?
If we, as paying guests are dissatisfied with any of the above, we should speak up:
1.  Be vocal and tell the restaurant management that we are dissatisfied.
2. Encourage more food critics to add a new category for sound levels in their reviews.
3. Boycott the establishment and tell them why.
4. Post our complaints on restaurant review sites, to draw attention to the issues.
5. Choose a table farthest from music amps and speakers, and near soft surfaces if they have any.

Final word: What do you think people? Have I just passed my best before date or do I have a point here?

See you between the lines,

Follow me on Twitter @PatSkene

I Beaned Him!

Here’s my story:

Gather round and hear my tale,      
My secret past, I must unveil,
The day I faced my deepest fear,
And beaned a groper in the ear.

Now please don’t judge my actions then,
I’ve never done that deed again,
But I can really be a witch,
When I’m provoked to be a bitch!

Looking back: I consider myself a peaceful woman who abhors violence or physical aggression of any sort. In my growing up years circa 1950, our household was always that of a quiet loving family. And other than whacking my older brother across the back with a broom when I was 8 years old, and knocking the wind out of him – violence was never part of my life.

Fast forward: Now let’s move ahead to a summer day, circa 1990 at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto on a Saturday afternoon. The place is quiet, as most downtown market shoppers are early morning people. I have my 15 year-old niece with me. Hubsey is upstairs on a bench holding all the bags filled with cheeses, fresh fruit and fish, chowing down on a market-famous bacon-on-a-bun.

What a deal! Downstairs I find an end-of-day sale on fresh garden vegetables. My niece stands off to the side while I stuff a large plastic grocery bag full of green beans, for the price of $2. I’m delighted with my purchase and reach over the counter to hand my money to the vendor.

Horrors! Just then, I’m jarred, as two hands come from behind and grab both my breasts. I see the filthy fingernails and realize it’s not Hubsey in a moment of unbridled passion. I whip around and look straight into the face of the filthiest looking derelict; his leering grin 2 inches from my face; his rotten teeth the colour of a dirty urinal; his breath like a distillery sewer.

Besmirched: I stand there in shock. He removes his hands from my body and with a disgusting grin on his face, he simply walks away. His clothes hang like rags, and his hair is matted and covers half his face. I glance at my niece a few feet away; her hands are clamped over her mouth; her eyes the size of dinner plates.

No escape! I watch as this disgusting piece of filth approaches the doors to leave the market and I am suddenly enveloped in a sea of black rage – and I snap! 

Kapow! I take off after him, swinging my bag o’ beans in wide circles like a Spanish bola, gaining momentum as I run. His back is to me so he doesn’t see me coming. He’s about to push the doors open to leave, when I make contact with his head. I bean him smack on his right ear and he howls like a banshee.

Big trouble: He whips around and screams in my face, “Hey! What the hell did you do that for!” (Is he kidding me?) It was then I notice he has a buddy with him. I back up as the two of them clench their fists and start walking toward me, their eyes locked on mine.

Solo act: Now don’t forget, Hubsey is upstairs enjoying his bacon-on-a-bun, oblivious to the rumble in the jungle downstairs, so he’s no help. My niece is still in teenage shock with her feet super-glued to the floor. Thankfully she’s turned to stone and stays put! It’s late afternoon in the market with not many people around. Truthfully, it all happened so fast, I can’t remember to this day if there was anyone who witnessed the assault, except my niece and me. But I digress.

Oh no! As the two thugs get closer, I can’t drop my beans and run, leaving my petrified niece there, so I have to think fast. All I know, is that I’m on my own to defend myself. I’m a small woman with no real physical strength or black belt credentials, so all I can hope for is insanity.

Release the hounds! So I stand my ground and face them dead on, legs apart  in an aggressive stance while I scream obscenities and wave my fists in the air. (Like the way you do to make yourself bigger to scare away wild animals in the woods.) I go totally berserk and don’t budge an inch from my spot. My face is red-hot and I’m spitting saliva as I spew forth my venom, calling them all the vile words I can muster.

