A cure for writer's block

Many authors experience writer's block; a kind of literary constipation that causes their ideas to back up in their minds like turds in a reticent intestine. 

That's particularly true for writers like us, who write shit at the best of times. To help unclog your cortical colon, I therefore offer the following short film in the hope that it will trigger verbal diarrhoea rather than the bodily discharges that this product elicits from the anally challenged.

I wish you a productively crappy weekend.


I just want to be covered in sunshine . . you remember it don't you?  The warm stuff from the sky that makes the world all glowy and stuff.

For anyone needing to know what sunshine looks like here is a little reminder . . LEST YOU HAVE FORGOTTED:

Yes, there really are pretty colours under the white stuff/brown puddly things.  There really are skies with shiny warm stuff a happenin'  Keep the faith people.


Snapchat, Snatchsnap. Time To Wise Up!

A Note To Youth Of Today
This snapchat shot was seen by over 20,000 people

I am writing this hoping you are well and with an even greater hope you can understand.

I was born to an era that didn't use mobile phones, had no great interest in computers as they were things the size of wardrobes, and to take a photograph you had to:

  1. borrow the family camera 
  2. ensure you had a film in it, praying like billio Mum had bought the expensive 36 exposure rather than the 24. 
  3. get everyone possible to stand together for picture
  4. Take photo.
  5. when you had finished the amount of photo's in the camera (ie 24 or 36), go to town and leave film with a developer shop, or later in the 80's send in post in a little self sealing plastic bags.
  6. Wait a couple of days
  7. Go to town and pick up photos.


Toothpaste in my eye
Ow, fuckity, fuck, fuck, FUCK
"Optic White" done wrong

Omphaloskepsis (navel-gazing)

One does not gaze
Using one's navel
Nor that of others too

One gazes as if
Perusing one's navel
I can and so can you.

Navel gazing 
Isn't social
It's purely about me.


It’s funny the way life make it’s way through events.  Much like a river, sometimes it bends and twists through rocks and hills and sometimes it just overpowers the obstacles in it’s way and just forces change.  And change is something that my life knows all about.  My life changed, the life of my hometown changed, and, really, the life of a nation changed.  The sixties meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people.  For me it was my coming of age and formed who I am today.
I guess every parent figures out their child’s destiny in their heads.  I guess my parents were no different.  They probably had me pegged for finishing up my high school studies and then working as a seamstress with my mama until I married some boy who worked down at the mill.  They probably had me pegged for being a little old housewife with a bunch of kids running around by the time I was 22.  In their perfect world I’d be on the PTA and attending church on Sundays.  But like we talked before, life is like a river.  Sometimes the current just draws you in and you just don’t know where you will end up.


Lumbersexual (adj.):

Pertaining to a person - usu. male, usu. city-dwelling - who has a penchant for wearing flannel shirts, particularly plaid or checked ones, even though he is more likely to spend his days in front of a computer screen than hacking down trees in British Columbia. Said shirt may not be tucked into the trousers for fear of looking uncool.

Optional accessories: Beard, axe, sandals, outdoorsy picture to pose in front of.

Optional personality: Hipster, maniac (axe-wielding)

Not to be confused with: Homosexual (loves sex with homogenised milk), antihomosexual (hates milk-fuckers), metrosexual (sex in the subway), asexual (sex from behind), intersexual (sex with foreigners), intrasexual (prefers people from their own country), parasexual (sex with ghosts), unsexual (headache) and psychosexual (Freud).

See also: Whetstone, Gillette, lubricant, therapy.

Some serious shit

She came home 6 days ago and said "Mama, can we talk?"

She told me about how she'd had thought about hurting herself- ending her life- about how the world would be better without her.

Man, that's some heavy, serious, total fucking shit.

We took her to a hospital- diagnosed with anxiety, depression, communication disorder...

They asked her why she wanted to live. She said "Well, I kind of want to go to college. But really, it's because my baby brother needs me- when my folks are gone, I'll be the only one who can translate the world for him."

She's on day 3 of Zoloft. She's on day 4,320 of being a special needs sib. I'm on day 5, 580 of being her mom and having my heart walk around outside my chest.

I can't kiss it and make it better.

I can't wish her depression away.

I can only hope and pray and tell her I love her, that everyone who has ever met her loves her a little, and that this world would be so much darker without her light...

... and hope she hears me. And hope she thinks it isn't shit.

