I am pretty sure I have been telling stories for my entire life. Perhaps it's my Scottish heritage that has allowed me my "great big geb" ( in English: my big mouth), this is not to say I can't keep a secret , or go yapping to everyone, well, not always .
My idea to start this blog has been rolling around my noodle for sometime. Years ago, after I had graduated art school in Vancouver, I used to type up a monthly letter which was really just about my day to day ramblings ( on an electric type writer no less. The whirling ball of flying letters and numbers!) photo copy it, and then mail it out to my friends. It was my way of connecting with my people that I used to see every day while hermetically sealed together in our college atmosphere, but couldn't always see out in the real world. Obviously, there was no at home internet at the time...or personal cell phones...or vegans for that matter. Wait, it was Vancouver in the early 90's of course there were vegans.
Guess in a weird way, I was blogging before there was actual blogs. I realize now too ( many years of therapy) I was also forcing my love on my unknowing friends. Just love me! I've always been a little bit like Peppy La Pue, oblivious to who didn't love me, just content to adhere myself to them anyway.
I like the idea of Coffee stories, and Wine stories...hence the illustrated couch supporting the two beverages on my home page. Not exactly sure how I will be catagorizing my future stories under these beverages, however I have a feeling wine stories will contain words like: shit and fuck, whereas coffee stories will not, they will contain profanity's distant and cheeky cousin : near swears. Such as "damn' dang, crap" etc..
I' ve so far lived a great big life, which would include, but not be exclusive to: 10 years of on again off again internet dating, which includes my story about the guy who threw me a surprise BBQ w all his friends and family in my honor for our FIRST date....oh yes, that really happened. Then there was the Irish man who came to visit me from Ireland, who failed to mention over the internet that he had tourettes. Not the verbal outburst kind, but the energetic body jerks and quirks kind. Had he previously informed me that he had a compulsive need to stab his arm up and down above his head like he was batting away bugs, I never would have felt like I had to keep ducking and swerving like they were coming for me next. I was exhausted after that dinner date.
He also liked to rub his man breasts in a circular motion when he got excited about certain topics of conversation ( mostly politics and kitchen gadgets) which, much to the shock and aw of my friends, did not go over so well...
I' ve lived in small towns , large cities and have been lucky enough to travel a fair bit. Once while in Ireland ( not for Stabby Irish Man ) my girlfriend whom I was travelling with were on a VW bus crammed in with eight other site see'ers. We were treating ourselves to a "Taste of Ireland Tour". Where upon we were taken to ancient moors of old Pagan Kings, ( our guide had to get the key for the locked midden from Mrs. Tinnery who also ran the local post office. That was after we heard him say " fer feck sake!" ( good example of Wine story here) under his breath as he yanked on the locked iron gate) Next stop folks?! An ancient battle ground set between two now crumbled castles ....our guide stopping our jittery VW diesel stead on the side of the road, only to whip out an imaginary tin flute on which he pretended to play a tune, making the trilling sounds with his nose and voice
combined, complete with battle sounds made with his stomping feet. At a time like this, one can not make eye contact with one's friend, you must do everything possible to hold back your laughter...you must, even if it means near asphyxiation
I spent many of my childhood summers in Scotland running around the foothills with sheep and my cousins. Sometimes just the sheep as my cousins ditched me in giant groves of thigh high heather, filled with wee stinging midgies. Scotland's teeny tiny fang filled, blood thirsty equivalent to the North American mosquito. Mid afternoon would find us back down from the hills, running and slavering to the site and sounds of the daily ice cream van. Like wee Pavlov dogs we started drooling whenever we heard that tinkling wonky music. My fave ices were Count Draculas...rich purple ice filled with smooth vanilla ice cream and a tart jammy centre ....jam blood! Or a flaky chocolate bar stuffed down a vanilla ice cream cone, what did we call it again? A pokey cone? Nah, it has another name...it will come to me.
These are just some samples of my stories, I welcome you all to stop in and have a read, maybe a laugh, maybe not ! whenever you can! I think I am really going to enjoy the hell out of this! ( Coffee story example, hell doesn't make it on my profanity list)
I would like to thank a very talented friend of mine: Diana Cohen, for setting this blog post up for me. If it were not for employing her highly skilled computer savvy, well I'd be fecked. ( almost a Wine story...feck isn't too naughty a word...)