Eureka! Well, I’m happy to say it worked and the two thugsters look at each other, turn on their heels and leave the building…muttering something about a crazy bitch.

My violent past: I am not a violent person and I have never in my life hit another human being…other than my brother-of-the-broom incident of course…and oh yes, the time I punched my boss in the stomach. But that’s a story for another day.

A black place: The experience at the market rattled me for weeks. It wasn’t just the physical assault on me that kept me awake nights, although that was bad enough. It was my blind-rage reaction that scared the green beans out of me; a sheer black rage that brought forth that scary witch who came screaming out of my body to seek vengeance for what he had done to me. No woman should ever tolerate sexual assault in any form. And more women should bring forth their inner scary witch, or their own personal bag o’ beans weapon when it happens.

Buried deep: I don’t know from whither she came and thankfully, I’ve had no need of her services since then. Something tells me she would resurface if my daughter or granddaughter were in jeopardy. But she’s one scary broad and it’s no wonder that those two losers thought better of taking her on. Although in retrospect, I think they were supremely hung over and just wanted the screaming to stop and the drinking to begin.

Pressure cookers: I guess we all have a bit of that black rage simmering quietly below the surface. Some control it better than others. Some don’t control it all. And some get sick from holding it all in, in an effort to keep the lid from slipping off. There’s a fine line here as individual as each one of us.

Final word: My green bean story has gone viral in my family over the years and as I recently started writing my memoirs, it was time to write it down. We all have pieces of ourselves we will never get to know. Sometimes, those pieces are better left alone. As for me, I was frightened by my aggressive actions, but sometimes it takes a bag o’ beans in the ear to show them you mean business.

So that’s my tale, it’s sad but true,
He groped my boobs, what could I do?
I whacked that deadbeat in the head!
He should have grabbed my beans instead.

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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Gropers and Other Monsters

Flashback: A couple of years ago, I posted an article about the day I was groped…no, not by the Evil Trumpster. But I am reposting it now because of all the recent talk about the Grabber-in-Chief.

It has made a lot of us think about our encounters with similar despicable men. I was horrified when it happened to me and this particular episode sent me into a blind rage. Why would this low-life human being think he had a right to paw me in public and then grin to his buddy about it? Well, I did something – I got mad! REALLY mad! And I was armed! I just wish all the women accusing the Orange Beast had been carrying the same weapon I had at the time.

Scroll to the post below…I Beaned Him!

I’m such a nasty woman!

See you between the lines! 

A Trumped-Up Tale

As a storyteller, I love a good allegory. And when I recently heard a poem called “The Snake,” well you can just guess who came to mind. I wondered how many American voters were reading this story to their children and grandchildren.

It’s a tale based on Aesop’s Fables and has been told in various forms for over 2500 years. These lyrics were written in 1963 by singer/songwriter and social activist, Oscar Brown Jr.

This is an excerpt from Brown’s version:

 

The Snake

On her way to work one morning,
Down the path along side the lake,
A tenderhearted woman saw a poor half frozen snake.
His pretty colored skin had been all frosted with the dew.
“Poor thing,” she cried, “I’ll take you in and I’ll take care of you.”

“Take me in tender woman.
Take me in, for heaven’s sake.
Take me in, tender woman,” sighed the snake.

She wrapped him up all cozy in a comforter of silk,
And laid him by her fireside with some honey and some milk.
She hurried home from work that night and soon as she arrived,
She found that pretty snake she’d taken to had been revived.

She clutched him to her bosom, “You’re so beautiful, ” she cried.
“But if I hadn’t brought you in by now you might have died.
“She stroked his pretty skin again and kissed and held him tight.
Instead of saying thanks, the snake gave her a vicious bite.

