It’s Been a While…

I haven’t written here in ages. Life just got away from me.

For those of you who follow me on TikTok you’ll already know that I’ve been dealing with intense grief following the death of my beloved husband. In fact, after the death of my mother and father, my mother-in-law and brother-in-law died. Then just when I thought I could process all of that Covid and an underlying case of pneumonia took my husband from me.

Devastated doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. I was numb. Bereft. Life as a widow wasn’t something I ever anticipated. And then my sister died.

So yeah, it’s been a rough patch. Punctuated by the death of a very dear friend of mine just before Christmas. Frankly I’m sick of all of it.

I’m finally getting back into my writing. I’m working on putting the finishing touches on a fantasy romance novel but it’s been tough. My husband was not just my muse, he was my editor. My sounding board. My first line of defense against publishing total crap. With him gone I’ve had to find a new paradigm.

I can’t promise I’m going to post here too often. I do post every day on TikTok and Instagram so if you want to keep up with the dark chaos of my life you can follow me in either of those places. I’d love to see you there.

Life Goes On

My father passed away in June and since then I’ve been cleaning out the remains of his life and settling his estate. It’s been an exhausting and emotional experience.

But life goes on.

As painful as his loss has been for me, I’ve found moments of love and joy since his death.  Phone calls from friends who let me talk about him for way too long. Cards from those who cared for him in his last days. Words of condolence from those who knew him in ways I didn’t.

Thanks to Covid-19 it wasn’t easy to plan a funeral for him. Much of his pre-planning went out the window. But we knew what mattered to him most so we gathered his nearest and dearest and on an absolutely perfect sunny summer day under the canopy of shade provided by tall trees, we laid his ashes to rest next to his beloved wife.

Unlike the service that would have happened in the church, this one was intimate. Personal. We found ourselves laughing and telling stories. At one point we even all recited one of his silly poems together. Everyone there had a close connection to him. They all felt his loss.

In a way, it was exactly what he would have wanted. We sent him on his way with love and laughter and small tokens of his life. There was nothing fussy or formal about it. Lots of people spoke and because we were all friends and family, no one got nervous about it. We lingered, talking and sharing memories. We turned our faces to the soft breeze and imagined he was there with us.

All that’s left now is the business of settling an estate. The paperwork and banking and taxes. All of the things that keep you busy so that you don’t realize just what a huge hole that person left in your life.

In your heart.

And then there’s his stuff. Boxes and bags of the remnants of a life. Clothing to be donated when charities open up to donations again. Books he’ll never read that someone else will enjoy. Awards and accolades that only meant something to him. Photographs that will fade off into more boxes that the next generation will have to deal with.

But along the way I learned things about my father that I didn’t know. Or rather that I had forgotten. I found precious artifacts of his life. Silly things, mostly. But all the more valuable to me because of it.

What we leave behind isn’t nearly as important as who we leave behind. As the impact our life had on others. As I clean out the physical remains of his life, it’s his emotional remnants that cut the deepest.

Soon there will be no more details to handle. So what do we do when there’s no more business of death to deal with?

We move on. We live. We wake up every day, hopefully with a renewed sense of the value of time. Of how little of it we actually have. Of how we’re going to spend what we have left.

Does my life honor his? I honestly don’t know. But I know he loved me. I know he was proud of me. And I know that I will carry his ideals and his heart with me through the rest of my life.

So I heal. Slowly. And I move on. Because I have to. Because in the end, his love lives on.

And that’s all that really matters.

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bittersweet

They say in life you have to take the bitter with the better. Today is heavy on the bitter side.

Yesterday I placed my father into a personal care home.

That sentence hurts. The whole idea is painful. That the man who was an amazing father and brilliant executive and well-loved community leader now needs the kind of full time care I simply can not provide is almost inconceivable.

He has dementia. It came on slowly. Odd memory lapses. Shifts in his personality that you could dismiss as him being tired or having a bad day. He was getting older. We all understood that. Happens to everyone, right? No big deal.

Until it was.

This last year has been a struggle in ways I never anticipated. Trying to explain to a confused and scared man how he managed to phone me when he couldn’t remember how a telephone worked. Listening to him repeat the same phrases over and over and over again because he didn’t remember saying them. Hearing a man who was always gentle and thoughtful swear and call me names, knowing that a few minutes later he’d forget ever saying anything.

Awful. All of it.

There are still glimpses of the man he used to be but they are few and far between now. And those moments only serve to highlight how much he’s deteriorated.

Physically he’s been pretty healthy but now even that is fading. He sleeps a lot. Too much. But when he tries to follow a TV show or the news it’s all too much for him. He used to read all the time and now he can’t remember the last page he read. He’s growing weaker and the caregiver we had arranged for him suddenly wasn’t enough.

