Birthday Boy

What is summer without a party or two?

For those of us in Boweryville, the first (so far) of the year was last week, as we celebrated the 80th Birthday of The Big Guy’s uncle. This birthday is particularly important to me and The Big Guy since Uncle B is the reason we met.


Back in The Day when I was young and naive and lived on a farm, my family and I attended the Anniversary Sunday of our local country church. Following the service was a potluck meal, which was the pride of the ladies who lived up and down the Concession. Homemade salads, heaped platters of meats waiting to be tucked into fresh rolls; it was as much a feast for the eyes as it was the palate.

My contribution was a chocolate cake (surprise, surprise). As we enjoyed fellowship, a neighbour to the south, Uncle B, came up to me to compliment me on my dessert. I was hugely flattered. As I knew this gentleman was a bachelor and his family lived a distance away, I thought I’d make him an offer.

“If you tell me when your birthday is, I’ll make one for you!” I exclaimed.

“July 12th,” he replied.

So on the morning of one of the hottest days of the year, I got up, started the oven, and made a chocolate cake for my new fan, the birthday boy. When the cake was cooled and iced, Dad offered to drive me three farms over to deliver the cake. Little Sister had nothing better to do, so she came along for the ride.

As we drove up the lane way, we noticed a tractor heading back the lane way, past the main bank barn further along to the back fields. We followed the tractor and arrived at a smaller cottage style house and smaller bank barn. There we saw a trio of people, as well as a fourth on a second tractor in the field behind the house.

I was about to meet my future husband, and inlaws.

All I could think of was that the cake I was holding was going to melt in my very hands. The older couple were concerned that  a) they forgot it was the actual birthday of Uncle B, and  b) that they didn’t think they had room in their fridge to keep my confection from becoming a puddle.

Our exchange was short. The driver of the tractor we followed back the lane was indeed The Big Guy, and Uncle B was behind the house, round baling and giving a small wave of the hand as he went past our group. I handed over the cake and we left.

“That guy liked you,” said LS.

“Who???” I asked incredulously.

“The guy wearing the necklace.” she said. (Referring to The Big Guy who was a slick City Boy – gold chain et al.)

I had no recollection of what the guy was wearing, what he thought of me or what his name was, even though formal introductions were conducted.

A few weeks later, we would meet again, thanks to Uncle B. The rest, as they say, is history.

25 years ago history.

Hard to believe baking a cake could land you a husband! Happy Birthday Uncle B. Happy Anniversary Big Guy.

Love you both!!

It’s Just a Game!?

You know the one thing wrong with kids sports?

The adults.

I spent the past two days watching my niece play ball. M&M is a natural-born softball player. One might think as her aunt, I’m biased, but when team mates comment on her being a pivotal part of the team winning, and she wins MVP honours, after a while, you get to think, “Yup, she’s as good as I think she is!”

So, I’m gonna brag a little. M&M is the best parts of good sportsman and good work ethic. Her coaches use her in multiple capacities.

A ball about to be spanked.


She hits.


She runs.

She likes to have fun, but she knows when its time to get back down to business.


She’s not a girlie-girl. She likes to get down the job done. Sometimes that means getting dirty…




Her coaches decided they wanted to pitch,

and then doing some catching,

then an inning or two at shortstop.

She runs like a deer.

In short, she loves the game and loves to play. So when her team won a berth in the season finals today, (an ill-timed loss meant they had to go around the long way with extra games and extra wins), we had high hopes. It became evident early in the final that this game might not be won on the field. The coach of the other team began using delay tactics and calling our team up on technicalities. Ironically, none of the issues were valid and the game continued, with the time lost on the clock. Other teams had warned us he might try this trick.

One might also note that the base umpire is the next door neighbour of said coach, and there were at least three plays at first base, right in front of our parents, that was obviously erroneous.

The girls put forth an admirable effort, but they came up short. Some might say the better team won; I would suggest that then you hold up a ball game in 35 degree weather, it’s not about the better team, it’s about the more creative coach.

Be proud Hooligans. With only two losses in the season, you should be proud with your year.

I’m Going to Hell – Who’s With Me?

I saw my first stripper when I was 15.

I’ll give you a moment to grab your jaw. It’s over there, on the floor.

To clarify, the guy was an impromptu addition to a 50th Birthday Party for one of my dad’s coworkers. I was asked to provide music for the party since I had an enviable collection of music, and let’s face it, the BEST person to spin tracks for a 50-year-old is a 15-year-old. Yup – that’s sarcasm. It was during that event that it was revealed that a certain “special” aspect of fete was being thrown in. Before you knew it, some oiled up muscle man was bumping and grinding his way around the birthday girl.

She loved it. I was somewhat repulsed and yet secretly thrilled that he left his thong on. After all, my parents were in the room.

So perhaps I’ve had a more liberal outlook on these topics, but I was really taken aback by a posting by a fellow blogger I happen to have read last night. Usually I enjoy her take on parenting, being a young mother and family life in general, but yesterday’s entry gave me pause. I’m not going to share a link because frankly, I don’t want to give a platform to the kind of blather she was dishing.

In short; she thinks I’m going to hell, and that my marriage is doomed.

Cuz I’m going to see Magic Mike tomorrow night.

Helloooooooo There!

Her take on this is that by watching a movie (she doesn’t name it specifically) I will open the door for Satan to pervert my mind. I won’t be able to help myself from comparing my relationship with my husband with the relationship I would wish for with one of the characters in the movie. She then stated it was part of the bigger issue facing society today, the break down of the family, blah, blah, blah.

This must be some flick! I just thought it was about a bunch of guys who made loads of cash dancing for women. What power this movie must have!!!

She then went on to throw 50 Shades of Grey under the bus. Again, not being strong enough on point to name the book, she references the pop culture following “a certain book” has, and looks down her nose at the idea of a book discussing sexuality, as being something lowly and sinful. Can you say “Repressed?”

I then thought about how I would feel if The Big Guy was going out to see strippers with his friends. Nothin. No issue. No beef. We’ve actually laughed at how NOT jealous we are of each other. Perhaps we are too secure in our relationship (is that possible?) but I’ve pointed out good-looking women to him, and he’s shared his perspective of my admiration of various specimens of various males of the species. Isn’t it a GOOD thing that we don’t get wound up about each other’s appreciation for the option sex??

The blogger then draws a comparison, saying women should not see Magic Mike or read 50 Shades of Grey because they would be up in arms if their husbands went out to a movie about female strippers or a book that glorified sex from a male’s perspective.

Instantly, the following rebuttals came to mind;

1. We’d better get every beer commercial off television.

2. Somebody better tell the music community that women dressed in anything less than habits are evil and any dancing more risqué than the box step in a rap video will get you a first-class ticket to hell.

3. Survivor, Big Brother and every other reality TV show that allows women to flaunt their T&A is responsible for the erosion of the family unit.

4. Victoria’s Secret Angels are actually the minions of Satan (envision Church Lady saying this!).

Until then, I fully plan on enjoying Magic Mike with my sister, and perhaps my niece. After all, she is 16.

P.S. I didn’t really think I had time for more reading material, but I think I might make the exception and look up 50 Shades of Grey; since I’m already going to hell in a hand basket.