“I saved you, ” cried the woman.
“And you’ve bitten me, but why?
You know your bite is poisonous and now I’m going to die.”
“Oh shut up, silly woman, ” said the reptile with a grin.
“You knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in.”

Juxtapositions: So of course when I read this poignant poem, I thought of the poisonous orange snake with a comb-over conning Americans to take him into the White House. But when I did a bit of research on the poem, I was shocked to see that The Donald himself had been using the poem earlier this year at his rallies! He would recite the poem and then grin and ask the audience, “Right? Does everyone sort of get it?”

OMG! While I immediately envisioned Trump as the venomous snake, I was horrified to learn he was using the allegory to represent terrorism and refugees were the snake! Oscar Brown passed away in 2005, but his family demanded that Trump cease and desist using these lyrics in his rallies. The family said that if Brown were still alive, he would be on the “polar opposite side” of Trump.

Snake oil salesman: So there most certainly IS a deadly viper in this election, conning voters to trust him and saying what they want to hear…which changes with his audience du jour. While many Trump voters are politically and selfishly motivated, there are millions of others who are voting for him out of a blind rage over their diminished lives and see this as a chance to get back at those they see as responsible. These poor misguided Trumpsters and Trumpettes see this damaged man as their savior-in-chief. Some actually compare him to Jesus! What’s up with that? I think there must be a toxic Kool-Aid substance being filtered into the US water supply! The other day, I read that voting for Trump is like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders!

Caveat Emptor: Among a litany of other things, Trump thinks Hillary doesn’t have the stamina (aka penis) to be president. But if I were living in the US, I would be running as fast as I can toward the only sane candidate in this race. By the way, you know Mr. Deplorable doesn’t really WANT to be president. He just wants to be able to SAY he is president.

So, my American friends, if by some horrifying twist of fate, President Donald gets to slither into the oval office and bites you in your pathetic regrets – remember, you knew damn well he was a snake, before you took him in.

Right? Does everyone sort of get it? Donald Trump sure doesn’t!

 

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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Good Lord America – What Are You Thinking?

An Open Letter to Donald Trump Supporters from a Canadian

As your Canadian neighbour, we’ve been friends for a long time. We haven’t always agreed, but most of the time we’ve respected and accepted each other’s differences…more or less. Our beer is still better than yours and we have poutine.

But now you’ve really got me baffled and I’m doing my best to appreciate your point of view on this whole Donald Trump thing.

Mi casa su casa:
Now you could say it’s none of my business because I live in Canada. And you might be right except for the fact that we share a border and (I thought) many of the same values. Plus as my neighbour, if you blow up the barbecue in your backyard, you can be sure it will set off a firestorm of shrapnel into my yard as well.

Trump: “I love the poorly educated.”
I’m really struggling to understand how you can allow a narcissistic man like Trump to live rent free in your brain.  Don’t you know that he’s manipulating you through fear and empty promises? I know The Donald has admitted he doesn’t like to read, but PLEASE do yourself a favour and read about his background, his lawsuits, his bankruptcies, his bigotry, how he has treated women and the miles of destruction (and people) he has left in his wake. And if you say to this that you don’t care…why don’t you care? What’s wrong with you?

I know that both candidates have their baggage. But when you compare the backgrounds and selfless work one candidate has done for decades, to the selfish work of the other, surely you have to feel ashamed when you look into the mirror. And really, what terrible things has Hillary actually done? Why is she disliked by so many Americans? Hillary Clinton is the devil? Seriously?

Covert operations:
The media isn’t talking about this, but I think there is still a strong gender bias for the POTUS position and many males of all ages still cannot accept that a woman could run the country. It’s been a man’s world since forever and all that testosterone just can’t handle being told what to do by a mere female. Is this why so many of you men out there will take anyone, even the likes of the Trumpster, rather than choosing to support a very competent woman? Shame on every one of you.