There were problems at mealtimes. He was finding it hard to feed himself. Even though the assisted living facility offered good food that he normally liked he stopped eating properly. The private caregiver we brought in had to feed him some days. He couldn’t remember how to use a microwave and put his coffee in for thirty minutes instead of thirty seconds.

The Covid-19 crisis didn’t help. The building was forced to stop all social activities. Then they had to close the dining room. He lost contact with his buddies. The other men he ate with and talked with. No more discussions about last night’s game. Now his meals were delivered to his suite. But that brought it’s own challenges. He couldn’t figure out how to open the containers. So we increased the hours of his private caregiver.

By the time he was maxed out on home care and private care it was clear something had to give.

Then he fell. Three times in two days. The last one at four in the morning. A hospital admission and the beginning of the end.

The personal care home he’s going into is a good one, as those things go. Clean and bright and as homey as those places can ever be. He’s got a private room and a private bathroom – a necessity because he’s become increasingly paranoid. Sharing a room would just lead to disaster. And it’s close to my home so I can visit. I mean, eventually. When this virus lets us see each other again.

Logically I know that I’ve done all I can for him. My health won’t let me take care of him myself and even if I could, it’s probably not what’s best for him. Not anymore.

I don’t know how many more days I’ll have with him. My mother passed away a few years ago and when my father is gone, there will be little left of the family I knew.

It breaks my heart.

I’m fortunate that I have a loving and supportive husband who offers random hugs when he sees what this is doing to me. Who comes to offer a gentle touch when I’ve spent the day on the phone making arrangements I never thought I would have to make. When I’ve been struggling with the bureaucracy and the business of end of life care. I have sweet and caring friends who make me laugh even when I don’t want to and who are just there when I need them. Even if it’s just a text message to check in.

Without them I shudder to think how I would cope.

But in the end I’m the one who signed the papers to put him there. I’m the one who arranged the transport from the hospital that would take him there. I’m the one who did this to him.

It was necessary. I know that. Safer for him for sure. He’ll have round the clock help and a safe place when what little remains inside of his mind fades completely away. When they open their doors to visitors again I’ll visit often. In the meantime I’ll keep in touch with those who work there so they know he wasn’t just dumped.

But it sucks. It hurts. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

I know people say it all the time but today, with painful clarity, I can tell you that it’s important to stay connected to those you love. I don’t regret the time I spent with him, even when I could have been doing something else. I don’t regret the endless phone calls during this lock down even when he didn’t make much sense. When the end comes, I’ll know I did everything I could.

So call your parents. Or friends. Or siblings. Tell them you love them. Then do it again. Because if one day they forget how to use the phone or even what your name is, you’ll remember. You’ll hold on to the memories when they no longer can.

You’ll keep the sweet when all else is bitter.

Is it the flu?

“I’ve got the flu.” We’ve all said it at one time or another.

We talk about the flu like it’s something you get for 24 hours. Or for a day or two. We say things like “I was sick with the flu all weekend.” We even say someone had “a touch of the flu”.

Trust me, if you have the flu it’s going to be for a lot more than the weekend and you’ll be a lot more than touched. Slammed over the head maybe. Beaten to the ground repeatedly perhaps. But not just touched. Not a chance. If you’re sick for only a day or two or even a few, it’s not the flu. It’s food poisoning or something you were exposed to that your body didn’t like. It was something you ate. Or drank. Maybe it was a cold which, I grant you, can be a bitch to deal with.

But it’s not the flu.

The flu is something else entirely. It kills people. A lot of people. This year’s flu vaccine was not very effective and people are dying because of it. I’ve heard varying numbers but it seems that it’s only between 30-40 percent effective. I’ve also heard some scary numbers about how many people have died from it this year. So people are getting sick even if they had the shot.

And all of that was well before the Coronavirus hit our consciousness.

We used to call it influenza and I think we should go back to that. Talking about the flu sounds like it’s something simple. Like it’s just a little bug we caught but we’re better now.

Influenza isn’t that. It’s a virus that rages through your body in all kinds of ways. It can clog your sinuses but it can also fill your lungs with junk and lead to deadly pneumonia. It can cause all kinds of gastrointestinal problems ranging from cramps to vomiting to explosive uncontrollable diarrhea. It can cause a wickedly sore throat and make every muscle in your body ache so badly you want to cry. And it can cause a kind of fatigue that you simply can’t explain to anyone who’s never experienced it.

It is not a 24 hour thing. Ever.

Even if the flu shot isn’t very effective, like this year, it’s good to get it anyway. You don’t know what’s coming and if it helps even a little, that can be enough to save your life. Get to the doctor and get tested if you think you have it. Don’t wait. Waiting could be the thing that kills you. There are drugs out there that can help but only in the first few days.

