Johnny Depp sexiest man??

Before writing this post I had to ask myself,
"If my husband wrote a post about the sexiest woman on Earth, would I be bothered"?
If he included someone we knew, yes,
but people, we are talking stars, celebrities, People Magazine.
So don't hate me because I think they're beautiful.
I need a light-hearted, silly topic so here goes...

Very cute, but sexiest man??

Not for me.
I have eclectic taste, in all things, even men,
and I know some of my choices will make you go, "eeewwww"
but I don't care.

Manly, manly, manly


Wildly talented and a certain sardonic wit

ahhh, D'hani Jones
This Bengal designs his own line of bow ties, writes poetry,
a renaissance man

Mike Rowe
mmm, mmm mmm


I won't go on,
but I want to know,
who is on your list?

Where is Rechelle? She writes over at My Sister's Farmhouse blog and hasn't posted since the 26th of Dec. The "miss you, where are you" comments started about the 7th of January and continue. That's only a month, but she has followers that look for her everyday, including me.

It's funny, the quasi- friendship we develop with the bloggers we love. The feelings of connection have taken me so far as to meet one of my favorite bloggers, just sayin', for lunch and it was as if we had known each other a long time.
I wrote to Liberty Post, one of my favorite Canadians, to ask her for her honest experience with Canadian healthcare and she graciously replied. E-mailed another to say I missed her posts. She wrote back that she was taking a break, so far, a year long break. I finally took her off my list, like an old college friend you've lost touch with. Buttonwillow Cottage, Jollie Primatives and the blog of some old guy up in Alaska, I'm sorry they're gone.


I believe the Lincoln quote on my header, about the world's indifference to what I write, but at the same time I feel that in my world, my little sphere of influence, my words mean something. Our words mean something because they reveal who we are. That's why reading each other's words makes relationships, friendships if you will.

My closest real-life friends/bloggers would know why, if I suddenly stopped blogging. If I stopped writing, I would hope that the rest of my many, many (total 16 hehe) followers would wonder where I went and maybe comment asking "where are you?" . But maybe not. Maybe I'm the only sentimental blogger out there that thinks of the bloggers I follow as friends?

Check the box if you have any family history of...

It seems that with every year there is another box to check. With every mammogram I could answer with relief, no family history of Breast Cancer, that is until right after Christmas.
My mom mentioned, a couple of weeks before Christmas, that she was going in for her yearly mammogram. I blithely replied that she was brave.
"I would never go in for anything right before the Holidays!"
Why?" she asked.
"They might find something and I wouldn't want to ruin Christmas!"
She just laughed at me. "Oh, Cathy!"

Since we wouldn't be together for Christmas, I sent her some flowers the week before. She called to thank me for them.
"Did you get my email? she asked, thinking her email had caused me to send the flowers.
I told her I had been so busy at school that I hadn't checked it for a couple of days, that the flowers were "just because I love you!"
"They got my mammogram results back. I have to have a biopsy."

I went down to Mom and Dad's with my daughter the Monday after Christmas and was there on Tuesday when the phone call came. My dad was in the den watching a football game. She took the call in their bedroom and I stood at the door and listened to her side of the conversation and I knew.
When she came out to the dining room, where my dad and I were clearing the table, she simply said "I have breast cancer". My dad literally reeled, dropped the plate in his hand to the floor and braced himself with both hands on the table. His stricken look was a hard for me to see. I held it together.

An appointment with the Surgeon was made. An appointment for surgery was made. Many reassurances were made. Surgery was the twelfth. We had a huge school wide test on the eleventh, that I had to be there for. My sister and I left our families, after school, to make the 3 1/2 hour drive down to our folks. A constant stream of conversation about our faith, family and fears, seasoned with our tears, filled those 3 1/2 hours.

The next morning, what should have been a one to two hour surgery turned into more than 3 hours and I knew. We waited with the others, on long rows of chairs that ran parallel to the Consultation Rooms. All, but one man, got their reports from a victorious doctor as he stood in front of, or sat beside, them to tell of a good outcome. Our surgeon called us into the small Consultation Room where he proceeded to relay his findings of a small tumor in the first Lymph node they checked. A lumpectomy and removal of the Lymph nodes were performed. He sat like Abraham Lincoln at the memorial in Washington DC: His hands rested on the wooden armrests of his chair. His head was bent slightly, eyes focused on the floor. He was somber and seemed tired. I could feel his disappointment for us. He told me and my sister how much he thought of our Mom and Dad, what good people they were. When we left the small room, all eyes were on us, like drivers slowing down to look at the wreck. I don't know how, but we held it together.

My mom was shocked by the amount of time that had passed when she finally "woke up". Dad told her what they had found, but she was still dopey from the anesthesia and really didn't get it. She told me that the next day, after she talked with the Doctor, it hit her and she "just sat in her bed and bawled". