Saturday, May 13, 2023

My Sister

I've posted these before I think. Just had a very senior moment and want to save them.

She sits there,

like *The Dad*on his scooter,

same smile,

same dark tinted glasses,

same teeth.

She sits there,

pale thin ankles,

wrists like twigs,

hopeful grin,

fearful grin.

She sits there,

on *The Dads* scooter,

I feel  I've condemned her,

she sits there,

with nothing but time,

with not enough time,

I mourn her already.

She sits there,

for how long?

I love her,

my sister,

my heart,

my last hope at family.

An excerpt from something I was working on but mis-placed. (Read: Old lady loses file) Posting to save it.

**This is where Corn girl learned to attempt to drown her inner alcoholic, to shut her the fuck up.

 Corn Girl’s alcoholic has a great memory, she remembers every slight, every insult, every bad thing that ever happened.  Oddly enough she dosen’t remember the good times as much, she dosen’t remember being safe and warm and happy, playing with the G’s and Nana and Ray. 

Corn Girls alcoholic is a dramatic sneaky little bitch that has taken over Corn Girl’s body. A lying selfish sack of agony that Corn Girl can’t drown out, can’t get to shut up about it already.

 The alcoholic living in Corn Girl has no mute button, no sense of humor, no off switch and no time for anything but Corn Girl’s shrinking world.

I can picture her inside Corn Girl, a flawless milky white complexion with light blue veins barely visible, with beautiful shiny red hair and  the white teeth that Corn Girl had as a teen.  She’s laughing and swimming in the liquid alongside Corn Girl's youth and energy, her sense of pride and self esteem, her sense of the absurd. They swim in  perfect synchronization, like Esther Williams and her girls.

Friday, November 4, 2022

Dona Nobis Pacem~Exhaustion

 Another year another Blog for peace.

We keep at it,

those of us who care.

We keep writing,


confronting hate and racism when needed.

Seems to be needed a lot these days.

The socials are rife with anti semitism,



It's a fine balancing act,

not to respond in kind.

Not to call names,

not to hate the person instead of the opinion.

It's exhausting.

I slip sometimes,

lean too far left,

pitch right a little.

Sometines I even lose my balance completely,

I rage,

I hate,

I comment.

It's exhausting,

is it working?

I dunno.

Sometimes I'm hopeful. 


Monday, August 1, 2022

 I wrote this 12 years ago...

Friction fires; or the reason I can't go into the forest.
There are times in a woman's life when she experiences what I like to call a *Wardrobe Milestone*, for example, her first pair of ice skates. (even when her mom got them off of Swap 'n' Shop for five bucks) These skates bring such joy and a feeling of importance, she's a big girl now, watch out. Several turned ankles and an aching butt later she realizes that maybe the skates were cheap and 5th hand so she blames her mother for her lack of expertise. (it's a given)
For me, my next milestone was the training bra, in Grade 4. (already busting outta the thing) I was chased by a pack of 10 year old boys for the whole year. I had a permanent bruise on my back, was round shouldered and you guessed it, blamed my mother.
As I entered my 11th year, bruised, limping and suffering from poor posture, my mother decided I was ready for the next *MILESTONE* Not a *Wardrobe Milestone* Per Se, a cosmetic one.
This brings us to the dreaded home permanent. I was strapped into a chair at the sink, wrenched backward and my hair soaked under the tap. (kind of a home water boarding) With the dog's toe rag wrapped around my thin limp hair, I was escorted to the kitchen table whereupon my mother rolled each 1/4 inch of my hair into tight pin curls, then proceeded to douse me in chemicals that not only burned my scalp, but left me with a squint that I have to this day. The end result was badly damaged hair, which stayed frizzy for approximately two days. This I rightfully blamed on my mother.
The 12th year of my pitiful existence was highlighted by hot pants and high heels. My first pair of bell bottoms and a rash from the polyester. I entered Grade 8 limping, squinting, huddled, itchy and frizzy, but I was 2 inches taller. This was also the year I discovered acne. This I blamed on my mother.
By my 16th year I considered myself HAWT and wore my first (and last) bikini. It was a thing of beauty (not unlike I was) it had wooden hoops at each hip and one between the ever expanding boobs. This I thanked my mother for. Good genes I thought at the time. I also had my first bout of mouth sores, for this I blamed my mother.
For most women the next few milestones are a formal gown and then a wedding gown. I had no formal but I did have a 2nd hand homemade wedding gown. (It was really quite lovely) Alas, it was polyester. I was 95lbs, so on my wedding day I was boobless from weight loss, tripping over my heels and the dreaded rash was back. My hair had been done by a professional and it lasted 5 minutes as there was a gale force wind in Prince Rupert. I blamed my mother. She should have moved to some place warmer and windless.
The first sexy lingerie, now a girl has really grown up, watch out world! Again with the rash...
Maternity clothes, nuff said.
Now at the grand old age of 48, and having given birth to the two "Heads". Being arthritic and fat from my meds (NOT the beer). I've graduated into the unknown once again. For decency's sake and the protection of small children and animals I've found myself having to wear what I call a bathski. (bathing suit skirt all in one) (A onesi for old fat broads if you will) It's not a skort, lady golfers wear those, so they have to be cool right? Me, not so much.
I used to wear a pair of men's trunks, looked OK, hid the thighs. This year however I have the unfortunate problem of my thighs rubbing together. (this is not pretty)
I'm waiting for BC fire services to ban me from the forest. At the beach it's OK, the sound of the surf drowns it out. At the lake or at a pool, I give everyone in sight a bag of crinkly chips. This will work for the initial dunking, but I have to hustle back because they can't swim for a half hour after consuming them and they'll hear me.
I sit huddled, rashy, blistery, with aching ankles and frizzy hair waiting for the next *Wardrobe Milestone* I wonder what it'll be? Support hose? A girdle? ~sigh