Images from my run

 An orange bobble hat wearing a tracksuit-sporting runner;
A woman surreptitiously looking at my crotch;
A beggar sitting on the pavement directly in front of the door of a tobacconist's shop, his legs splayed, an arm outstretched towards exiting customers;
A boy gently cradling his toy monkey in the crook of his left arm; he, his father, mother and sister all hold hands;

Three smashed car side windows;
A shiny golden Madonna statue bathed in sunlight;
Leeks on a display outside a shop;

A skateboarder shooting down a steep hill on the road, then swerving to a stop;
Two brown leaves, their dry sides curled upwards;
An old woman, her hair died bright red, dragging a brightly-coloured shopping trolley behind her;
Soap bubbles blown away by the wind;
The skin on my arms, not quite as pale as my top and sweatbands in spite of the season;
A tiny child on a correspondingly tiny three-wheeled scooter;
Another, older, beggar, this one sitting quietly with his dog, a cardboard sign explaining his plight;
Lovers embracing, a stripe of silver sequins splashed across the handbag slung across her back;
A Goth-like woman with a young dog, her tights splattered with paint;
A serious-looking little girl on a bicycle, a pink hood pulled over her head;
A wheelchair-bound man shaking hands with a friend in full Muslim garb, the latter's white cap and gown perfectly matching his Apple ear buds;

A pink, horse-shaped helium balloon trying to resist its owner's tug;
A woman with a strikingly upturned nose-tip smiling for a photo on a bridge;
A man looking over his shoulder to see what side I'll pass him on;

A boy in a fluorescent orange helmet parking his fluorescent orange tricycle with fluorescent stabilisers in front of a bakery.


Just The Two Of Me . . . Being Organised Chaos In One Person

I often wonder whether everyone is the same as me or, whether I am in deed a bit . . .erm . . "special" as my partner tells me.  Not special as in a rare gift from heaven, but special as in a bit tapped/slightly barking/one of gods special people etc.  You see, I am not just Cathi Gaughan, short woman who loves muscles, tattoos has a very eclectic taste in EVERYTHING, and seeks out people who make me laugh and live on the bright side of life.  I am two very different people, both of which are present all the time.


We are all creatures of habit in one way or another. Although I don't consider myself obsessive, I have a number of habits that I stick to religiously:
  • I always sleep on the right side of double beds - even if the other side is unoccupied.
  • I can't stand poorly stacked plates, etc. in the dishwasher and will always rearrange them. 
  • I always take water with me on a run, no matter what the season or the temperature. 
  • After a run, I always stretch my calves, then my quads, then my hamstrings, always starting with the right side.
  • I feel somehow naked if go outside without wearing a cap. Except when going to official or business appointments,when it feels perfectly normal.
  • I drink three cups of coffee a day; two in the morning, one after lunch.
  • I always add a shot of liquid caramel and some vanilla extract to my second cup of coffee of the day. But never to the first.
  • Unless I'm changing, I always take off my trousers, pants and socks together.
  • When undressing for bed, I always place my wedding ring inside my bracelet on the night stand. When I still wore an earring, I would place that inside the ring. 
  • I always carry my keys in my left trouser pocket and my phone in my right pocket, where I always keep a paper tissue, mostly used.
  • As a remnant from the time we lived in the States and were six hours "behind" Europe, I check my e-mail on my phone before getting out of bed every morning.
  • After showering, I always dry my face first, before moving on to my hair, back, arms, front, groin, bum, legs and feet. In exactly that order.
  • I always walk around the apartment naked and dress within view of the buildings opposite, even though I know people can see me. My neighbour has even commented that we effectively live in each other's apartment, though I refuse to take the hint.
  • I wear my watch on my right wrist rather than my left, as most other people do.
  • I also dress to the right. Don't ask me why.
  • I always put my left lens in first. I also remove that one first
  • For a while, I would systematically blow a raspberry just before sneezing - all in the same breath, of course (and it's not easy!). Until it drove my wife crazy.
  • And when wiping my bum, I always ... 
 Never mind.


Day 53,824 of Snowmageddon.

Boston has gotten 72 inches of snow in the past 20 days. There is more in the forecast.

I woke up this morning to see MORE snow coming from the sky.

Penance Diarrhea

I'm one of those people that get diarrhea so much that I know how to spell it on the first try. Indian take-out? Diarrhea. Public speech? Diarrhea. I get pregnant diarrhea, I get period diarrhea. When one of my kids tells me they have diarrhea, I promptly, immediately, get diarrhea.

It all goes back to my trip to Haiti in March of 1996, my senior year of Christian High School. While most teenagers took off for the sexy heat of Mexican beaches during Spring Break, I was determined to pay Jesus back for the sins of my Spring Breaks of 1994 and 1995 and so instead, went with a dozen classmates and a couple teachers to help the good people of Port Au Prince, Haiti.

All lies

You lie. All the time. I know you do.

You sound nice and friendly and sociable and relaxed. You make all the right noises, all the right faces. But that's not you. It's all lies. All a fa├žade.

You're not a nice person. Not someone people can like, respect, honour, look up to. 

Where Do Squirrels Really Hide Their Nuts?

It has long been believed that squirrels bury their nuts for winter.  On interviewing Sir Douglas Pine from the Trantford Woods, it turns out not quite to be the case any longer.

Treetoppers new Minister of Finance Douglas Pine, met with me today to discuss the new trends hitting their nation.

