guest post........

dearest readers.

the lovely terri at "workin with what i've got" has asked me to guest post on her blog. she was looking for animal tales and i had a tiny story about one of our cows.

here's a tiny bit and if you would like to follow the link and read the rest that would be wonderful. terri and i will appreciate the love

A Cow's Tale

The calf who would become “Hornet” was born on chilly winter's eve on a small Alberta cattle farm. Her mother had indulged in an unauthorized relationship with the red Angus bull the season before and the calf arrived over 6 weeks before her herd mates. The temperature that night was well below -20 degrees and the baby calf froze instantly when it hit the ground. Her little life was saved by the diligent farmer (who asked to called “diligent” in this story). The calf that would be Hornet was first called Ugly. Frostbite had claimed her tail, the tops of her ears and the end of her nose.  As winter turned to spring and spring, to summer, Ugly grew and she towered above her half brothers and sisters. Her absent ears and tail made her a small embarrassment to the herd. The neighbor, Bill, a crusty farmer, was often heard to remark "Jesus, that's an ugly calf"...............

click for more of this exciting story -  http://www.workinwithwhativegot.wordpress.com

thanks bev

the barbie monologues........

i struggle sometimes with suitable topics to write about. yes, i could tell you tales that would shrivel your balls to the size of raisins but i can't do that. i could do it if i lived in france with my boyfriend hugh and only returned occasionally to canada to buy maple syrup but alas this is not so.

but we must talk about something or someone. so off we go.

i played barbies a lot as a child. i had enough of them to stage some really great sagas. and as a child i was fascinated with disaster preparation and little house on the prairie so many episodes of my barbie soap opera involved panic and a covered wagon. i played on the bed and i constructed my roofless wagon from tea towels and knitted blankets. i had many more girl barbies than boys so stories had to be adapted to include cousins, maids and addled aunts who would often wander off in a storm. i (Malibu barbie) always had a great number of children. i was the octo-mom of my time. the children had to brought in from a variety of odd sources. i had a couple of dawn dolls and a few tiny dolls with giant heads that served as the babies. i filled in gaps with my troll dolls ( they were forced to wear toilet paper clothes)

 often i snuck my mother's small antique bisque dolls. although i was playing with these dolls on the sly and although my mother quite prized them (she kept them in the top drawer of her vanity) - i failed to protect them. sadly disasters do not lend themselves to gentle play and slowly but steadily the beauty of the little bisque dolls declined. any attempt by my mother to find out what was befalling her treasures was met with my standard defense - talk and talk until the person just goes away. my mother had given up trying to discipline my by this age. by 8 i was a mystery to her. i was a good kid and she probably liked me but she often would just look at me in way that suggested she had not encountered my species before. as often as not she would just say "you are so queer". this was back when queer was still a heterosexual adjective.  sometimes she'd say "i've just about have had enough of you" i'll admit when i first heard that i was quite taken aback. tiny little shards of fear  came hurdling at me. was it even possible for your mother to have had enough of you and especially enough of me - i was on the whole, rather wonderful. but that particular threat starting losing its sting when i started hearing it from other people like teachers or ministers. it was then i realized they didn't mean it - they were just letting off a little steam. i was safe to carry on.

my mother was a knitter and so my barbies were dressed head to toe in her adaptions of the latest fashions. sweaters and dresses were fine but the bikinis and pants were difficult for even my imagination to overlook. the clothes were not knit from delicate baby fiber but good solid mitten yarn. swimwear was so bulky it was impossible for barbie to lay on her back to get a tan. the pants proved nearly impossible to get up the rubber legs and often ken was forced to wear his red chunky acyclic pants for the entire winter. god love her though, no occasion was overlooked. i had knitted bridal gowns, and veils, walking shorts and tank tops. everyone went around looking uncomfortable and they were, as you can well imagine quite difficult to pose. but by god they could survive a blizzard, ken could last for days when he fell out of the wagon only the troll children in their 1 ply toilet tissue frocks succumbed to the bitter cold.

