Money, Puppies and Chewbacca Cries For Help!

I went to bed pretty darn late last night. Now, for me late is 9:30 pm, 11:30 if I take my noon nap. Anyways, so I was up until about 1 am. Two girlfriends and I cried our eyes out for all different reasons. No feel good cries either. Sometimes I hate having ovaries, and feelings, and girlfriends and eyes that aren’t really crying just…..sweating it out.


I went to bed late, but woke up butt-fuck early. I simply couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and finally around 6 am I went to take a leak and couldn’t go back to my sweet, sweet, uncomfortable slumber land. I have a head ache, I’m officially/unofficially off my medications, my heart is racing, I’m sweating and just have a not-so-good feeling.


I am in my Sunday best (even though it is Wednesday). My Sunday best is comprised of sweats and moccasins.I haven’t had my coffee, my hair is not brushed and my make up still on from last night looks like a sad sad panda.sadpanda_large

I am waiting outside of the TD Bank. As soon as the doors open I burst through like a child running away from Disneyland. I head up to the first bank teller I see and completely unload.

You see folks, last night at around 11:30 pm I went to the bank to deposit my hard earned mula. Now, it may seem odd that a young lady like myself is out depositing funds this late. But that is the way I roll/ I usually work nights so after each shift I drive to the bank closest to the homestead and deposit money. It ranges from xx amount to xxxx amount. So last night, after a busy night of work I deposit a significant amount of x’s into my account. The issue here is as soon as I put the money in the machine it read “Temporarily out of service” No joke. My wad of coinage closed the bitch down. No receipt, no money back and checking on my handy mobile banking app it showed no money whatsoever had been deposited. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!! Clearly the little munchkin behind the machine had other ideas and decided to eat up my wad of green. SEE YA LATER!!!

So this is why I am here stroking out at the bank teller. I’m pleading my case, my ovaries are taking over and the waterworks start streaming down my face. Not only that, but the bank teller is pretty cute, and as I mentioned before I am not the most graceful of criers. I sound like Chewbacca rubbing one out. (So not lady like).

So the bank teller informs me that this stuff happens all the time and that I am not the first. Well, that is just fucking dandy, good to know my money is entrusted into this bank, really. It would have been nice to know the odds, ya know see the stats of how many people have their hard earned money taken away by these dirty machines. (Just throwing this out there…built by Jews?) 

I am also informed that they filled out an ‘investigation’ form for me. Well, fuck. So will we be expecting Horatio Caine or the Scooby Doo Clan waltzing in here to solve the mystery. By the way….THERE IS NO FUCKING MYSTERY!!NOT AT ALL!! I DEPOSITED MY MONEY, YOUR MACHINE TOOK MY MONEY, NOW I DON’T HAVE THAT MONEY!!! MYSTERY SOLVED! I basically paid the bank to rob me.

Okay, so form filled out. I am then told it can take anywhere from 1 to 2 weeks. WHAT. THE FUCK. I am not waiting two weeks for my money, this is why I came in late the night previous, so I could have it straight away. If I knew I would have to wait that long I would have kept the bills rolled up in my tube socks. (Side note: I always have money on me. I have bills behind mirrors, in books, under my pillows, in my record player and tube socks apparently…I once found 200$ in a fanny pack I had boxed up to give to the Salvation Army, but last minute decided to keep my fanny pack. Thank goodness too. 200$ well spent at the casino playing slots….JUST KIDDING…I don’t play slots).

Crying, sad panda getting sadder, I’m spewing my poetics about their dumbass machine. I’m HERALDING my advice and apparently the bank strongly dislikes advice.


Nap time at home. You see, whenever I am upset, stressed or having feelings I pass the time by konking out. Seriously, who wants to be awake and feel the shittiness that is life. So to add to this deep shit that I am soaking up, I get a phone call from the ex asking if I had taken Plum.

Just to clear things up, when the ex and I were together we were a family of five. Him, myself, Olive our maniac of a kitty, 10956634_10100468573986933_1848671186757172107_nBarrie St. Bernard and his little sister Plum. When we broke up I took Olive and Barrie St.Bernard while he left with his dignity and lil Plum and possibly a cactus.

So I get this call that Plum is missing. She wasn’t at his homestead. She must have gotten out and is going on her own little adventure. My heart just sank. Suddenly, everything I was so worked up about prior to, didn’t matter anymore. My lil baby was missing and the last thing I wanted was to see Plum’s mug on a milk carton or worse.