Okay. End of the lecture on ways the flu can kill you.

But we need to stop being so casual about it. If the Coronavirus has shown us anything, it’s that the flu isn’t casual. Viruses change and mutate and you never know what you picked up just going through your normal day. Even if you fought off one kind you could be laid out by the next one. They are insidious little bastards and humans can only do so much to keep them at bay.

Stay healthy. Keep your immune system healthy. Eat good nutrition. Stay active. Get the flu shot. Stay home if you think you’re sick. Nobody else wants your icky germs.

Oh, and wash your damn hands!!! Properly. Don’t just rinse your fingers under a little water for a few seconds. Do a good job every single time. Soap and water. You don’t even need the anti-bacterial stuff. Especially since it’s not very effective against viruses. It’s called anti-bacterial, after all. Don’t rely on it. Washing your hands well is the best defense. As is keeping your hands off your face and off of everyone else.

Viruses don’t care what size you wear. They don’t care how old you are or what color you are. They don’t care if you’re rich and live in a mansion or if you’re broke and homeless. They don’t care if you have to get to work or if you need to take care of your kids. If they come for you, get to a doctor as soon as you can. The sooner you get the anti-viral medication into you, the better. Because that flu is going to knock your ass to the ground and keep you there. You might as well take all the help you can.

Look, I get it. We don’t exactly know what’s wrong when we don’t feel well so we call it the flu. Maybe that’s OK. But maybe the casual way we reference it is the thing that makes you wait one day too long to get help.

Waiting that one extra day nearly killed me.

Having just experienced a severe case of influenza, along with a double round of horrible pneumonia that it caused, I can tell you this. It sucks. It’s awful. You feel like hell and you feel like it’s never going to end. I got sick nearly two months ago and even with a stay in the hospital, all kinds of medications and a wide range of supportive care, I’m still not completely well yet. I only just got off the oxygen machine last Friday. My stomach still isn’t right. I don’t sleep normally yet. And I fatigue faster than I ever thought I would at this point in my recovery.

So just don’t take a chance. It’s not worth it.

And don’t worry. I won’t tell your boss that the 24 hour bug you’re claiming to have was really a great night out at the bar with your friends.

 

 

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

I’m Lucky To Be Alive

That sounds like an exaggeration, doesn’t it? But it’s not.

I nearly died. And I’m damn glad I got to the Emergency Room before I did.

I had pneumonia. But not just simple pneumonia, if there even is such a thing. I actually had two different kinds of pneumonia at the same time. Add in an as-yet undiagnosed lung disease that might be COPD and breathing stopped being easy. And then, just to make things even more fun, I got the flu.

It all started with fatigue. The kind of deep down tired that I can’t even describe. I put it down to everything going on in my life. My work, my family, my father who is struggling with a type of dementia and needed so much more help from me now. Add in all the things I’d committed myself to and even the things I liked became hard. I had trouble sleeping even though I was exhausted and when I did sleep, I never felt rested.

Then I got what I thought was a cold. You know the drill – stuffy nose, sore throat and a cough that sounded like I’d been smoking 2 packs a day for years. I took some over-the-counter medications and sucked back cough syrup that was supposed to help me hack up the junk from my lungs.

And I just got sicker.

I slept. I couldn’t stop myself. I slept at my computer. I slept trying to watch TV. I slept at the dinner table. I couldn’t stay awake.

My husband grew increasingly concerned. He knew my lungs were congested and he knew I was struggling to breathe but the fact that I couldn’t stay awake to even have a simple conversation with him was the final straw.

He called 911.

Six very large firefighters strode in and took charge. The paramedics peppered me with questions I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t even make sense of what they were asking me. They took my blood pressure and listened to my lungs and checked my oxygen levels.

The frowns on their faces said I was in deep trouble and within a few minutes I was on oxygen and on a stretcher headed for the ER in an ambulance. They tell me I passed out on the trip while I was trying to answer more questions but I don’t remember much.

Even though the ER was busy, within minutes of arriving I was in a room and being attended to by nurses and a doctor with a gorgeous mustache and a wicked sense of humor. The fact that he was smart as hell helped a lot.

But honestly I only remember bits and pieces. My husband had to answer many of the questions they asked because I kept passing out. I couldn’t stay conscious. They did an EKG and took chest X-rays. They put an IV in and started pumping in drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. They put a different mask on me and started breathing treatments.

It never stopped. One drug after another. Pills I had to take and one syringe after another into my IV. In addition to my regular medications they gave me all kinds of stuff to bombard whatever the hell was trying to kill me. They weren’t subtle about it either. And even in my semi-conscious state I could see their concern.