i sometimes played barbies with another little girl. when we played together it was not enough to have disaster and homesteading - we had to bring famous people into the mix. we were either part of the osmond or jackson family. but because we both liked the stars of the respective families and did not want to fight over them we thought it wise for us to become wed to one of the lesser family members. when we were the jacksons, i was the wife of tito and within the osmond clan i was betrothed to wayne.

i think it must have been quite a sight - mrs malibu barbie and her husband tito atop their tea towel wagon, each clutching one of their scantily clad troll children whilst trying to make their way through the swirling snow of a prairie blizzard.

tally ho
bev

practical magic......

yes, yes. that is a genie - we'll get to him in second.  things have been moving right along here on the bald-ass prairie. i, as it turns out, have a fairly interesting life. well interesting, relative to the amount of population - not hollywood interesting but clean, rural living interesting. we celebrated halloween in fine style - over and over again. jesus, who knew. my lovely friend, that throws all the parties loves halloween. so we had a witch's luncheon, a pumpkin carving potluck and a barn dance. can you bear it?  i felt like a debutante coming out for the season.  it was lovely fun. i got to visit and laugh and laugh - which after eating is my next favorite thing to do.

a psychic was hired for the witch's lunch. we had a palmistry class and private individual readings. i am behooved to report that she and i did not get on. now, i know that all of you people are good, honest folks - i on the other hand, a wee bit dodgy. so the encounter  was liken to two people who are full of shit meeting each other and instantly recognizing that they are each somewhat like the other. when i met the psychic (whose name rhymes with pretoria) i thought to myself, hey lady i know you - in a metaphysical kind of way. and she in turn practically flinched upon our introduction. i thought "yes sweetie that's right, it's me". given the right circumstances,  i'm sure "rhymes with pretoria" and i could have become the best of friends. but not that day. she was there to put on a show and i wasn't going to be a part of it.

pretoria, let's just call her that, started with the palmistry class. i was already aware that my palms are perhaps the most nondescript palms on the planet. the lines on my hands are faded and light. just like  in real life, my palms represent my inability to focus and find direction. i think they (my hands) are embarrassed by their lack of prediction and helplessly throw themselves in the air, saying "don't look at us, we're just along for the ride". anyway, pretoria confirmed this finding. dismissing me and my trackless palms and moved on to those with greener pastures. the private reading also foundered. pretoria was a practical girl, with no mention of angels or spirits named eddie. she focused instead on possible vacations to hawaii in march (not so much), the birth of my son (strike two), but to be fair, i sometimes answered no when i should have said yes. i thought, "she's a psychic, she'll figure it out" she did somehow know that my mother had hurt her thumb. i thought "bravo my dear, you perhaps do possess some magic." of course i can't tell my mother about this wondrous parlor trick. she will only say "well i guess its a funny damn thing you can afford to hire a fortune teller when you can't afford a plane ticket to visit me."

ok, sorry that went on for awhile. i just have so much to tell you and i'm not going to get it all in today. i will though give you an update on my boobs. just in case you're new or have forgotten....  i,  in my late 40's have developed the ability to grow my own leavening agent. yes, who knew you could get a yeast infection in the dark recesses under an ample bosom. well it cleared up nicely but would only stay that way if i went braless. this was ok for home but a girl has to go out sometimes. my lovely friend invited me on a trip to the city for shopping and a horse show. i was forced to don my whalebone contraption that dug into my delicate newly, yeast-free flesh.  while shopping with my friend i spotted the "as seen on tv" genie bra which boasts complete comfort and respectable support. my friend pointed out that she was indeed, at this moment, wearing the genie and recommended it highly. "why your breasts look lovely", i said and right then and there purchased one.

fast forward to the bookstore where my friend said "change your bra in the bathroom. just step into your genie bra and pull it up."

me: pull it up over my ass
friend: yes, trust me
me: jesus i'm going to require the big stall

i was thinking right about then what a revelation this is. step into your bra and pull it up. my friend is a god damn genius. i would not have thought of this on my own. i'm sorry to say that my ancestors could never have evolved to this level of personal husbandry.

i finally got into my new apparel. i practically had to get stippy-stark naked to achieve this  and i'm just saying if there was a security camera in that stall and if that footage should show up on utube... i'm sorry but what with my lack of flexibility and the automatic flushing toilet. well you know and so...

