Friday, 14 April 2017


Piggly Wiggly, Things on Piggly's Head, Whorrified, Brampton,
Mother Hen: "Who put that baby in the swing
 without buckling her in? I WANT NAMES!"

I realize I thoroughly Easterblogged you yesterday, but I thought I'd update you with a few pithy anecdotes about the beautiful madness that is my family. We gathered at my younger daughter's home, the rule being that the person with the youngest child, the biggest house and the healthiest food gets to host the party. If I were her I'd start stocking the larder with pork rinds and tube cheese before the constant hosting drives her to a breakdown. The poor girl hasn't been guestless since the baby was born.  

The best part of our family get-togethers is the juxtaposition of eccentrics. On Easter, there was my firstborn, the mother hen ("Has everybody washed their hands?"), my second daughter the organic hostess, her husband, their baby  Piggly Wiggly, my brother, my Mom (the author), my moron editor (I had to bring him; the homeless shelter was closed) and of course, me (the eye candy).

We were gabbing and gossiping and enjoying the traditional Easter dinner of madras chicken and osso bucco favoured by all families who don't eat ham because it reminds them of a certain pig dog, but I had the niggling sense that something wasn't quite right. 
Finally, after the third shot of Hornitos, it hit me. "Hey! We haven't put anything on Piggly Wiggly's head!" 

A deadly quiet fell over the room while we looked at each other as if to say "Nobody thought to bring a hooker wig? What kind of family are we?" But then Piggly's mom produced a pair of bunny ears and we all took pictures for a solid half-hour. "Try one with the flash!" "Turn her around and take her from this angle!" "See if you can get her to smile; tilt the ears; try it with backlighting; just one more!" 
If that child doesn't grow up thinking Easter is about how Christ died on the cross to escape the throngs of madras-scented paparazzi, it will be a miracle.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why do those bunny ears look so familiar?
MY NOTE: Because I was wearing them the night you met me at the Playboy Club. Which reminds me, you never did tip me.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Take if off the paycheque you've owed me for about three months now.
MY NOTE: *whips out notepad, affixes pentagram sticker beside 'Moron Editor' column* Great idea!

Wednesday, 12 April 2017


easter, piggly wiggly, things on piggly wiggly's head,
Well Piggly Wiggly's mom is more of a "Let's put things on the baby's head" kinda hostess. 
(See the interactive image below for more kneeslappin' good times.)

Happy Easter, everyone! Like most lapsed Catholics, I sometimes have to remind myself that this is in fact a deeply religious observance as opposed to just a three-day weekend which, after the week I just had, is as much of a miracle as the fact that Jesus our Saviour rose from the dead to hunt Easter eggs. 

I will be spending the blessed holiday with family at my daughter's home, where I can cuddle my beloved Piggly Wiggly and make sure her mom doesn't get out of hand with the head ornaments. This sort of thing can rapidly escalate from amusing prank to dangerous habit, as I learned when I tried it on the pig dog using a bowl of scalding chowder instead of a wig. The drama! The screeching! The mess! Although the aroma of chowder-dipped swine was oddly delectable and lingered for days afterwards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pour a martini and bark orders at the moron who's cooking the osso bucco I will bring to my daughter's and tell everyone I made myself. Oh ... and my wigs. I have to sort my wigs. If we're going to be putting things on Piggly Wiggly's head all bloody weekend, the least I can do as her grandmother is make sure they are worthy. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: *samples sauce, kisses fingertips* Magnifique! It's like velvet!
MY NOTE: *tosses empty bottle of Grey Goose in general direction of stovetop* Stop tonguing the osso bucco and come help me find my transvestite hooker wig! It's my favourite. 

EASTER EXTRA: HOVER OVER the pic below for captions.