Or maybe you’re simply supporting Trump because you’re pissed with the establishment and want to teach those Washington bureaucrats a lesson? Okay, you’ve made your point but it’s time to let go. Giving the reins to a madman won’t help your cause and will only ensure that you will be treated exactly like the many people who have been shafted by this charlatan.

Bizarre realities:
Look – I know that my simple little blog post isn’t going to make any difference. But I can’t stand by and do nothing. I rather like being your neighbour and consider us friends. And so I’m truly trying to understand your motives in wanting to put a demagogue and his Stepford wife into the White House. And by the way…where the heck is perfect wife number 3 these days? Certainly not beside The Donald. Her website was taken down this week after it was discovered the FLOTUS hopeful was also a liar about her educational credentials, in addition to being a plagiarist. And then her nude photos hit the newsstands! Oh dear…

The ultimate reality show:
Okay, I understand Trump boosts television ratings and gets way more air time than he deserves. So are you watching him on TV and attending his rallies out of a macabre sense of curiosity, because you know he’ll say something outrageous? Maybe you’re not really going to vote for him and all you want is to be able to tell your friends that you were there when he said that. And let’s face it – the man does aim to please the masses. It’s like watching a Jerry Springer Show unhinged!

Trump: “I could shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose any voters.”
It could be that you like seeing a crass politician saying outrageous things and calling people demeaning names that you wouldn’t allow your child to repeat in the schoolyard. Or perhaps you’re a Trump groupie who loves his celebrity status and can’t get enough of that orange comb-over and his tiny little Twitter fingers. Or just maybe, deep down you really are a mean-spirited bigot and misogynist who is using Trump as a means to validate the darkest corners of your soul. Am I hitting a nerve here?

Whatever your motives, it’s time to dig deep and think about what you’re doing. If Trump wins and the world becomes a divisive, angry, dark place because of your vote – what will you tell your children? How will you feel when they behave just like the new President of the United States? Will you be proud, or will you be terribly terribly ashamed that you helped to make this part of history happen?

Final word:
So don’t you think it’s time to turn back and rethink your motives? Please, for the love of everything you want for the future of your country – disconnect yourselves from Trumpmania NOW and run as fast as you can away from this egotistical monster of a thousand faces. And to all you senior Republican leaders who have held your noses and endorsed Donald Trump – shame on all of you for mutely standing by and allowing the devil into your house.

And one more thing. If you really do end up voting for that big-mouthed racist bully and he becomes President – we don’t want you here in Canada when you see for yourself that his promises were just a big stinking smokescreen…like his grand entrance at the RNC. You can stay right where you are and boil in your own Trump-infested juices!

Yours sincerely,
Pat Skene,
Your Canadian Neighbour

P.S. To find out more about how Donald Trump is manipulating the masses, click on this excellent article.
Neuroscientist Explains the Donald Trump Effect

 

 

What Trump Can Teach Our Children

“The point is, you can never be too greedy.”

“My fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body.”

“Women, you have to treat them like shit.”

Yes, The Donald really said those things.

I am probably the least political person I know. But even as a Canadian, I can’t help but get caught up in the Trump madness of the US elections. If this was a movie, we would all be unable to suspend our disbelief that such batshit crazy things could be said and done, by a person running for the highest office in the land.

Trumpkins take notes! However, as in most things, there are learnings to be had –  if you examine the stinking piles of turds left behind by the biggest and loudest raging bull out there in the field of dreams. So gather your little trumpkins  around, and let’s talk about what Mr. Trump can teach our children. Forget your family values and pay attention.

Teachers listen up! You may want to incorporate these behaviours into your school policies. Perhaps the education system has been wrong all along. Could it be that your entire code of ethics has been nothing more than an attempt to teach our children mutual respect and common decency?