friend: comfortable isn't it
me: yes, but why are these chicken fillets things on the top.
friend: show me
me: ok
(peep show)
friend: for f**k's sake those are the support pads, they go underneath
me: oh yes, that makes sense. how do i get them there
friend: reach in and grab them then wiggle them down under
(much grabbing, tugging ensues)
me: (looking down) god damn, they look good from this angle. how's the side view.
friend: your breasts are enormous, i think the genie is doing all she can.
me: what else can we expect.

fast forward to horse show. please keep in mind i'm not participating in the show nor am i an overly enthusiastic observer. just normal people clapping.

me: jesus, look those pads are back on top. they have migrated up and around.
friend: do you have the bra on right
me: i'm pretty sure there were only so many ways i could have gone wrong.
friend. they don't look bad up there
me: yes they are like little landing pads for my popcorn and the keep my monkey food free.

this is a true report of the magic in my life
bev

where children fear to tread....

i come from a people that believe the dead do not always rest easy. the ghosts and shadows that have passed on continue to inhabit our daily lives. i prefer to entertain all of this as not backward thinking but rather traditional folklore. i grew up in flurry of signs, superstitions and forerunners. i am sure you are familiar with some of the more common ones - itchy hands foretells money coming, a dropped teatowel indicates a visitor. and burning ears meant you were the subject of someones conversation. a few of the more obscure ones included whistling after dark which made the wind blow. or whistling women at any time caused the wind to change direction. crows had to be counted and a fate determined. a bad omen could be softened by spitting on the ground. no money aboard the boat, especially any thing involving the number 2. never turn a bucket upside down and for christ's sake don't sit on it; for if you do you can kiss the fish goodbye. never look back at a hearse. birds in the house - certain death or birds tapping on the window - certain illness. really, i could go on forever.......

we played in the cemetery a lot especially when certain berries were present. we ate tea berries in the spring. i have no idea of the real name or even if they are edible. but we ate them because there was nothing else yet. no blueberries, raspberries, cranberries, fern roots which we called bananas, sea snails we called periwinkles or apples. a lot of our play involved finding things to eat. that said, we played among the graves, eating our tea berries and making up stories of the people who lay below the mounds. we speculated endlessly on the tiny unmarked baby graves in the back corner. we picked flowers and cleaned gull shit off the stones. we tried to find clues about inhabitants by tracing our fingers around the granite engravings and we would pick out spots to be buried. around dark we would dare each other to lay face down on the grave of someone who had had an untimely or violent death. soon we would start to hear things and the creepers would come over us. we would run for dear life out of the graveyard making sure to close the iron gate so none of the spirits could escape........

we regularly tied to call forth the dead. we held seances and secret meetings to try and raise somebody, anybody. we chanted, tried to talk in tongues, danced around fires on the beach. god knows what we would have done if they had responded - pissed our pants most likely. we wore out more than one ouija board. in the evenings we watched as our parents played uptable. where they tried to make a card table rise without touching it.. overall we were a people determined to keep a channel open between this world and the next.........

the telling of ghost stories permeated every layer of our existence. we eavesdropped when the adults told them to each other and listened entranced when they were told to us and we in turn told them to the younger children to scare them and keep them loyal. pirates, hidden treasure, ship wrecks, pacing widows with the spyglass, the phantom light that followed boats into the harbor, the restless spirits that walked the village looking for something. overall, the quiet men told the best tales - low and earnest they recalled sighting a ghost ship in the fog. the sails in shreds, the hull creaking and the cries of drowning men. these somber stories would leave us - hearts pounding and afraid to fall asleep......... 

we often combed the beaches that surrounded us looking for coloured seaglass, food, seal jawbones, and treasure. Sometimes we would come upon a rubber boot or a glove. we would encircle it and stand arguing over who should pick it up. would there be a skeletal foot or hand inside. we would scare the bejesus out ourselves thinking of what we would find. would the hand grab us in deathly grip or would the drowned soul appear and drag us into the sea to join him. it was serious stuff and we spent a lot of time poking at the object with sticks trying to get a sense of what was to come. usually one of us would grab it, eyes closed and fling it further down the beach. if nothing emerged we would eventually muster the courage to pick it up, disappointed when it revealed no bones or ghosts. we always left it where it lay......... 

