It's about time for my dog's bi-annual trip to the groomer and he senses it. It's not that he hates the personal maintenance so much as he fears a repeat of the first time we took him in. That time, the groomer insisted on shaving him because of all the mats. Since that time, we've gotten better at keeping on top of the mats, (or I have, who are we kidding, I'm the Mom and it falls to me.) That first time, he returned home after the groomer, promptly dug a hole in the back yard, curled up in it and stayed for two days except to come inside at night. The dog was chagrinned. It didn't help that we had made such a fuss when we saw him. It was then we realized how sensitive and self conscious he was.

​In high school, and just a teensy bit too long past that, I had a job in a pet store. It was a good first job. I learned a lot. Minimum wage paid for my clothes, fuelled my Pinto (I kid you not) all the things any kid in the suburbs could want. 

I had always loved animals so it seemed like a good fit. And it was. My bedroom at home soon swelled with furred, finned, scaled and feathered creatures as I took full advantage of my staff discount. In hindsight, how could I have thought my parents were unfair? There were a few years there when you opened my bedroom door, you'd swear you'd walked into a barn. 

My zealous menagerie collecting slowed after the miniature Chinese hamsters refused to cease their cycle of mate, birth, eat the young. mate, birth, eat the young and repeat. I came home from school one day to find that finally one of them (I could never tell which was which) had also had enough and had eaten the head off the other. I can only hope it killed its mate first, but with those two you could not be sure. 

Then there were the two runner budgies (breeder rejects) that I brought home and named in honour of my favourite TV show Miami Vice. Instead of Crockett and Tubbs, they were Crocker and Stubbs. Stubbs had been born without feet, but admirably managed to balance on his perch better than you would think. Always a little shaky upon first landing and then he'd engage his core and voila, balance. It was quite something. 

I had several lizards, one named Ron. Salamanders, dozens of fish. One solitary teddy bear hamster named Gargamel and finally Madison the cat, who lived long enough to *attend my wedding, many, many years later. 

Early in my first year at the pet store, while still a neophyte, I met Mikey. Mikey came from one of the other stores (we were a chain) to teach me a thing or two about aquariums, fish, filters and everything related. He specifically wanted to train me on Fluval filters (probably because they were one of the most expensive things we sold). At Pisces (my aptly named store) we had a long wall of freshwater aquariums stacked three rows high. All of them full of water and fishes. 

Mikey got a ladder out, climbed up and placed a Fluval on top of one of the aquariums in the top row. He plugged it in. I don't know what Fluvals are like these days, but back then they were a little smaller than a two litre carton of milk and weighed considerably more. Mikey began to lecture me on the merits of this superior filtering system, his height on the ladder only adding to his condescending presentation, when the Fluval filter toppled over, like a rigid slinky, smashing it's top first into the second row tank directly beneath and then its bottom into the third row tank. 

Instantly, we had a disaster on our hands. Water gushed out of both smashed tanks onto the floor at our feet and fish flopped and flipped on the carpet. Mikey and I sprang into action, finding empty aquariums and rescuing fish from the floor and the broken tanks. Then finally cleaning up the big, big mess. We've been friends ever since the Fluval episode and I never let him lecture me again on anything without bringing that up. What are friends for? 

Pisces lasted about another year before it closed and I was transferred to one of the other stores. For the move, my manager asked my parents if it was OK if I came in late one Saturday night, well after the mall had closed to help them move the store. At the time I really didn't get that they were skipping out on their lease and making a break for it. I look back on it now and think maybe there is a parallel between my parent's patience with the petting zoo in my bedroom and their decision to allow their 15 year old daughter to sneak aquariums and dog food out a back mall alley with potential criminals at night. Then again, it was the 80s. Everyone was hands-off parenting. It was all the rage. 

No matter, I survived the move and went on to work at the other pet store for a few more years before I finally had enough. When I walk into pet stores these days to buy food for the dog, the smell instantly transports me back to those days. Not the salad days, but the pet store days. Now the dog and I just have to get through the groomer day. 

*Note: I did not take my cat to my wedding. The event was at my parent's house where she was living. 