Top 10 Tips From The Trump School for Kids

1. Give other students nasty nicknames and belittle them at every opportunity, to make you feel important.
2. Disrespect the girls in your class by calling them fat pigs, dogs and disgusting animals.
3. If someone doesn’t agree with you, ask one of your friends to punch them in the face.
4. Tell your teachers to build walls in the school yard, to separate the undesirable kids who are different from you.
5. Report anyone who disagrees with you to the principal, and have the loudmouth expelled, while you scream, “Get’em outta here!”
6. When you lose at something, never take responsibility. Always blame the other guy for cheating you out of your win.
7. When you’re at a school sports competition, get some fist fights going between the teams to stir things up.
8. Accuse others of lying as often as you can, but tell the biggest whoppers of the bunch and never back down or tell the truth.
9. When you’re writing an essay for school, don’t bother checking your facts. Just write whatever comes into your head.
10. Be vindictive toward any student or teacher who speaks out against you, and pledge to make their lives a living hell.

Final word: So there you have it – a roadmap for your little Trumpkins on how to become a successful loud-mouthed, egotistical bully just like Donald Trump. They may even end up on national television one day…bragging about the size of their manhood during a political debate. But then again…does anyone really care?

I do..I really, really do!

God bless us every one, and may God forgive America!

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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Leaf Blower Blowback!

It’s that time of year again when we shake, rattle and roll to the sounds of spring. 

My rant du jour is all about those insidious leaf-blowing contraptions engaged in the ritual of combat gardening. And most days it does sound like a war zone out there, as men prepare to battle mother nature with leaf-blowing devices strapped to their bodies like missile launchers.

Few inventions in history have been as useless and annoying as the leaf-blower…in my not-so-humble boomer opinion.

It’s bad enough when spring is sprung, that we endure the onslaught of noise from gas mowers, whipper snippers, hedge trimmers, lawn tractors, and all things garden beautiful. But when we add the incessant roar of leaf-blowers to the mix, it’s enough to make a person escape to the bottom of the pool for quiet relief…like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate!

Now besides the ear-shattering, brain twisting noise, what’s so bad about leaf-blowers you ask?

1. Pollution: A 2 cylinder gas engine leaf-blower is a major contributor to pollution. It creates 299 times more hydrocarbon emissions than a pickup truck and 93 times more than an average sedan. Seriously!

2. Allergies and illness: In addition to pollution, wind blows from the nozzle of an average gas leaf-blower at approximate speeds of 180 MPH. It pulverizes everything it comes in contact with, releasing air clouds of dust, dirt and contaminants into the air we breathe:  contaminants like mould, bird and rodent feces, fungal spores, insect eggs, pollen, and toxic chemicals from lawns and gardens…all right up into our noses!

3. Danger to workers: Not only can the force of wind from the blower throw rocks at cars and people, workers are not always well protected from the hazards of using this equipment. But ironically, workers themselves strongly favour using them. Perhaps a bit of manhood symbolism is at play here…or maybe your garden variety gorillas are just too damn lazy to use those archaic things known as brooms and rakes!!!

4. Poppycock: Leaf blowers have been banned in many communities throughout the United States and Canada. There are ongoing online petitions nationwide to expand the ban of these ridiculously annoying devices. But lawn and garden companies continue to fight back hard, citing efficiencies as the main point of reason…clean-up will take more time with rakes and brooms and therefore, more expensive to the user etc. Can failure to manage leaves with leaf-blowers mean unattractive lawns, falling home prices and perhaps the end of civilization as we know it? Sheep dung! I have watched the leaf-blower operator outside my condo numerous times, as he chases a single leaf back and forth across the parking lot in an effort to blow it into a sewer grate or back into the garden! How can that be more efficient than bending over to pick the blasted thing up or sweeping it into a bag?

5. Big money: The proliferation of leaf-blowers has more to do with marketing than efficiency. They are cheap to produce, priced to sell and aggressively marketed. This device was originally invented in the late 1950’s for use as an agricultural crop duster. From there it evolved into a leaf clean-up tool in the fall, to the current use – the ubiquitous summer weapon attacking our summer peace and quietude. The real function of leaf blowers is to line the pockets of the corporations that make them. For shame on them and all of us who buy them!