i wonder sometimes why our lives were aligned so closely to the after world. was it because we lived from the sea and kept ourselves close to portents that helped protect us from such a demanding mistress. just like ancient tribes that prepared their hunters with spirit dances and rituals, we practiced our rites and tried to appease the gods. when i grew up i moved away from the sea and came to live on the prairie; there i found the air empty and oddly light. "where are your dead?" i wondered. "do they pass over without a fight?". i started to realize that people are rarely lost here on the land - they just die. where i'm from no one says all hands died, they instead say all hands were lost. and the lost can never rest.

bev

pull up a stool......

sweet mother of jesus i have to write a blog post. i must stop this madness. i have been sick but really i think i've lost my nerve, i'm intimidated by all the great writers and posts i've been reading lately. i read things i don't understand and wonder why i thought i could ever do this. i am no writer, i'm just a girl asking the world to listen to a story. self doubt is filling the room so right now i must bury my face into the pillow and do it for my resume. (yes, i know that's about sex but ...)

 i just wish i were brave.

like
when i was a little girl my aunt bertha had a metal plaque on her kitchen wall that read "if you can't dazzle them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bullshit." this is one of the first things i remember being able to read and thus it took on near biblical meaning. it  became in a way, my golden rule.  so with that in mind  i will try to tell you a story.......

recently
after being in bed for over a week with the flu,  my husband dragged me to outpatients at the hospital. i was so, so sick but not so sick that i couldn't listen to what was going on in the next cubicle. you see, even when i'm in the depths of despair i can not mind my own business. i was placed in the room nearest the nurse's station and thus quickly found myself in the know. as it turned out, the gentleman next to me was constipated or "compacted" as we refer to it in the medical trade. his condition was discussed with great earnestness by the nurses and doctor. so with his, not 1 but 2 rectal exams completed my new friend was ready for the remedy phase of the program. first he was placed on his side, then a fleet enema was performed. we all waited patiently but  - no response.  some 30 minutes later the the high fleet enema was launched. i would like to add that the junior nurse carrying out this procedure was given the how-to instructions by the older nurse only moments before performing this magic trick. i strongly believe, given a visual on the apparatus i could have managed it - that's how detailed the tutorial was. but again, despite these seemingly heroic actions- no response other than a return of clear fluid .

 i began thinking, where is this clear fluid collecting. what have we done next door to prepare for success. What, if anything is on hand to receive the goods. the very word compaction suggests this business could inflate when it hits the fresh air. i don't think a sauce pan is going to do it. and why oh why are they keeping this man on his side. i'm just saying, it's not everybody who can shit lying down - never mind on their side. i know "on my side" is not my optimum position when having to do my business.  this gentleman, whoever he is has to be in distress.  he has not made a sound since i got there and considering his condition and the number of times he's been interfered with you would expect something - some tiny "ow" or "oh my"  trust me, i strained to hear what was or could be happening.

sadly, i had to leave without learning the outcome of my new friend.  it seems you can't just stay on to see how something is going to turn out. as the dr. wrote out my prescription i wanted to offer him some advice. i wanted to  say "doctor,  how about a cup of coffee and some squats for our friend next door or at the very least we should flip him on his back and assist him in doing some mock air biking" the grateful doctor would then say, "thanks patient #18, i never thought of that.  here's some medical marijuana to go along with your antibiotics"



ta da
don't judge too harshly, i'm creatively compacted.
bev

when you find your self in the face of bonnie (redux)......

 


sorry to do a repost - terri's post about "girl crushes" made me think about this.....


i have always been someone who has wondered who i'm supposed to be. i watch others in awe as they effortlessly waltz to a song that i have never heard. for the most part, people really have everything figured out. they don't have to think about creating an identity - apparently they came with one. i feel compelled to try on other people's personalities like sweaters, attempting to feel what its like to know who you are and where you're going. i just have never quite accomplished this without people wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

my first attempt to build a better me came shortly after my 5th birthday. on my first day of school i encountered bonnie and the die was cast. she was everything i was not. i was, at this point in my life described as awkward. my hands and feet were too big for me and i was forever covered in iodine and bandaids from stumbling over myself. mum would say "god, can't you see where you're going"?
(side note - in the 3rd grade my eyes were tested and i was found to be quite near-sighted. so apparently mum, i couldn't see where i was going.)