Barrie St.Bernard and I bust into Robin (our beautiful Jeep) and hit the road. At times like this you kind of wish throwing banana’s peels at cars was not only legal, but actually worked. So as we are flying down the highway, the ex calls and informs me that Plum has been found and she is in Juvi/the pound. Thank goodness, she is safe.

So I meet the ex and his mama at the Animal Shelter. A few hundred dollars later they bail her out of jail and also licensed her. Apparently, Plum has been an illegal alien in British Columbia for the past 6 months. Oops… I ask too take Plum for a day or so, which the ex agrees too. Even though she doesn’t live with me anymore the thought of anything happening to her kills me and I just need to hold her a little closer today.


At home, with my puppies. My head ache is fading. I have a bottle of wine and I’m watching the pups play with one another in the backyard. Sure, as soon as Plum was found all my thoughts of the whole bank issue was swarming in my head. But in moments like this, these things are rather medial. It is just money in the end, and it will work it’s way out. Plum is my family and I could have lost her today, but I didn’t and I would rather my family, than money.



Little Signs

I haven’t experienced much death in my life. In fact, in my 27 years I can easily say a handful. The first for me was just over a year ago. She was my best friend. After Lisa’s passing, I tried to prepare my heart for the future. I tried to prepare myself, knowing that a young and beautiful woman had passed, and there are more people who are in my life with such importance who will also pass. One day. Maybe not now, but possibly soon.

This past June as few of you know, I, along with my family had lost an absolutely wonderful and genuine person. My grandma. I could spend hours describing how magnificent she was. But, and perhaps this is the most magnificent of all her aspects; she was my soul-mate.

I will admit I haven’t full grieved her death. In fact, in the last two years I have fully grieved any death. Sure, I have moments where I am looking at photos, or a I pull out a random object that brings on the waterworks. But in all essence, I haven’t full opened myself to feeling the sadness. Lets face it, no body wants to feel that way.

When I was younger, I wrote poetry like a mad woman. Limericks to odes and all of the above. For every birthday and Christmas gift I wrote a poem. I used to write my grandma tons and tons of poems. And she in return read them, saved them, and gave me more poetry books to get lost in. At a young age I was surrounded  by Oscar, Edgar, Ogden…

My first published piece was in a Canadian Anthology of Verse Island Skies. She bought a copy, asked for my autograph and kept it on her mantle filled with family portraits.

I haven’t written any poetry in quite sometime.

On my flight from Vancouver headed to little town Wiarton, I wrote a poem. It was simple, it came so easy as I was writing it, it was as though someone had gotten a hold of my finger tips and my heart and wrote it for me. And so, I will share it. It’s not meant to be critiqued. It’s not meant to be judged. It’s not even meant to be for just me. It’s just simple meant to be.

I know I will see you again,

in another form, another place.

I have noticed that you left messages for me.

Little signs that I can trace.

The daisies bloomed nearly everywhere,

Popping up throughout the town.

It is these little things that let me know….

You haven’t left me yet, and that you, are still around.

The monarch have made their way…

to your house for company.

I greeted them with open arms,

just as you always did with me.

As I walked into your house,

I was surrounded by familiar faces.

By aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, fathers, mothers…

And you, my grandma too.

For my heart is where your place is.

It is hard to imagine a life without you,

physically here. It is hard to comprehend.

But I love you, I love the mystery of your messages.

Dear Grandma, Until we meet again.


Caitlin Ann

The Big H

Seems like the last few months my days start incredibly early. Most of the time it is before my 7 morning alarms go off, but I don’t mind. One morning however, it was not so wonderful to wake up. Not only was I up and not so enthusiastically at’em, but 4:30 is a little too early for me. So body, I’m not a farmer, fuck off.

The last couple weeks or so I have been having stomach and chest pains. It legit feels like a leprechaun jigging on my chest. So, Not, Cool. So alas, this pain never fully goes away, instead it’s been a constant. Straight up fucking annoying. Some days it is almost unbearable. Now, I am what I call a….tough cookie. But ouch, man. Seriously.

I am quite stubborn. That’s a fact. I strongly dislike going to hospitals or clinics in every way. The smell, the sounds, butt fuck everything. Most people think of hospitals as a place for healing. To me, its sickness and death. I will refuse and refuse to go. I could have a harmonica shoved up my asshole, and I still would refuse to go. Most likely, I would call up all the Plebians who owe me favours and tell them to finger my harmonica. I would rather lick butter off a prostitutes dirty ass butt crack than go see a doctor. HELL! One of the last times I saw a doctor they couldn’t find my hymen.  MY GOD DAMN FUCKING HYMEN. The doctor thought it was playing peek-a-boo…MY HYMEN PEOPLE!  HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY THIS. For fuck sakes, fuck hospitals and fuck doctors…..fuck.