Final word: The humble rake and the much-forgotten broom offer so much more to the user than the mind-numbing noise of the leaf-blower. Rakes and brooms are quiet, more precise, far more tenacious – and help the operator keep fit by offering an excellent form of exercise while burning at least 50 calories per half hour. And as an effective peacekeeper, rakes and brooms would never think of blowing crap into your neighbour’s’ yard!

Long live rakes and brooms! Long live a peaceful summer!

I’ll see you between the lines.
Follow me on Twitter @PatSkene

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For The Love of Clowns!

Okay, listen up! As I sit here propped up by my funny bone, I’m thinking about clowns. Oh get a grip all you wackadoodle clown-hating people out there. I’m talking about the good old-fashioned kind of clowns; the big footed Bo Bo’s that made us laugh before they morphed into twisted freak shows.

Good clowns: Some people feel a cold wetness, like a leaky grave, when they think of clowns. But when I think of clowns, I remember the Ringling Circus clowns in baggy britches doing walkabouts in the hippodrome between acts, and making me giggle until cream soda gushed out of my nose. I think of the endearing pantomimes of Red Skelton’s tramp clown, ‘Freddie the Freeloader,’ who made my whole family laugh and cry with his brilliant TV performances. And I think of rushing home from school to watch Clarabell the Clown cause all kinds of horn-honking mischief on the Howdy Doody Show. Yes, I’m that old and those were the clowns of my generation.

Bad clowns: Okay, so maybe these ‘Joeys’ do have a gruesome past. Centuries ago, clowns were crude and often gruesome entertainment for adults, not meant for children. And we did have a few bad seeds over the ages that gave Chuckles a twisted rep. Unfortunately, we seem to remember those more than the many who made us laugh.

Freaky clowns: Sadly clowns around the world have been victimized by the movie industry, producing clown-hating psychological horrors like Stephen King’s ‘Pennywise Dancing Clown’ in IT and the mind-rotting antics of ‘Twisty the Clown’ in American Horror Story. After seeing these violent graphic images, they become recorded in our brains, and remain in a constant state of replay, replay, replay…making it difficult for many to separate fact from fiction.

Clown sickness: We even have a name for this irrational fear of clowns…coulrophobia! And while clown-fear is spreading at an alarming rate, thankfully it is not recognized as an official disorder. (No, you cannot take sick time from work!)

Send in the clowns: Early in my lifetime, clowns clomped around in exaggerated shoes and made us laugh as masters of slapstick and pure silliness. And even today, bullfighter clowns are the brave souls who risk life and butt to save rodeo riders from being stomped to death, by some angry snot-snorting bovine with his balls in a twist! And really…is there anything funnier than a gazillion clowns tumbling out of a small car? C’mon Coulrophobics…loosen up and admit the humour in that one.

Bravo! In my view you’ve simply got to be a great person to dress up like a clown, hidden behind all that tomfoolery, and simply want to make people laugh…not kill, maim or drop from the bedroom ceiling in the dead of night to slice you into bloody bite-sized chunks…but simply make you laugh.

Final word: Harry S. Truman once said, “Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day.”

But I’ll bet if a clown did it, it would crack you up and release you from the dark side.

Now don’t wait for a fresh turd to cross your path – come into the light and let a good old-fashioned clown make you snort cream soda out of your nose.

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

 

Is Cursive Writing Obsolete?

Cursive writing is dying and kids can’t sign their names.
This sentence hurts my heart. There is a strong school of thought that believes penmanship is an obsolete skill that kids will never need.

How did we let this happen? For some time now, most schools in North America no longer teach cursive writing as part of the school curriculum. Rather, basic printing and typing skills are favoured instead. Now I realize we live in a digital age and computer passwords have become our identities for accessing personal data. But unlike signatures, which are unique to each individual with their loops, swirls and dots – passwords can be hacked, duplicated and identities stolen.

