Ah, Spring.

I love spring. My favourite season, besides summer.  Trees budding, flowers in bloom, warming temps, no boots–almost perfect.  Except for my annual bronchitis.  It’s becoming a thing.

Sometimes I beat it, but mostly I don’t.  And it’s not that I don’t try to avoid it–I’m the biggest germophobe I know.   I carry hand-santizer in my car and purse, and wash my hands constantly whenever I’m home.  I won’t eat in restaurants or in fast-food joints during flu season, just in case.  I won’t touch the door handles when I leave a public washroom (the rare times I use them), instead stuffing my hand in my sleeve and using THAT.

And I still get sick. It’s a curse, I tell you.

So I’ve just spent the past few weeks sick and weak, but today I seemed to finally turn the corner. So, seeing as how I was getting healthy, I decided to do this:


I dropped the paper shredder on my foot.  Actually, it FELL on my foot of its own accord, the heavy shredding portion popping off the paper basket when I moved it, just to spite me.

It’s a curse, I tell you.



Vive La Liberté

Quebec And Canada Flags

“Make no mistake, this was a terrorist attack. It was an attack on our most intrinsic and cherished values as Canadians:  values of openness, diversity and freedom of religion.  Canadians will not be intimidated, we will not meet violence with more violence. We will meet fear and hatred with love and compassion. Always.”

Prime Minister Justin Trudeau

Fabulous Bitch


During the summer, I had a run-in with a lady at the pool.  She was a regular fixture there, hanging out with a friend. Over the course of a few weeks, I became friends with both women, although I liked the friend and didn’t have much use for the lady. The friend confided in me that she, too, had grown weary of the lady’s friendship.

The run-in was a minor event.  On this particular occasion, the lady made a childish, stupid joke that annoyed me and I commented accordingly.  I was persona non grata from that point on.  I was, according to the lady, a bitch.

The friend and I became friends, and eventually the lady gave her friend the heave-ho.  We breathed a sigh of relief; we were too old for such silly, school-yard shenanigans. For my new friend’s birthday this past month, I got her a great card.  On the cover was a photo of two dogs wearing sunglasses, soaking up the rays. Inside the card it read:

Let’s celebrate your birthday like the fabulous bitches we are. 

As any woman can attest, being called a bitch, even by another woman, is nothing new.  Sometimes a woman is called a bitch because she was nasty, but more often than not, she’s called a bitch simply because she’s not afraid to speak her mind.

I’ve had a million occasions in which my assertiveness, refusal to accept abuse, ability to call out crap when I see it, and general lack of patience with bullshit was rewarded with the “Bitch” moniker. I  wear that moniker like a badge of honour.

Sometimes you have to wear the hat and remind them who they’re dealing with.