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A few years ago I was caught on camera being a Skam artist. Not a scam artist, but a Skam artist. In 2012 and 2013, I wrote and performed two short plays in Theatre Skam's Bike Ride, now called Skampede. Skampede is an outdoor theatre festival that runs every summer in Victoria, BC.

The first year I created and inhabited Ranger Betty, a self-important, militant, all knowing park ranger in Nature of the Goose.  That production was fun and challenging and taught me a lot. It also gave me a great story. 

At the end of Bike Ride 2012, I attended the after party with my partner. A pleasant young man approached us and said he had seen and enjoyed my show that afternoon. He said it was 'entertaining and educational'. At that point, had the beer not been free, I would have offered to buy him one. 

As we talked, I found out his partner was in one of the other productions and that he was a Vancouver based musician. We started talking about music and I circled the conversation back to him. He gave me a few more details. Then I asked him what his day job was, assuming any musician I was talking to still had one. He said that he and his band mates were lucky enough to not have day jobs anymore. That's when my partner asked him his name and said, "Oh, I've heard you on CBC! You're doing very well."  

Is there any statement in the universe that screams middle-class, middle-aged Canadian  more loudly than that one? But how gracious he was. I've since seen Dan Mangan in concert. And like the thousands of others who already know who he is, I am wowed by his talent. 

If you are in the neighbourhood this summer, get out and see SKampede 2016. And, in case you are curious, here is a snippet of Ranger Betty from Bike Ride 2012. 

I started to write a Mother's Day blog last weekend, about my mom's sense of humour, (which is highly developed), but it went all over the place. I couldn't reign in the funny. Also, it made me think about my dad's good sense of humour which often functions on a different frequency than my mom's.

Dad is quick with the quips, especially the inappropriate ones geared directly at me, (his Archie Bunker impression never grows old, but it can be a little too good at times). His doesn't have the silliness that my mom's sense of humour does. 

This is why I never finished the Mother's Day blog because my mind went off in all directions about senses of humour in my family. Like, anything with a range of diversity, my disclaimer is no sense of humour is superior to the other, they are just different. I'm not heralding one family trait to be better than the other. Celebrate the differences!

I think we're all agreed that having a sense of humour can save us in the tough times. Any kind of light at all can lead us out of darkness. When I think about my parents' sense of humour I can't help but think of their family histories and the ancestors on both sides. No shortage of hard times, but the stories that remain and are told, are punctuated with humour. That survives. It gets passed on, which is nice because I don't come from a family that is passing on any grand multi-hectare estates back in the homeland. Besides some furniture, objects and photographs, the stories are all we've got. Nothing wrong with that. 

My mom had three brothers, the two of them who have died, were very funny. (Uncle Norman, I'm sorry if you are reading this, which I'm sure you're not, but I'm certain you would admit to being outplayed in the silliness and funny department by Victor and Brian.  This doesn't mean I don't think you are funny too. You are also very good with a snowplough, an excellent skill to have, [see above disclaimer, celebrate the differences etc. etc..])

Uncle Victor was a master of spontaneous crooner lyrics. He had a melodic voice whether he was talking or singing. He was stylish and graceful with a robust sense of humour. He could make a song up about anything and deliver it with a twinkle in his eye. I hear his voice in my head still when I make up ridiculous names for my own dog, like he used to do with his beloved Tilly. 

Uncle Brian was in a category all his own. He was a legend of my childhood. A great human package of fun. Being around him was always exciting. You never knew when he was going to say or do something outrageously funny. The story that best personifies this for me, is the time we were driving down a country road outside Yarmouth, Nova Scotia and he pulled the car over to ask some cows the time. He got out of the car and within earshot, carried on a one way conversation with the cows (a la Bob Newhart for those of you old enough to remember Bob) that was riveting and madly funny. Made even more so by my mom silently laughing uncontrollably beside me, smacking me as she does in that state, having her hands do the talking when her voice can't.

My mom is quick to laugh, because she loves to laugh. My father, as I've alluded to, has a different sense of humour, but no less developed. As I was writing this, I remembered in my youth stumbling upon an adult-sized, anatomically correct, male, white fuzzy bunny costume in our front hall closet. Amidst all the winter jackets. When I asked about it, I was told my father would be wearing the costume to an upcoming Halloween party. Nothing more was said about it. After the party, the costume disappeared. I'm glad to say, I never saw him in the bunny costume. (Good parenting decision Mom and Dad!) 