Then some nurse with the most incredible cheekbones I’ve ever seen did a nasal swab to test me for the flu. Now a nasal swab doesn’t sound so bad, right? Like a Q-tip up your nose a little, right?

Wrong.

She stuck something that felt like an ice pick so far up my sinuses I think she hit brain tissue. My head reared back and she just kept coming at me. She was unsympathetic to the fact that I gasped and squealed and tried to get away from her. Not a chance. She stuck that thing in hard and fast and deep. All things that are great when you’re talking about sex but when it’s an ice pick in your nose, it’s a lot less fun. I blew out bloody boogers for more than a week thanks to that.

It came back positive.

As soon as the result was in, my room became a hot zone. They shut the glass doors, pasted a huge warning sign on it and stuck a cart outside with gowns, gloves and several kinds of masks on it. Everyone coming in had to dress like they were in some bad hazmat movie.

I was toxic. And contagious. And sick as hell.

According to more than one doctor, if my husband had waited another day to call 911 I’d might very well be dead. My lungs were a mess. Full of pneumonia and getting worse by the second. There was concern that I had fluid around my heart. They gave me medication to get rid of the fluid. More antibiotics. And now, an anti-viral to combat influenza.

Fortunately, I responded well and within a few days I was breathing better.

But the flu made me a tough patient to handle. Special precautions were necessary to protect not only other patients but the staff as well. So as soon as it was even remotely possible, they sent me home. It was quieter and easier for me to rest. And they knew I had people who would take care of me. They even offered me Home Care if I wanted it. Anything I needed to ensure it was safe for me to be at home.

But it wasn’t quite that simple. I had to go home tethered to an oxygen machine. Thankfully it’s not a big green tank like in the old days. These days it’s a smaller machine that really sucks in the air around it and pulls concentrated oxygen from it. It’s about the size of your carry-on luggage and because it’s basically a compressor it makes this very annoying whooshing noise all the damn time. Plus you’re tied to it by tubing that slithers along the floor and winds up with two prongs in your nose. You also get a bunch of portable smaller oxygen tanks in case the power goes out or you need to leave the house. It’s a lot to deal with when you’re still fighting for every breath.

But I was grateful for it because it kept me alive. And helped me heal. And is still helping me heal.

All this was several weeks ago. I came home with a big pile of antibiotics and antivirals and several puffers for my lungs. And they did really help my lungs. Which helped me get better.

But along the way my body rebelled against all the drugs and against the flu virus still raging through my system. Not to be too graphic about it but there was black oily crap leaking from my ass and I spent several days going from toilet to shower to clean off what ran uncontrollably down my legs. In between trips I sat on thick towels, just in case. And I ate the most bland, easy to digest food I could find. Rice. Plain noodles. Toast. Soup. Boring as hell but it was all my stomach could handle.

But the badness had to go. My body had to get rid of the toxins and it was going to release them one way or another. I piled up dirty bloody Kleenex and turned the bathroom into a toxic waste zone.

My husband – my beloved sweet husband – took care of it all. He took care of me. Barely slept in case I quit breathing. Fed me even when I didn’t want to eat because my body needed nutrition. Gave me my medications even when I didn’t want to take them. Cleaned up the bathroom over and over again. And put up with my oxygen tubing running all over the floor.

He was amazing.

As were my friends. They stepped up in a big way. They took time off work, using holiday days to sit with me, to go and get groceries and pick up medications, to help around the house in all kinds of ways and in one case, to do six loads of disgusting laundry.

I have never felt so blessed.

The bottom line is I’m slowly getting better. The oxygen stays until at least the end of the month. My left lung is clearing nicely but my right one is still kind of a mess. But it’s better. I’m not passing out any more. I’m eating more normally and I’m not making running trips to the bathroom every few minutes. I’m sleeping better and hopefully I’ve turned the corner and will keep getting better until this is all behind me.

But I came as close to dying as I’ve ever done in my whole life.

Think about that. I sure as hell have.

I don’t think I’ll make great changes or anything. I rather like my life. But it made me think a lot about how much time I might have left. The doctors believe I have an underlying problem with my lungs and they still need to confirm that all of this didn’t do some damage to my heart. So I’m not out of the woods yet. But it all made me wonder what I haven’t done in my life that I still need to do and whether or not I’ve been as good a person as I could have been.

I’ll say this. I’m grateful as hell for the firefighters and paramedics who responded within minutes. The nurses and doctors at the hospital were amazing. All the support staff there were caring and sweet and never let me feel alone or scared. And the people in my life were so incredible I simply don’t have words for how that makes me feel.

I came very close to dying. I wouldn’t have even been conscious of it as it was happening. I wouldn’t have been conscious enough to say goodbye to my husband or my friends and family. I would have just gone under and that would be that.

Scary, right?

So I’ll say it again. I’m lucky to be alive. Lucky. And grateful. And thankful.

You never know when it’s your turn. When your time is up. Pneumonia kills people. So does the flu. Get both and you might just move to the front of the line for a trip to the pearly gates.

I guess it wasn’t my turn yet.

Thank God.

NaNoWriMo2019

This year I participated in the National Novel Writing Month for the first time.

The premise is simple. Write a novel of fifty thousand words or more in one month. Just thirty days.

Initially I assumed that you could only have a basic outline and not much more to participate. But it turns out that people use it as a way to force themselves to write. So they can use it to edit other work they’ve already done. Or to add to books already in progress.

But I went at it old school. I knew what the basic story line was and I had some names and a few situations lined up. Other than that, it was blank page time.

I started a little slower than the recommended word count and wondered if I’d be able to get it done. But then something took hold. I don’t know if it was the badges or the idea that I’d made this public promise or what. But my fingers flew, the words added up and pretty soon I was kicking ass and taking names.

By day 20 I hit my goal. Just over fifty thousand words. Astounding!

But the book wasn’t done. I knew that long before I hit their deadline. So I kept on writing. Even now at the end of the month there are still a couple of chapters to write. I expect when I’m done this book will be over eighty thousand words but I’ve got some editing to do so who knows.

So the question is this. Why does this even exist?

Simple. Because writing is hard.

It’s generally a lonely pursuit and having something that pulls you together in common struggle with other writers can really help. Having a goal to aim for and the gentle pressure of this contest at your back can sometimes make you sit down and write when all you really want to do is have a glass of wine and binge watch a bunch of old movies.

For me, I found those ridiculous digital badges part of what helped me. But I also found that the whole process was lacking in some ways. For instance, there is a badge for writing five and ten thousand words. But then there’s nothing until forty thousand. That’s kinda crazy. Why not one at twenty-five thousand? Or every ten thousand?

The badges were part of what helped me. Having more of them would have made the process more interesting. More exciting. At least for me, anyway.

The other thing I noticed was that at the end the whole thing about winning was something of a letdown. I expected more fanfare. All I got was a digital badge saying I was a winner, a blank certificate I could print and fill in myself and a bunch of deals to buy software and similar stuff for writers. None of which I had any interest in. I could get a t-shirt and buy other merchandise and they kept asking me to donate.

Honestly, it felt a little like a scam.

So will I do it again? I don’t know. It did force me to write but having been through the process, there doesn’t seem to be much reason to do it again. There’s really nothing in it for me.

I’d like to see all the books entered into a contest that published the top ten. Or even three. Put together a voting panel and ask them to read the entries. Give people another thirty days to finish up and edit and then choose some winners. Real winners this time. Because publishing is the whole point, right?

I did enjoy the process. I learned that I can motivate myself to write. Which, I think in hindsight, I already knew. I tend to write in big jags. I get an idea and it won’t let go of me. So I write until it’s out. Which doesn’t need a contest.

Anyway, it’s done. The end result for me is a book called “Play for Tish”. It’s a contemporary romance with a sports theme. Girl meets hunky football player. Girl is intimidated as hell by him. Girl’s grandmother is a feisty old gal with a raunchy past who is the football player’s kindred spirit. It’s funny, there’s lots of smooching and some naked time in a hot tub and in the shower. There’s drama at a football game, a scene that will make you cry and at the end, of course, happily ever after.

So to all those who participated with me in this years NaNoWriMo, congratulations! Even if you didn’t get to the goal you still tried. And that counts.

Because like I said, writing is hard!

 

Photo by Bruno Dias on Pexels.com

Never Forget

Today is Remembrance Day.

We all probably think we know what that means. We wear a poppy or observe a moment of silence or go to a service somewhere.

But do we really understand?

Do we know what it’s like to strap on a weapon and walk on to a battlefield? To stand shoulder to shoulder with men you’ve barely had a chance to get to know but will never forget. To willingly put your body in the line of fire?

Thankfully, most of us will never know what it’s like.

These days we don’t even seem to realize that we are in the middle of a war right now. One that has been raging on for so long that many of us can’t even remember when it wasn’t happening. Men and women head for a country most of us will never visit to wage war against an enemy few of us understand.

And one day a year we stand up and say that we won’t forget their sacrifice.

Saturday Night, on a hockey broadcast of all things, a so-called Canadian icon spoke hateful words about certain people in Canada, criticizing the fact that not enough of them were wearing poppies. He somehow equated that with citizenship. With honor. With remembrance.

He was wrong.

The poppy is a symbol. It’s an important one. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

I choose to wear one. The day after Halloween I put a poppy on my jacket. I wear it until a couple of days after November 11th and then set it aside until the next year. Does that make me a better citizen than anyone else?

I doubt it.

For me, it’s about respect. Respect for the grandfather whose war medals I know own. Respect for the men and women who daily cross the ocean and head to a battleground I will likely never see. Respect for the sacrifices of those who died in the wars that came before. Respect for the sacrifices yet to come.

But there are other ways to show that respect. And the person who spouted off nonsense about “you people” not being good enough because they didn’t pin on a poppy completely ignored the fact that there are all kinds of ways to honor our veterans.

Many of the immigrants he was referring to have served. Some of them are so grateful to their new country that they immediately enlist. Others support our military in the many other ways they can. They, of all people, understand what it’s like to live in a country where freedom isn’t a right.

They don’t need to wear a poppy to remember. They will never forget.

We are a nation of immigrants. Unless you are First Nations or a member of the Indigenous community, your ancestors are immigrants. The man who spoke such awful words Saturday night is descended from immigrants. Just like the rest of us.

Just like the people he was insulting.

Personally, I think we should wear a poppy. It’s a visible sign that you’re paying a little attention. Equally important is the fact that it’s a fund raiser for the Legions who are struggling to stay afloat these days. It shows that you care, at least a little.

But wearing one doesn’t make you better or worse than anyone else.

Those veterans fought for our right to be free. Free to wear a poppy. Free not to wear a poppy. Free to decide how we want to remember their service and sacrifice.

Free to be an ass about it all.

This is a big country. There’s room for all of us. And we shouldn’t let one guy tell us that he knows better. This man wasn’t elected and isn’t remotely qualified to tell us how we should live. He’s a relic from a bygone age of a sport that moved on without him. If he wants to blather on about how hockey used to be better and all the ways things are falling apart now then he’s free to do that.

Free because of “you people” who served when he didn’t.

No one should decide how we honor our veterans. It’s a personal decision. Our right to choose was hard-earned by those very men and women who fought, and died, so we can choose.

I hope he remembers that. I doubt he will.

As for me, I wear my poppy and even though I already have a bunch of them, I put five bucks in the box and buy another one every year. It’s my very small contribution to something I can never even begin to understand.

The rest of the year I count my blessings that I live in a country that’s safe and free. A country where we can live how we want and say what we want. A country where there’s room for all of us.

Even the insulting ones.

I remember.

And hope I’ll never forget.

Baby It’s Cold Outside… Or is it?

Kelly Clarkson and John Legend just released a new version of the old Christmas classic “Baby It’s Cold Outside.”

Honestly, I have no idea why.

I love Kelly Clarkson. She’s a balls to the wall singer, writes most of her own stuff and doesn’t let other people’s crap change who she is. She’s unabashedly goofy, unafraid to say what she thinks and she seems to exude love and happiness. From her first audition on American Idol (wearing pants made into a shirt!) to her new talk show that’s half concert and half cray-cray, she’s never let other people’s expectations rule what she did.

So frankly I expected better of her. Why the hell she would think that a song like “Baby It’s Cold Outside” ever needed a rewrite is beyond me. Is it a “Me Too” thing? Or was she just incredibly bored one day and figured she’d screw up something that never needed to be messed with.

I’m not as surprised that John Legend is involved with this. He’s all over the map these days. He writes sappy love songs that all sort of sound the same to me. He’s married to one of the funniest women on Instagram who outshines him practically every day and he’s a father to a couple of beautiful kids who are starting to get more attention than he is. He even played the son of God on live TV.

Maybe he was just as bored as Kelly that day. Because none of this makes sense.

I read the lyrics for both versions and I can’t figure out why anyone would think the new version is better. Both reference cigarettes, by the way, which would have been maybe the only thing I removed.

The line “It’s your body, your choice” is horrible. Just plain ick. Do we really want this in a Christmas song? Isn’t the fact that it’s her body and her choice a given? Do we need him giving her permission to have ownership of her own body? Because that’s what it sounds like.

For those people who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, this song has been sung both ways many times. Meaning that the male and female parts have been reversed. And the song still works. Because it’s a good song.

Or it was, until these two messed with it. It isn’t better because of the new changes, that’s for damn sure.

This song is about longing. About passion. Need. About wanting to spend more time with someone but feeling the weight of other people’s expectations. Of a Father who wants his daughter home and safe. Of neighbors who poke their nose into your business. Of a world that tries to tell both of them who and what they should be.