Monday, February 21, 2022

RIP Big brother.

 I put this on my brother's wall today. 

Hello, my name is Laurie, I'm Scott's sister.

Scott has passed away after a lengthy illness borne with pragmatism and humor. 

He went out on his own terms with great courage.

Thank you to his friend Cheryl.

He is pain free now and was ready to see his son John again.

Please keep a kind thought for his love Denise and her family who took him in when he was unable to be with us. It's comforting to his twin Shelley and I to know that he had kids and grandkids and many friends who loved him. I'm sure they'll miss their *Grumpa*

I was tasked with this notice/eulogy/roast by Scott and he asked me to mention how quiet he was and how he kept to himself. Right there you get the way he worked, he wanted this to be funny but not too funny, sad but not too sad, short but not too short, you get the idea. 

Scott and Shelley were leap year twins, born February 29th, 1960, so right off the bat they were considered special. They were premature and together weighed as much as I did when I came along two years later. Much to my parent's relief.

 Can you imagine a pair of 20 year old small town kids (21 was the age of consent) running off to Vancouver, getting pregnant BEFORE they got married? Not only that but there were TWO of them, born on the leap year. It was written up in the paper, both locally and nationally. So right away mom was humiliated.

We were five, a tight unit that did pretty much everything together. Scott was Ichabod (Icky for short), Shelley was Sam, and I was George. We lived in some pretty ramshackle places, loose windows, mold, drafts. Iced up windows on the inside in winter, sitting in front of the oven trying to get warm in the morning. That's why we like to camp I guess.

Our family camping trips were a cross between The Hunger Games, Naked and Afraid and a bit of Manhunter to keep us on our toes.

Five people, two dogs, an 18ft skiff with a 40hp. Off to Porcher Island for 9 or 10 days every summer.

We fished, we walked, we beachcombed, we shot rifles, but mostly we sat around the fire cooking hunks of beef, smoking, singing and laughing. There was always the laughter, a tad jarring and hysterical at times, but always there.

 The Hunters invented swapping lies, learned at the knee of the greatest bull-shitter of all time, dear old dad. There was the truth, the other opinion, then the fabrication that tied it all together.

Scott loved to drive, go for a road trip or just drive up and down 3rd when we were teenagers. Our parents were always taking us for drives, mom in her curlers dad with an extra layer of Vitalis for men in/on/through his hair. We'd sing along to the radio and they'd open their fly windows and smoke. There was always gum, but we had to share. 3 kids 3 pieces of gum! Yeah no. One for dad, one for mom and 1/3 for each kid.

Scott loved to sing, we all did. There was always a radio on in the kitchen always the same time as the TV. He loved the Mod Squad and would rush home after school to watch it, or more likely from McClymont Park where he'd been skipping school.

He knew all the words to The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family and Walt Disney theme songs and would delight us with his performance of same at odd hours day and night. Did I mention he liked to sing? He sang loudly to make up for his lack of talent. Dad always told him he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

Scott excelled in school.

Hahahaha sorry! I'm imagining your faces.

Scott joined the Navy when he was 17 and met Sylvia the mother of his two children, Amanda and John. Amanda we love you if you ever see this. Scott loved his kids, even going so far as not to eat himself when times were tight so the kids could have their fill. He did his best with what he had.

He was predeceased by John in 2020. I'm happy they had a relationship in their last years.

If I can say anything at all nice about him I'd have to say he had a great work ethic and he stuck to his guns. Yes I mean he was stubborn and hard headed but that is also the Hunter way. So those of you taking note: Lying, bad singing, hard headedness, driving, smoking, hard working is the Hunter way.

