Chilliwack Dreamin'

We arrive at the lake on Friday nights, usually around 8:00pm. By then, a small crowd has nestled down into our site, lights turned on, ice stashed in the coolers, with neighbours and friends ready to greet us with cold beer dangling at the ends of open arms.

Mark was there last Friday and had just returned from a fishing trip up in Campbell River, and look what he brought us: Hmmmm, fresh prawns. He even made garlic butter, as you lifted the little buggers towards your mouth, it's smell teasing your taste buds mere seconds before the prawn is infused in such delight.

As you know, Mark and his wife have expensive taste. They drink Grey Goose Vodka and lately they've been mixing it with Red Bull energy drink.

Now, I haven't tasted either, since I hate vodka and I'm too nervous to drink these energy things that make your heart race and keep you up all night wondering when it'll explode. Mark makes up drink after drink and offers them to just about anybody who walks by our site. Including prawns!

Lately, I've noticed other seasonal folks walk by and wave, or stop to chat as if they've known me all their lives. It makes me wonder about the late night walks Mark and hubby take to other sites, drinks in hand. There's this one guy hubby talks about, a gentle giant ex-South African cop, who tells a story of once killing 21 men.....with 3 bullets. Anyways, hubby has visited him on several occasions, always sneaking up behind him and grabbing him by a headlock. Gentle giant barely flinches.

The Grey Goose vodka bottles are too beautiful to throw out and I've been keeping the empty ones for display at the camp table. (anything goes when decorating campgrounds) Until one evening I spied two young men stalking out the place, I hear them whisper "are they full", then one dodges behind a tree closer to the site to investigate further. You've never seen two guys run as fast as they did when I popped out of the trailer. I think I'll get Brandon to piss in them.

Sometimes I am left alone with my thoughts as the visitors depart, when the teenagers don't want to listen to my old fuddy-duddy music, as Brandon runs off to Cooper's place and as hubby and Mark are out and about making new friends, this is the only time, MY TIME, I'm allowed to play my music:



The boat traffic hasn't been all that bad this year, probably because of the price of gas, but as always, some yahoo has moved our buoy to accommodate his own boat. And he moves our buoy so that it is too close with another guy's buoy. At least he's not anchored on it. Since the end of June the campground has been full and you get this few oddballs who think they can do whatever they want to.

We ordered in a truckload of pea-gravel to cover the sharp crap that was already there, sharp pieces of slate or something. We also needed the extra layer to even out the site. It looks quite nice now, as we lay out our loungers and prop up the umbrellas behind them, looks tropical.

Approximately 2km from Cultus Lake there is a new housing development called







There are not too many pictures on the internet (because I still don't have a camera charger) but these pictures sort of show the view, except these are the homes on the lower street of the development. And many of the trees on the hill have now been cut down. House prices ranges from 450,000 to 714,000, depending on the view you get, but all the houses are built with top notch materials and care.

We've been watching this development for about a year now and there are a lot of houses ready built for sale. We love the Chilliwack area. It's clean or fresher or something. New. It's also not Surrey, where it's becoming a dumping ground for America's Most Wanted. You can't go shopping anywhere now without having some rehab ex-convict manning the cash register.

I hate my neighbourhood. I hate my neighbours. I hate being the minority. I hate it when the Surrey R.C.M.P. won't lay assault charges on the 50 year old fuck next door who choked my 15 year old visually impaired daughter, then punched her in the face, just because she wouldn't move away from a basketball hoop nearby, as they park underneath it to pester the kids again. They saw no marks on her neck, despite 5 other teenagers, my husband and myself witnessing this event, they believed him and his now Christian demeanor of lying through his teeth, "I didn't touch her".

The next evening I saw him and yelled out into the street that I was going to kill him, "I'm going to kill you if you ever touch my daughter again...I am going to buy a gun and kill you ..you goddamned motherfucker!"

10 minutes later the Surrey loser-brigade is at my door. Go ahead I yell, charge me for uttering threats, but you damn well better charge the loser next door too, or there will be hell to pay.