It’s not like the guy has her strung up in his “red room” and she has to use her safe word to get him to stop. They are two adults having a drink on a stormy night. The weather is bad but inside it’s nice and warm. They want to stay together but can’t. It’s the push/pull that happens in every relationship. The ‘I want to/I can’t’ we all experience in the early days of falling in love. It’s exciting. Scary. Overwhelming. And the storm outside is a reflection of the one going on in both their hearts.

Kelly Clarkson is better than this crap. I bought her “Wrapped in Red” Christmas album and loved it. Why she would do this nonsense is beyond me. She doesn’t need the work or the money. She also doesn’t need the crap this brought.

John Legend doesn’t need it either. Unless he’s feeling like he needs more attention these days because it’s mostly his wife Chrissy Teigen who get’s all the press. Maybe he needs us to all give him a warm hug so he’ll stop recording crap like this.

The bottom line is that these two singers are better than this garbage. Record the original version. Sing the ever-loving shit out of it the way we all know you can. And leave well enough alone.

Not everything should be looked at through a 2019 lens. If you have a problem with the original version of this song then why not carry it a step further? Why not rewrite Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer so that he’s never bullied? Why not rewrite Shakespeare so men don’t hate their fathers and women don’t go crazy? Why not give poor Yorick a proper burial?

Better yet, why not get all the bitches and ho’s and rape language out of hip-hop and rap. Why not take a look at music being produced today that encourages hatred of women, makes fun of their bodies and is just generally bad on every level? Why not rewrite some of that shit?

I’ll tell you why. Because art is art and even bad art is still art.

The whole notion that we should change classic works of art to suit our current sensibilities is ridiculous. Do we want to repaint the Sistine Chapel? Should we paint over every nude hanging on the walls in the Louvre in Paris?

By that thinking we should rewrite the Bible. There’s a lot of stuff in there that doesn’t even come close to suiting our current sensibilities. I wonder how that would go over?

These two artists are better than this. Unfortunately, people are going to buy the song in droves just to see what the fuss is about. Which might encourage them, or others, to do more of this crap.

Art is art. It should be allowed to stand as it is. It shouldn’t be changed or altered because the world is different now.

I’d much rather see Kelly Clarkson and John Legend working on a new song that would stand the test of time. Something that helped their fractured divided country to find common ground. Something that brought people together instead of splitting them even further apart. Something that healed instead of hurt.

There are a lot more problems in the world than this song. They should focus on those issues instead of messing with something that should have been left alone.

Frankly, I expected better. From both of them.

From all of us.

Oh Canada, We Stand

When I saw that “Oh Canada” was trending on Twitter today I figured someone had either done a really great or a really horrible job of singing the national anthem at a ball game the night before.

Imagine my surprise when I found out what really happened. Andrew Scheer made an ass of himself. Again.

In the House of Commons today there was a discussion about our national anthem. Specifically about changing a line in it to reflect a more inclusive tone. For the record, the anthem has been changed before and was, in fact, originally written in French. So the change isn’t unprecedented.

Normally such a discussion wouldn’t rate public outrage. Many people will continue to sing the old lines even if it’s changed. But over time as younger generations learn the new version, the old one will fade away. That’s how it happens.

No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Because Andrew Scheer, the leader of the Progressive Conservative Party who is currently running for election and trying to become the new Prime Minister of Canada, chose to sit during the singing of the anthem.

He sat.

Not in protest. Not because he’s disabled and couldn’t rise to his feet. He just sat. In the House of Commons, of all places.

What’s even worse is that he was on his phone. Obviously I have no idea what he was doing on his phone and I could certainly joke that he was searching for old photos of our current Prime Minister Justin Trudeau when he was in his twenties and a school teacher that nobody would give a crap about. Or that he was trying to figure out how to retroactively get an insurance broker’s license.

The problem is that it’s just not funny. This man wants to lead our country. He wants to represent each and every Canadian. But he can’t stand up for the anthem? He can’t even bother to put down his phone and pay attention to what’s going on around him?

My first question was why the hell he didn’t see that everyone else was standing and think maybe he should get up off his ass. My second was why I wasn’t even surprised at his behavior.

His response, when asked about it, was to say that no one told him to stand. He said that he would have risen to his feet if someone had told him to.

Seriously? He needed to be told?

Again, this is a man who wants to lead our country. (Big face palm here, folks. Really.)

Canadians got on his case about it. In droves. Politely, for the most part, but with a very sharp edge. Marc Garneau, a brilliant man with a PhD and the Order of Canada to his name, posted video of the anthem sitting and clearly expressed his disgust with what Scheer did. Or rather, didn’t do.

As the reaction built and more and more Canadians expressed their disbelief and displeasure at Scheer’s actions and his response, he was asked about it again. Specifically he was asked about Marc Garneau’s reaction to it.