I hope to be able to use this space to add more stories, we'll see how I go, I'll add a lot of pictures and I encourage all of you to do the same. 

It's all water under the bridge now, even if the bridge is floating. I love my brother. 

He wanted to tell you all "See you on the flip side!"

I hope you're at peace now Icky.  There's no one I'd rather share a third of a piece of Juicy fruit with than you and Shelley.

Say hi to mom and dad for me and tell an epic porkie about this whole journey around the fire.


Sunday, January 30, 2022

Ottawa held hostage

My take on the so-called freedom convoy:

Confederate flags


Trump Banners

Don't tread on me banners

Upside down Canadian flags

Swarming the following places unmasked and unvaccinated:


Rideau Mall

The soup kitchen

This bears repeating:

The soup kitchen

Defiling the Terry Fox statue, prompting a news release from the foundation reminding people that Terry was about SCIENCE.

Dancing, drinking, smoking, parking and yelling profanity on the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier. Prompting Veterans Affairs to release a statement.

Throwing a beer can at a reporter

Berating hotel staff

Trucks constantly idling

Horns going 24/7

Blocking fire lanes

Blocking emergency lanes

Trapping people in their homes with no way to get to work or to the hospital

Dressing their 3-5 year old children in Fuck Trudeau clothes and draping them in signs

Putting everyone they come into contact with at risk. EVERYONE.

Conservative MP's passing out coffee and doughnuts, doing interviews in front of the Canadian flag with a swastika drawn on it.

Urinating in public

Calling the PM a coward when he had to get his family somewhere safe. His Kids!

Failing to understand that mandates are PROVINCIAL and not FEDERAL.

The US doesn't want your unvaccinated asses there either.

The candle light vigil planned for the fifth anniversary of the Quebec Mosque shootings cancelled.

I remember them here:

Ibrahima Barry

Mamadou Tanou Barry

Khaled Belkacemi

 Aboubaker Thabti

Abdelkrim Hassane

Azzedine Soufiane


The Maverick Party

The proud boys

The obfuscating,

Saying that these fringe elements all glommed on and perverted your mission.

I call BULLSHIT, we can all Google who started this and see the call to action and the dog whistle.

You are fighting for my freedoms!? 

Yeah, I don't think so. If you were fighting for my freedoms you'd wear a mask and get a prick instead of being one. 

This isn't a TRUCKER convoy you make up a small 10 to 15%.

If you really want to end this you'd take PPE and Rapid Tests and donate the bloated Go Fund Me scam for respirators and hiring more staff to give our health care workers a break.

To sum up, you are the problem. No one likes to wear masks or have shots but we pull up our adulting pants and do what's required for the greater good. For our families, for your families.

I fervently hope that when you do finally get home and stop holding the good citizens of Ottawa hostage that you don't infect your Granny or your Mum.

Sunday, November 7, 2021

Cancel me this

 I've started reading the comments again.

I said I wouldn't,

I promised myself,

I'm a bad promise holder.

I was especially horrified at the comments directed at our Premier. He has throat cancer, newly diagnosed.

The comments are horrific and cruel, I can't believe how many there are. 

I can't believe how easy it's become for people to just spew their own personal brand of ugly on another human being.

Where is the compassion?

Where is the empathy?

Where is the caring?

What would you do if I called you up and said I was glad you had cancer and I hope you suffer before you die? You'd be gutted and angry.

Why is this any different?

 You're typing it so it doesn't count?

He doesn't know you? 


Yeah not really, you're not anonymous.

I can click on your profile and see stuff.

Where you work.

Your kids/grandkids photos.

Where you live.

Who your friends are.

Even the most buttoned down Facebook page has clues.

I can file your job away in my old brain and the next time I need a roofer/mechanic/plumber/gardener...

You get my drift. 

No biggie in your life I'm sure to lose a maybe customer, but it helps me sleep at night.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this.

Be kind.

Thursday, November 4, 2021

Dona Nobis Pacem 2021

 I've blogged for peace since its inception. 

I've written about worldwide peace.

I've written about peace in our country.

I've written about peace in politics.

I've written about peace in groups.

I've written about peace in families.

I've written about peace with my body.

I've written about peace during this pandemic.

Am I any wiser?

Are things better?

Is the world all love and snuggles?

Is their no longer any strife or pain?

It's all still there, the war, the poverty, the sickness. Political infighting and all around bat shit crazy behaviour. 

Anti this and anti that.

What have I've come to accept over the years is if you shine a light on some of the injustice, write about it, protest about it, talk to your friends about it, you'll feel better.

You'll feel a little peace, a little sense of accomplishment. A little bit of relief.

Love your chosen family, hug your pets, try to be more understanding.

Be kind.