right before school started, my mum made the decision to have my hair taken back. she had had enough of my long curly hair.  mom had this idea that my curls would not come back if my hair was cut close to my scalp and against the curl.  her friend joyce carried out her big plan. i must tell you that against the curl  and close to the scalp was not my best look. my near military cut was accented with cow licks. not quite enough to form a pattern, just a enough to make people think i was unkempt.  but enough about me - bonnie on the other hand was petite and perfect. her limbs matched the rest of her body. she had long pale yellow hair that was rod straight . she had sweater sets and cotton skirts and was shod in penny loafers. i dressed almost exclusively in a blue, slightly too small, snoopy sweatshirt and a tartan kilt held together with a giant safety pin - my massive feet crammed in sneakers. bonnie was quiet and sweet and she never spoke out of turn.  but without question her most enviable quality was her delicate nature. she seemed to be constantly in peril and she quickly became the focal point of my little world. it wasn't just me, everybody  fretted over bonnie. does bonnie have her mittens? don't show bonnie your cut because she'll faint. the dear little thing also needed a rest after lunch. we all hushed as bonnie lay quietly on the cot at the back of the classroom. how i loved that cot - it was metal and had a grey blanket with red stripes. i longed to stretch out upon it. i tried inventing and carrying out various scenarios that would end with me reposing there and being the object of everyones' pity and concern. sadly, a strong constitution and a lack of acting ability stood in my way. mrs teacher would step over my twitching body as i feigned a nervous spell. she'd be heading to her desk to get the strap. i guess she figured a few quick smacks would bring me around a lot quicker than any old cot.

i tried to be bonnie countless times, i could not be deterred by a strap or the frank bewilderment of my classmates. dammit, i would will myself delicate. my performances reached a fever pitch when bonnie returned to school after having her tonsils out. she practically lived on that cot - with teacher running back and forth with sips of cold water and cool cloths. we all sat on pins and needles wondering if she would live. at recess we would gather to express our concerns and stand crying at the thought of losing our bonnie. i was as worked up as anybody else but at the same time i thought - what an opportunity. imagine all that love and attention. i begged my mother to have my tonsils removed. i tried to fake cough them out. i would repeat, loudly, over and over all day how bad my throat hurt. i would collapse, often and unexpectedly into a careful heap of woe. i made a fool of myself on a daily basis for over a month. bonnie did it so effortlessly and gracefully, during cot visiting hours she could lift up her tiny hand for you to hold and she would tear up when you discussed her impending death.

eventually, the school year ended and bonnie was forgotten but.... as luck would have it on the very first day of school the following year i met janice, a foul mouth, tomboy whose father was in the airforce. new grade, new me.

 apparently, these were just the beginning of my near infinite number of lessons on how to find yourself. i can't tell you how many times over the years i have made a fool of myself, suffered public humiliation and made my people wonder "what the hell". bonnie began my quest to evolve through mimicry. i really owe her a lot - although i never achieved my initial objective i did end up with the spotlight shinning brightly on me.... and really, that's all that mattered.

bev

ps i have left bonnie name uncapitalized to preserve her anonymity

keeping you abreast.........

 

 

 



our family just returned from another little trip to the canadian rockies. yes, i know it seems excessive, two trips in one summer is more than we are used to. we are not the high rollers my perfect grammer and sentence construction may have led you to believe we were. we are only slightly north of quite poor but we always pick entertainment over land taxes. plus, my sister and her husband had visitors from nova scotia and offered our little family the extra bedroom at the rented chalet.