Okay, moving on…

One of my closest friends advised me over the last few weeks to go see a doctor. Come on Cait, what is the worst that could happen? Um thanks closest friend, let me tell you what could happen.

  1. A shit ton, fool!

I simply refuse to go. Caitlin, says no, closet friend, Caitlin says no.

The chest and stomach pain was constant and consistent. I was dizzy, I was drowsy, either I was puking or my ass was puking. Now, I know what you are thinking. This bitch is knocked up. Sorry folks, hate to break it to ya, but unless my fingers are shooting spermies I am as un’-pregnant as humanly possible. If I was preggerz, meet Jesus Junior, the Second Cumming of Christ.

Almost forgot to mention, I am on meds too, but ya’ll know that so…. Yeah, the obvious side effects aside from cracking myself up and being awesome, I get constipated, faint, can’t think straight, I feel like a pansey, and I have the occassional slurrrrrr-rrrr-rring of words. I’m telling you, if they were casting Judy Garland’s BioPic I would knock that shit out of the park.

So all these forces seem to be building up inside of me. That one morning I was sweaty, the world was spinning, I couldn’t breathe, I’m telling you folks, I was one symptom away from seeing a baby crawling on the ceiling. I am alone. Who do you call when you are alone? No one is home. I got my cat plotting my death already, and my dog is licking his balls in the corner.

11745834_10100508642189933_6844818290448706980_n{SIDE NOTE: My boy Barrie is such a mythical Saint Bernard This cuddly beast has no idea what is going. Saint Bernard’s are supposed to be heroes. SAVE ME, BARRIE ST. BERNARD, SAVE ME! Granted, they are known for saving people from avalanches, the alps and people with colds. So I will let it slide, my boy Barrie. I mean the fact he was sitting in the backyard the other day trying to catch the wind with his mouth…whelp! It says it all.}

Okay, back to being alone. Who the hell am I going to call at this ungodly hour? I certainly do not want to call the parental units, not only would it worry them, but them being on the other side of the country is in all essence, useless. Sorry mom, sorry dad. I also thought, and this was a rather quick poke of a thought, to call some of my friends. However, the majority of them either don’t drive or do not have a vehicle to drive. Plus, the last thing a friend wants to hear is, can you please walk me to the hospital? So friends, maybe, you could get your license or a car  and then I could call you, and you could be like a ‘real’ friend…..just saying…

So looking at my phone, I realize I really only have one option. Call the ex. Fuck my life, this is so not ideal. SO. NOT. IDEAL. I call him, no answer. THANKGOD! Not meant to be. I understand, no one wants to pick up the phone this early in the morning, let alone knowing it is from your ex. It’s fine really, It’s a sign. C’mon Cait, you are a big girl now. Definitely not forking up 80$ for an ambulance, so lets drive. Smart thinking, I know! I went to university where all the smart thinkers come from. I put on my jacket, can’t forget pants, grab my Nikes, dish out my Id’s, snatch up the keys and Oh, I can’t forget my driving gloves! KIDDING! Driving gloves are for pussies, and for people who duel. EN GAURD!

So at some point between my front door and my beloved car, Robin I passed out. No joke. I woke up to rain and wind and what I am sure was once a slug smeared on my cheek. MMMkkay… maybe driving is out of the question.

Somehow I find myself crawling my way back up the stairs, baby steps, Cait, baby steps. I can hear my phone. Its ringing. Someone can save me! I increase speed, which really isn’t fast at all at this point. I’m racing to my phone, I reach the top, only to realize my phone was in my pocket the entire time. Seems legit.

Who is it? The ex. I pick up and was doing my best to play it all cool. I went to five years of acting school for this moment, FAIL! I caved. Oddly enough he was on his way with little Plum dog for the pups to play. So….


No line up, practically no hospital personnel either. I’m in a room and on a bed within one hour. The ex heads back to my place to keep an eye on the pups. It was for the best, he seemed agitated and annoyed at my conundrum. I’m sure driving an ex anywhere is on no one’s To Do List. Part of me wanted him to stay, especially since I have driven him to the hospital more times than I could count, but I needed to be alone. I had to do this on my own. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. We are just friends and that’s okay.

So I am in Room 1. FYI not a real room. Just a bed surrounded by curtains. There was a gentleman on one side of me in Room 2. He sounded like quite the comedian. He was cracking wise with the nurses, telling them stories that ranged from a one-legged prostitute he fell in love with in Bali to tea-bagging a donkey. Come to think of it, not much of a gentleman. Oh and he was in the hospital for….get this… full on corkscrew lodged in his head. Yup, 8 stitches later and a bandage that somewhat resembled a yamaka. L’Chaim.