It’s not enough: I know there is only so much teaching time in a classroom. And students need to learn new skills and become proficient with computers, a much-needed tool in today’s learning environment. But there is a real world outside of the classroom, and there are still many situations where people of all ages need to sign (not print) their names, hopefully not with an X. In my view, the very basic form of writing in any civilized society should still be a core learning for every child.

The nuts and bolts of it: How will this generation sign passports, bank documents, last will and testaments, or personal legal documents? How will they write a cheque or read a letter from their grandparents? How will they write Christmas Cards, or is this obsolete now too? Will they ever need to write a letter of condolences or congratulations to a dear friend? In some of life’s circumstances, a printed note or text message just doesn’t do the trick. Are we relying on computers, retinal scans, fingerprint technology and other digital identifiers to totally replace our individuality as flesh and blood human beings?

Talk to the hand: My mother had beautiful penmanship. And I’m proud to say, I have developed a nice writing style over the years, similar to hers. When I sit down to begin a new book project, I always write my initial thoughts by hand. There is a strong connection between the pen in my hand and the creative process in my brain, and I don’t move to the keyboard until this connection has been fully explored.

It’s important: For children, learning cursive writing not only stimulates the brain and helps to develop fine motor skills – it gives them back that uniqueness that is so easy to lose in the ubiquitous world of computers. So let’s get back to basics here and do what we can to encourage those in the educational system to bring cursive writing back into our children’s classrooms.

Double dog dare: And to all those who say…it’s a waste of time, it’s obsolete, they’ll never use it…I challenge you to try not using your signature (or cursive writing of any kind) at home and at work for at least one full month…and get back to me on that!

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

Check out my books at www.pressheretostartpublishing.com

Why?

Ordinarily, I am quite content to seek out the solitude of my own company. But recently, I’ve had a bit too much quality time with myself…and frankly, I found that I am quite lacking in the answers to many of life’s complex questions.

They say when you’re drowning, your life flashes before your eyes. Well, I’m happy to report this did not happen to me. But in my extended state of reflection and solitude, many burning questions flashed relentlessly before said eyes, and I was reminded of how little I knew about the many ordinaries of life.

My Top 20 Burning Questions:

1. Why do grandchildren and grandparents pass each other in opposite vertical directions so quickly?

2. Why does life bitch-slap you awake, just when you doze off snuggled in the comforts of old age?

3. Why is it always the patient’s fault when doctors make a mistake?

4. Why are all nurses not angels of mercy? Have mercy!

5. Why do men put fruit and veggies encased in sweaty plastic bags, directly  into the refrigerator?

6. Why do men put beer or yogurt encased in cardboard boxes, directly into the refrigerator?

7. Why, when I’m not well, do I look out the window and think everyone has a life but me?

8. Why are big honking boobs supposed to be so spectacular?

9. Why does my oldest besty Marjorie never email me from BC?

10. Why do socks in my sandals feel so flippin’ good and look so freakin’ bad?

11. Why does time go like stink when I’m well, then hang around like a bad smell when I’m sick?

12. Why do I insist that my toilet paper roll be placed in the “over” position and not the “under” position?

13. Why, if some words in the English language are considered bad, did we invent them in the first place?

14. Why are simple blue jeans not allowed in some places, but bad-ass-red or trailer-trash-white jeans are?

15. Why can geese poop their brains out in the park and we can’t kick their feathered arses outta there?

16. Why can’t parents get it right by being grandparents first?

17. Why can’t I find out how much wood a woodchuck would chuck, if a woodchuck really could chuck wood?

18. Why did I get cancer?

19. Why do I float effortlessly in the pool, but my daughter and granddaughter sink to the bottom like mafia snitches?

20. Why do so many people hate nature’s beautiful dandelions?

Help!! Does anyone out there know WHY?     

See you between the lines

Pat Skene