I'm not afraid of the Surrey RCMP anymore, nor do I feel protected. They're useless. And don't bother phoning the complaint line either, because the bitch at the switchboard will just tell you there's a shift change and there's more important crime out there than your little incident. So let me get this straight: you won't come when fucktards next door have blocked my driveway so that I can't hook up my travel trailer to go camping, but you will come when I tell you that I'm just going to tie up their car then, with a towline off my Hummer and remove them myself. And I'm the one in trouble. Hmmmmmm?

See, I'm already rawled up. It's not easy to make a decision to move. But if you're feeling bad about yourself when you're home, hide out from her and her spying and whether or not your dumping debris down the creek, or your pool pump is too loud, or the kids will get run over by their speeding in the street and knowing the police won't do fuck all, or the other neighbours who haven't pressure washed their houses in years and it's now stained in moss green, with unkept gardens, and the prostitutes come at night to take care of business because everyone in the street is too cheap to leave their lights on at night, and the 80 bed facility nearby is almost ready for the next round of released convicts.

Shit, only three more days, only three more days until Friday.

There Better Be a July Long Weekend!!

Canada Day this year falls on a TUESDAY, which means there will not be a long weekend. I've heard many companies are remaining open on Monday and taking Tuesday off.

NO WAY.....


I've instructed my clients to stay away on Monday because I won't be here, and that's final. In five years I've taken two sick days (but was still open anyways) and just one emergency day (when I had to send everyone home). And this was because hubby began taking Niacin, which has gotten a reputation for being a nutrient that is able to lower cholesterol. However, on his first dose something went wrong...he began to turn beet red, which we now know is flush, which, at certain niacin levels the expansion of the capillaries can cause heat, redness and itching. But did we know that. NOPE. I dialed 911 instead because his entire body was turning colour and he felt weak and uncomfortable. It eventually went away but I was sure scared.

The weather forecast calls for fantasticly HOT.

I haven't yet told Sabrina she will NOT be allowed to bring along a friend, especially the boyfriend, because it's costly, one more body takes up more space in the Hummer, the trailer, everywhere. We can't walk around in our underwear, fart, relax.

Not certain if Mark and his kids will be joining us as they just purchased a new house in Chilliwack and could possibly be moving this weekend.

Duck, Duck, Goose!

One of hubby's chums from Quebec called him last week and was going to be in the Vancouver area for a convention. They haven't seen each other in 30 years. When Richard arrived it was like they never parted as they drank Corona beer in the Hummer, playing Jimmy Hendrix loud and proud until midnight.

He sent some pictures of what they do in northern Quebec, spear fishing, hunting, shooting geese. He said when the Canadian geese fly over they blacken the sky because there are so many and all they need to do is shoot their guns upwards, and voila, dinner.

Camping June 14-15, 2008

Brandon at camp.
Mark, our new chef.
The new Hummer.
Sabrina, her BFF Adrian and Brandon
Short walk to the lake.
The new canopy, tables and chairs.
My new arbor with plants.
Getting ready to go ATVing.
The new barbecue.
Brandon rides Mark's ATV.

When I was King

One of the bestest present I ever received from my parents was a tetherball pole. After we lost interest in baseball and kick-the-can, Dad dug a huge hole in the middle of the yard and cemented us a pole. Tethered to that pole was a ball, a hard one, similar to a soccer ball, smaller than a basketball, and it was strung on a strand of rope meant to wrap and wrap and wrap itself around the pole.

Hence the winner of the game of tetherball.

When I was a little girl attending John Robson Elementary School in New Westminster, this was the recess fodder. And I remember standing in circle,
minutes and minutes, waiting for my time to enter the circle of tether. Once I got there, I was defeated immediately by the older girls, the ones who always won and knew how to wrap the rope around the pole at it's highest peak, far from my reach. Then the bell ran.

Day after day I would run to the circle in hopes of hitting the ball, just once. One girl actually gave me a chance and let me catch the ball and with a huge breath I swung my arm around, my muscles burning, I heaved and let the ball go. It flew over her head....just once, then she caught it on it's next flight around, and that was the last time I ever touched the tetherball at John Robson Elementary School.

My sister and I practiced night after night, day after day, playing this damned ball around the pole. We sprained our fingers, fought over fairness, we had friends over to play over and over again, we never stopped playing tetherball. It was greater than hockey.