Now, these hospital gowns, don’t even get me started. They are frail, not flattering and seriously, you can never have enough coverage, (which reminds me I need to switch my life insurance.)

11904718_10100532930141683_8754819215513386869_nSo anyways in my barely there hospital gown, nurse comes in to take my blood. She even says it in a creepy Transylvanian way which she thought was hilarious. I‘ve come to take vyer bloooood! I thought it was nonsense. I even told her to go back and re-enter like a real person. She did, such a trooperSo she grabs my left arm and can’t seem to find my vein. Stabs me anyways. MOTHER FUCKING OUCH! Painful! Incredibly so. Seeing my discomfort, she pulls out the needle, lets my blood drip on my beautiful hospital gown and proceeds to take blood from my other arm. I should have let the crazy bitch play Dracula. Be good to my right arm lady. It’s all I got until I find myself a man. She places cotton balls on my arms, both sore, my stomach is in pain, I can’t breathe, my veins are throbbing and all of a sudden…..a lonely tear drop falls from my eye. Then 2, then 3, and then the water works. I hate crying, I cry even more just knowing I can be an ugly crier. S.A.D.N.E.S.S.

Anyways, Room 2’s mom comes and picks him up. Enter, Room 2’s new patient, crazy lady. Why she be crazy? Let me tell you. I am there in my little ‘room’ crying. She starts crying. I get louder, she gets louder, I get even more boastful and operatic and she hulks it out even more. We sound like a whales, just a couple of swells I tell ya. MAAAOOOO WAHHHHH MAHHHHaaaa….Ahem, I am competitive by nature, its a gift, there is no denying it. So I use my years of voice training to …WAHAHAHAOOO BAOOOOOOMEOOOW MEOW…

This beautiful moment friends, goes on for quite some time. At some point my crying turns into uncontrollable laughter. The sad, sad story we were sharing turned into the funniest fucking moment of my life. AND THIS IS BEFORE THE DRUGS PEOPLE! She however, was not amused. She went silent. Later, Room 2 crazy lady. it was a pleasure. HAHAHA.

So non-bloodthirsty nurse comes in and mixes me up a frothy cocktail of grossness. It was straight up, gnarly. I sucked it back, channeling my college drinking days and I CAN’T FEEL MY MOUTH. Yes, she forgot to mention the numbness in my mouth that would happen with this shot. Clearly, she didn’t enjoy my whale talk as much as I did.

Follow blue line to x-rays. Follow blue line back to bed.

Pain, still so much pain. If I can’t handle this, child birth is not an option. I will order my children on eBay. Props to all you momma’s shitting out kids. Props Mom,

So the ex calls. I can’t talk. I’m trying to, but I sound like Leo DiCaprio from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. FUCK. MY. LIFE. Or in my case, FEEEOWKK MWAI LIFEEE….Like actually.Where are the actually drugs! This numbness, the mouth shit does fuck all.

I am such a baby. There was a man with a corkscrew stuck in his head, IN HIS HEAD! The fucking thing didn’t even phase him. Whereas me, a 27 year old, single, semi-independent woman Is whining over a misunderstood tummy ache. WHAHHHH!!!

Doc comes in, injects me with wait for it…..morphine! And oh my if you haven’t had morphine, I encourage you to have a go. You haven’t lived until a doctor jabs you in the backside (now I know why hospital gowns don’t close at the back), with a big ass fucking needle. The needle hurts, but the morphine feels like candy. I can’t talk and now I can’t think for myself. Clearly, every man’s dream girl.

So at some point, sprawled out on the bed, face down in a star fish position, gown back flaps wide open the doc revisits me. Lets me know I’ve been out about half hour or so. He gives me the down low. (The Doctor’s down low may or may not be featured in a future blog. After all, I should probably keep some things a mystery from you folks.)  So yada yada, yadada….basically in one ear out the other. The Doc will have to invoice me, seriously I’m high on all your hospital candies, drooling and not even noticing that I am drooling and this is the moment you decide to tell me what is wrong with me. SO. NOT. IDEAL.

What a day it was folks. It will hopefully be a long time before I decide to visit the big H again. Hopefully, my friends will have cars, and I won’t need to call the ex. Or I could not be cheap and take an ambulance ride. BUT WHATEVER….Now, excuse me while, I instagram the hole in my back from the biggest needle ever.