That is a different kind of humour. It's louder than my mother's. It's one that takes ... ahem ... gonads. And therein lies the family jewels. (Sorry).  
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The first time my mother-in-law served me dinner, I'd known her less than a day, she hovered over a pot of rice with an ice cream scoop and asked me if I preferred 'one boob or two'. As I watched the breast shaped mounds of rice land on my plate, I noted that not only did Anne resemble my maternal grandmother, but she shared a similar wicked sense of humour. I felt at home. 

Admittedly, I chose my mate, in part, because of this shared sense of humour. As a personality trait, I find humour pretty crucial. Like everything, it can be nurtured, but it helps to have a little in your blood.  

You have to admit, Spirit of the West is a pretty damn good band name. This past weekend Spirit of the West played their last concerts at the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver. For me that is a potent mix of nostalgia on two fronts. My high school graduation dance was at the Commodore Ballroom and I saw Spirit of the West perform there years later when they were still at the height of their popularity. The bouncy dance floor came in handy on both nights. 

But, things have changed. Spirit of the West is retiring, high school graduation is a distant memory and I no longer live in Vancouver. 

All this reflection, also leads me to think about my first blog post, last March and how I came to finally start this blog. I've always written. It's how I make sense of the world. Poems, short stories, short plays, monologues, articles children's books, journalling. I've worked and played in all these genres.

One day in the midst of a dark time, I had a flash of insight while walking the dog. (I find dog walking good for fresh air and epiphanies in general) It occurred to me that if I could find my way back to the funnier self of my youth, and bring some of that energy into my current life, that could only be a good thing. As the saying goes, pain is inevitable suffering is optional. Life is what it is, but if you find something to make life sweeter, you should grab onto that. That's what I told myself anyway while picking up after the dog. 

I knew that I could definitely use a little levity. It was, in a way, a reversal of that adage we often hear, "what advice would you tell your younger self?" I wanted to know what my younger self would say to this older, lost version of myself. 

Striving to write humour seemed like a concrete way for me to find my way. The idea was cemented when I had a chance conversation with the older sister of my best friend from high school. Talking to Sue was like a jolt. She reminded me how silly her sister Sharon and I had been and how funny we were. It was refreshing to talk with someone who knew me before I was this grumpy partner/step-mom/mom/robotic person. I used to make people laugh. When I told Sue that day I didn't really do anything funny anymore she said, "you've got to bring back the funny." 

I am well aware that life cannot be and is not all sweetness and light, but why not fill the in between with light? Yes, I thought I will bring back the funny. Maybe if I gave myself the space and time to write and think funny things again, it would bring some levity and lightness back into my life. And Dear Reader, I'm happy to report that it has. I have been having much fun writing funny things for you. Although I admit today's offering is not very funny. My humour writing practice has not solved the problems of the world, but it has improved my tiny, little world and for now that is enough. 

Back in high school,  (before my first bouncy night at the Commodore Ballroom), I had a creative writing teacher, named Mr. Holuboff. Mr. Holuboff encouraged me to write comedy. He encouraged us all to just write, but he actually seemed to think what I wrote was funny. Not always, but sometimes I could make him laugh. This was a revelation to me.

In Mr. Holuboff's creative writing class, we had to produce a short story every two weeks. There it was; the space and time to create. And a deadline. (Ah, let us have a moment of silence to honour the breadth of creativity induced by the holy deadline). If we didn't hand in our ten pages of writing (longhand) we didn't get a mark. And we had to read our work out loud. This was great writing practice.

My favourite part of that class was making Sharon laugh. She was my litmus test. If I could push Sharon into hysterics, I'd done my job. I'd run story ideas by her, see what reaction I'd get and proceed from there. That's probably why hearing her sister say 'bring back the funny' was so powerful. Sharon and Mr. Holuboff were my first audience. 

Life is bittersweet. Spirit of the West retires, in part because the brilliant John Mann has early onset Alzheimer's. I wasn't at any of the last concerts, but by all accounts they were as raucous and vibrant as ever, with an additional layer of poignancy.  I'd like to think I was there in spirit. I haven't bounced on that dance floor for a long time, but it's part of who I am. 








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