At junior high I became known as one of the best players. I knew how to wrap the rope as high as it could get, tightening the ball at it's crown, an immediate defeat, unless I gave 'chancies'. By now I am tired of playing this childish game, need to go for a smoke, and I let the little kid win.

Sabrina and her friends played tetherball at the park tonight. She came home covered in blood, her legs and arms covered in blood and what the Hell!

Her friend was riding the ball, as it made it's journey around the pole, around and around and around until her finger got caught in the rope and sliced it clear off.

One of the kids found her finger tip, another found her fingernail that popped off.

And I don't feel sorry for this girl....why? Sabrina had to carry her home on her back as she was near fainting. Why do I feel angry instead?

Deep down I know why....this was my childhood game, the one I conquered and defeated and had hopes of my own daughter having memories of her dad digging a cement hole in our yard. Instead, she is left with this vision of finger mutilation ... I hate this decade. I hate the kids of today, their technology, and not knowing how to respect the aged games.

Running out of Driveway

I drove our new H2 Hummer for the first time today. We've had it for about two weeks...I just couldn't get up the nerve to drive it yet, this black ominous gangster truck, much larger than the H3 model I'm use to driving. Here are some pictures downloaded off the internet because I still don't have a recharger for my camera. Our truck is much nicer though, lots of chrome and shine.

Hubby refuses to drive it to work...in the rain. He doesn't want to get it dirty! So he takes our old crappy van and he got a flat tire this morning, which is why I was forced to drive the beast. Parking is a bit tricky at our house as the driveway can accommodate only two vehicles. Following is a picture which is similar to our travel trailer, which takes up one of those spots.

We've been having problems with fuck-face next door again, so we moved our trailer to the side closer to her house, and had it stick out ....way, way out, LOL! This was our solution to get her to stop yelling at my customers as they park in front. Stupid retard shithead called the By-law officer on us, except when he told me I had to move the trailer, I told him to take another look at the end of the road, especially for the sign that reads 'PRIVATE ROAD'. I own the road, fucktard next doors owns it, too...and there's nothing By-law can do about it.

In April we will bring out our boat and it will be stored beside the trailer, which will mean the hummer and van will be parked on the road, but only until both recreational vehicles are moved to our lake site in May.

Since this post is about trucks, etc. I thought I'd steal some pictures off my mom's blog to show you pictures of my dad's prize-winning 1940 Ford.

It is often used for advertising car shows, like the following:

IADT Dun Laoghaire SUCKS

I had my feelings hurt today, which is a difficult thing to do. It wasn't because I was called 'fatso' or that hubby forgot our anniversary. No. This was because of a school located somewhere in Ireland.

I enjoy blogging and have several readers from around the world drop in to read AND SEE what's happening in my neck of the woods, also known as "the most beautiful place on earth, British Columbia."



My site reader provides a lot of information and details about my readership, such as how they found me with a referring URL, sometimes with bizarre things googled like 'pee gag', 'mother twats', many 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas gifs' and Transformer instructions, etc., and these search criterias sometimes point to one of my blogging posts.

I've noticed many of these referrals simply state:
http://practicalsupportstudies.com/week6_blogs.html

So I decided to see what it was.
Turns out it's a class course outline for "Blogging for Beginners"


What is a Blog? A random sample of blogs:
Irish blogs:
Present Tense
(by Shane Hegarty - a companion to his regular columns in the Irish Times)The Chancer (sort-of satirical look at popular culture and politics)
Eye-witness blog:
Baghdad Burning (one of thousands of blogs from Iraq)
Celebrity blogs
Stephen Fry When he's not selling you tea, or being brainy on demand ...Go Fug Yourself
Blogging about celebrities, not by celebrities.
Special interest blogs:
Whether it's cuddly toys or atonal music, there's a blog out there
...The Bathroom Blogfest Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

Personal diary blogs:
Just because you have nothing to say, doesn't mean you don't want to say it to the world anyway. Raccoons in your boiler room? Gotta tell the planet ...Who reads these blogs?
Yes, there's a lot of blog-rot out there, which is why you can now buy these.