we are not bogner dressed, high-end mountain park visitors. we do not quietly stare in awe at the majesty and beauty of the towering peaks.  instead we say things like "that's some high up there" "that's some god damn water pounding down that mountain'" for christ sakes, it's not a big bear, get out of the car." yes, we are those kind of tourists. in our defense we do not drink or litter or ski out of bounds (well if we did ski, it would be in bounds). i think the highlight of the drive through banff and jasper national parks are the fantastic, random animal pull-overs. you're roaring along, when suddenly you come upon cars lining each side of the road. you screech to a halt, grab your camera and jump out of the car. this past weekend  it was mountain sheep. poor, dear, mangy sheep, being photographed by tourist paparazzi. i have seen probably 500 mountain sheep in my lifetime but, well you know. ..... the sheep stand there, disinterested, hot and panting, licking salt and mineral from the white mountain stone. i take a picture, thinking you poor little bastards, i start to baa. baaaaaaa, baaaaa. not just some amateur story-time" baa" but  quality animal impersonation's sound. i scared the shit out of some poor german fellow standing next to me but i keep going. what i was actually saying to the sheep was "i have bottled water and salted soda crackers in the car, coooommmme, coooommmeee here." the sheep looked up and i didn't have the heart to take their picture. people did not start to baa along with me. i thought they might, but apparently i'm not that cool.

fast forward to this morning....i'm back home  i get up and start checking my favorite blogs. june - new,  rhonda - new, chris - new, katie - new and  terri - new. and the best bit, my sweet terri is talking about her floating boobies. well, i thought, i have a boob story. a current event boob story, a live from alberta piece of reporting.  terri has made it possible for me to talk about my boozies.

so rewind 2 days........

after a day of sight seeing, a lovely supper and laughter filled evening we all settled down for the night in our little mountain home  now i'm not the type of person who can worry about something for more than five minutes without sharing it with those around me.  so at about 11pm i went into my sister's room and said "what the hell do you thing this is". she peered at me, unfocused and startled. what was i doing with my pj top pulled up, inserting my ample chest into her face.

"i'm sleeping," she hisses
"your light was on," i retort
sister: what do you want?
me: i want you to look at my boobs
sister: yes, of course that's what you want
me: ha ha, now, smarten up and take a look
sister: they're massive
me: jesus christ, underneath, look underneath, at the rash.
sister: oh, that's a yeast infection.
me: a yeast infection, my breasts don't actually come in contact with my lady bits you know
sister: that doesn't matter, it's because your boobs are so heavy . you know all that sweat, heat and darkness.
me: those are the conditions for growing mushrooms, jesus, isn't yeast a fungus?  shoot me now. i've turned 50 and suddenly i'm the living garden.
sister: go away
me: are you sure of your diagnosis?
sister: yeah, someone at work had it
me: did you see it.
sister: no,. but she described it and we googled it.
me: that's comforting. what do i do?
sister: you have to get some monistat or fungus cream
me: how is sticking monistat up my front passage going to bring relief to my bosom
sister: you put the cream under your boobs, idiot.
me: i knew that

enter my sister's friend.

friend:  i can't sleep. the management has told the people in the next cabin to turn their music down and get out of the pool. why are there so many kids staying her?
me: it's the name. you can't very well name your resort after a native american disney character and expect the senior crowd.
friend:  i suppose, what kind of name attracts the old people?
me: " whispering winds", "the dew drop inn", that sort of thing
sister:  will you two shut the hell up, i would like to go to sleep.
friend:  yes, why are you still awake? are we talking about someone?
sister: yes, we are talking about beverly's boobs
friend: they are massive
me:  i have a rash
friend:  let me see.
me:  jesus, why not
friend: what do you think it is, pat
sister: yeast
friend:  i concur.
me:  have you seen it before?
friend:  no, but your sister should know
me:  maybe i should go outside and get the opinions of the revelers.
friend:  you should put some cornstarch and gauze on it.
me:  two items not readily available here in a national park at midnight
sister: i told her to use monistat.
friend: yes, half an applicator a boob, that should do the trick
me: well, i'm glad we go that sorted.

so on the way home i stopped at a drug store to find my sister's prescribed cream . my daughter said "please don't show the pharmacist your boobs."
me: you could always wait in the car
her: mommy please, we have all looked at your rash, that's enough.
me: what does it matter. we will never see the people in that drug store again
her: you maybe not, you're old but i might have to come her one day.
me: are you coming in me me?
her: are you showing?
me: i'll decide when i get in there. if there's a bunch of people, yes.
her: i'm coming
me: see, baby you like a big show

bev