In a particularly dense response, Scheer said that he’ll “take no lessons from Marc Garneau”.

Frankly, there isn’t a face palm big enough for this crap. Does he even know who Marc Garneau is? Does he know that the man is an astronaut? That he represented Canada not only in a distinguished military career but in space as well?

An actual astronaut, people. Which Scheer is most definitely not.

We can all learn something from Marc Garneau. But Scheer needs to be at the head of that line. To learn honor. Respect. Dignity.

And it’s more than that. A Prime Minister who thinks he has nothing to learn from others is… well, Donald Trump. The last thing Canada needs is an egotistical narcissist who won’t listen to anyone else. Even when he’s wrong.

I believe that we should all honor this country in our own way. I know there are those who don’t want to stand for the anthem and that they have valid reasons for their actions. But none of them are trying to be the next Prime Minister. Scheer is.

More’s the pity.

Stand or sit. Kneel in protest or bow your head. Whatever. But at least do it with some degree of respect for those who died representing that anthem and this country. And when you’re asked about it, don’t double down on being an ass by dishonoring one of Canada’s great people who has always represented his country in the best possible way.

I want a leader open to opinions from everyone. I want a leader who apologizes when he screws up because we all make mistakes. It’s how we own up to them and how we learn from them that defines us. I want a leader that doesn’t think his Twitter or Instagram feed is more important than what’s happening in the House of Commons right in front of him.

I don’t really care about a couple of specific words in an anthem. I care about what it represents. And to me it’s about pride in my country and pride in all the people who made this country great.

We need a leader who instills that pride in all of us.

Think about that when you go to vote on Monday October 21st.

One Last Excerpt from “Marked Hearts: Book One”

Just because I like you, I’m going to give you one more sneak peak at my latest book release.

Of course, you could always just go over to Amazon and downloaded the whole book right now. It’s free all day Sunday, September 29th. My other two books are free too.

Man, am I nice or what?

But just in case you’re not sure, here’s a little tidbit between Jake and Eylish. Their story begins in “Crashing In” and will move in and out of all of the books in the J’s Place Series. In this scene, Eylish has come to see Jake at his current job site but they get a little… well, let’s just call it distracted.

See what goes down, and comes up, in “Marked Hearts: Book One”.

…

Eylish stood in the door and looked out. A bunch of the guys were taking a lunch break, sitting around in a mostly clear area. There were boxes and pallets scattered in a rough circle and the guys sat around with lunch boxes and coolers open in front of them, arguing over the latest ball game or some shit.

“Gentlemen!” They all looked over at her. Several of them let their eyes troll around her body but they did so quickly. Everyone who worked for Jake knew within minutes of being hired that this woman was off limits. Way off limits. “Your boss is going to be a little… um, busy for the next half an hour or so. Anyone got a problem with that?”

There were wolf whistles and a few surprised laughs.

“Hey, if he can’t get the job done, you just come right back out here, little lady. We can handle things for him. No problem.” The guy who said it was a known joker. Eylish knew his wife and she also knew he was madly in love with the woman.

“Trust me, Carl,” she said with a wink. “He can more than get the job done.” She turned and flashed them a flirty wave. “But if the trailer’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’!”

She slammed the door shut on the catcalls and hoots of laughter behind her. She turned to see Jake staring at her in shock. He’d come to know her pretty well and usually she wasn’t quite so bold about their sex life. But as he watched her flip the lock on the door, his eyes darkened and his breathing quickened.

“Fucking hell! What has gotten in to you?” He watched hungrily as she walked slowly towards him. She stopped two steps away and undid the first button on her blouse.

“You, I hope.” She moved to undo another button and Jake’s hand flashed out and stopped her.

“You just told my men that I was going to fuck you in here.” His eyes were dark and stormy and for one brief second Eylish wondered if she’d gone too far. Jake stood there, staring down at her and the heat grew between them until she could barely stand it. “Just remember you asked for this, sweetheart.”

…

Can you guess what happens next? Hey, like I said. You don’t have to. Just head on over to Amazon and download the whole book.

Need more incentive? How about this?

“Marked Hearts: Book Two” will be released next weekend!

Isn’t that awesome.

Why so quickly, you ask? Because I hate reading Part One of something and then not being able to read Part Two for months. Or years. Or ever. Drives me nuts! I promised myself I would never do that to my readers. So you can take this to the bank – If I release something that’s got more than one part, I guarantee I have already written ALL the parts.

See what a great author I am? Always thinking of you.

So do me, and yourself, a favor and download all three of my books now. Get them today while they are free and then settle in for a bunch of great reads.

Oh, and since I’ve been so nice to you perhaps you could return the favor and post a review when you’re done.

A big 5 star one would be just perfect, thanks.

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