Why I Don't Sunbathe . . . Lessons From Yorkshire

The sun and I have a very passionate relationship and it is one filled with love.  It is therefore an ironical happenstance that I live in Yorkshire.  Garton-on-the-wolds is a place where the skies are usually a myriad shades of grey (and not in a sexy strap you to the bed and tickle you with a paint brush way, more of a wake up look out of the window to hear your head say "sodding grey again").

That Dress

Khalida opened her eyes.  The electricity of her injuries flooding through every fibre of her being, and hitting the pain receptors in her brain like a wrecking ball.  She started throwing up mental blocks to get the hurricane of emotions and thoughts to abate, allowing her to strategize some sort of plan.  First step, breathe, restore normality to her racing heart, slow the pulse and feed the much needed oxygen to her brain.   

She sank back onto the concrete wall welcoming its coolness against her back.  Her brains survival instincts tried to kick in.  She ripped away the sleeves from her blouse, even now, after all she had been through, this one act seemed to spit in the face of all she was running from and even as she tied the tourniquet around her thigh she celebrated her victory.  However short lived it had been, she had indeed won. 

My first French kiss

Like most children, I was appalled by the very notion of French kissing when I first heard about it, at the age of 9 or 10.

Whereas I had accepted with near equanimity the news that I might one day put my willy inside a girl's fanny (I believe my reaction was "OK"), it was entirely inconceivable to me that I would even consider placing my tongue into a girl's mouth and accepting hers into mine. 

And even less likely that I should ever desire to do so. 

FiFi The Maid

I was a packrat as a kid. I kept everything from rubber bands to jokes on candy wrappers. When my mom told me to clean my room I shoved it in a drawer or a box or a shoe or that hole in my closet that had ghosts (plug 'em inside, you see. Bonus!). It would eventually get so bad that not even the drawers and super-secret hidey holes couldn't take it, and my Mom would declare herself "Fifi The Maid."


If there is one thing I cant stand its people that dont no how to use grammer and spelling properly.  I mean like communication is what seperates us from the animals.  Well theres that and apposable thums.  I mean whats the point of even being human if we cant properly right to eachother in away that is understood.

Don't . . . . How To Train A Teenager.

I'll admit it, in my children's formative lives I was one of those lackadaisical, argue with me not, I'm doing it right, type of parents.  The house was always a cross between happy chaos and complete and utter downfall of an organised dream. 

Being brought up properly, as my Mum reminded me often, I therefore tried to completely reject all forms of behavioural tactics my parents had used on me believing they were too harsh and didn't work.  Mayhap the fact I have unbridled respect for my mother and would never have contemplated back chat, actually taking it so far as arguing with her or telling her she was wrong is tantamount (in my brain) to putting my own head on the floor, donning a pair of hob nail boots and giving myself a good kicking.  Strange that I never quite put two and two together, but, that's me!

Eleven Reasons I Am Over Winter.

I don't like winter.

I have spent most of the past two decades making plans to leave New England, mostly because of how much I loathe the winters here. I had NEARLY made a break for sunnier climes 13 years ago when I was first dating my my husband.

But the bastard told me he couldn't "do a long distance relationship."

Okay, then.

And though THAT particular decision to stick around actually worked out okay for me, I have spent every January through April regretting my choice of life geography.

The road to Hell

The road to Hell, it is said, is paved with good intentions.

That is of course utter twaddle, if you'll excuse my French-Canadian.

The road to Hell is paved with tequila shots, late nights, caramel popcorn, mojitos, tattoos, dope, swearing, Doritos, premarital and recreational sex, fart-smelling, banoffee pie, sick jokes and, most importantly, chocolate. For these are the things one ought not engage in or consume to any pleasurable degree, if the Church were to have its way.

Fascism In Food

I have not been playing out in the arena of fitness for long.  Most people my age (40 something's) have either kept up their athleticism from their school days and lived a life of lean, healthy fun or packed it all in when 16 struck and had more of a lean towards couch life, interspersed with going to the pub on a Friday.  The only regular exercise being the walk to and stumble back from said pub.

RIP, Baby.

Nora, formerly of wherever-the-hell-the-military-sent-her, went to have a one-way convo with The Creator on Friday the 13th.

She was carrying a cracked compact mirror in her purse and walking under numerous ladders at a construction site, stopping to pet all the black cats, when she was randomly burned to a crisp by the first dragon anyone has seen... well, ever. The dragon smothered her with gravy, poutine-style, and confessed during interview that she tasted better that way. He added extra cheese.

She is survived by a husband and two kids who also really like poutine and can't blame the dragon for good taste and a healthy salt craving.

Her wake will be held at The Juicy Peanut bar & grill. The family requests you wear a bad concert t-shirt from the 1990s, toast the departed with gin & juice,  leave a funny memory in the guest book and karaoke Poison badly. That's how Nora would have wanted it.