The link stating "Who reads these blogs?" provides a blog example of blog-rot as stated by the teacher above, and yes, this link points to my blog.

WHAT! Why would my blog be used as an example of rot? I've seen so much bullshit and filth on bloggers, porn, adverts and home business nonsense, yet my little stories and pictures of my life is being used as an example of "who reads these blogs?" What lesson can these students possibly learn other than clicking on the second link which suggest they purchase this:



Furthermore, I do not blog for visual arts purposes. I blog my events of the day, which is a hell of a lot more purposeful than "using blogger as a notebook for artists". And, I do have readers, intelligent, well-educated folks who don't find my blog pretentious, as some are, because I speak from the heart, not because it's my job...or that I've been sitting in an Irish pub all night long getting shit-faced stupid, writing up course outlines.

I sent an email to this school and have demanded they remove this link to my blog from their class study. I hope this teacher who arranged this study outline considers first the hurtful feelings instilled by this blogger, maybe critique someone in his own country and not upon 'a good Canadian kid' half way around the world.

The Furniture Doctor

Hubby handed in his Letter of Resignation today.

It was a difficult task to do since he's never had to do it before. Hubby is a furniture refurbisher, which basically means anything you buy at a furniture store will envitably have scratches, dents or damage on it's wood parts that you don't even know about, because during shipping these wood products are damaged. Hubby erases these flaws, sands down, repaints, lacquers so that your piece of furniture you saw on the showroom floor...shows like brand new.

He has mastered this skill over 27 years and has worked for one boss this entire time. Until she retired last year and he took a position for the same company, different location, different management, different. This new position had him working 'service calls' on already delivered furniture that somehow was damaged between the store to the customer's home.

Meanwhile, he is well known in the furniture business as probably the best refurbisher around and is solicited constantly to join one company or another. Last week one of these stores made him an offer he couldn't refuse....his own. Almost $20,000 more a year, a bidding war resulted and I'm already pondering new appliances and hair streaks.

Hubby is doing this for us, his family, yet he can't shake the abandonment feeling, the guilt he feels for leaving this company of only one year. This is something I don't understand because I have left some companies with great relief, one company I stormed out twice because I forgot my car keys in the desk drawer and needed to go back and get them.

Usually when one gives notice you are escorted off the premises and are paid out your notice, but not this time....seems this store is going to hang on to hubby until the very last moment.

This particular company has fucked up...they closed down the British Columbia warehouse to relocate all their goods to Kent location, as in Washington USA. They anticipated this cut would save storage fees. Nope. First of all, everyone knows you don't try to do deliveries between two countries. You don't hire on the cheapest delivery company to squeeze in every last piece of furniture being sold in British Columbia, and have that furniture delivered to customer off this truck. This truck needs to return to Kent, Washington....and if can't deliver all it's goods....it will show up at hubby's dock. Period.

This scheme smelled like warehouse ever since fat bulbous boss from Boston spewed his cigar breath on the gaining Canadian dollar.

I feel particularly sorry for this company because fat American suit quit a few months later after making these huge changes...and joined a competitor.

Idiots.

Bacon and Ovaries

I had contractions yesterday morning. They were about two minutes apart and extremely painful. At noon I gave birth...to a large mound of gooey uterine lining.

I've had my period for almost two weeks now and I'm getting pissed off with this so called Perimenopause, which occurs for several years before actual menopause and sometimes precedes menopause by as many as fifteen years. Holy Shit!


Did you know that menopause is not actually called 'menopause' until one year after your last period?

Many women begin experiencing symptoms of pre or perimenopause several years before menopause occurs. The age when the signs of premenopause occur varies among women. Some women experience the symptoms of perimenopause in their early thirties, while other women may notice menopausal signs in their forties, and still other women never experience any changes during menopause.

Menopause, the word, is a combination of two Greek words which mean month and terminate. Translated literally menopause means "the end of the monthlies."

Symptons include increased fat around the waist (which explains why none of my clothes fit), loss of muscle mass and increase in fat tissue, as well as having headaches, memory problems, and joint and muscle stiffness or pain, and of course, the sweats.

Does this mean I've been perimenopausal for 10 years now?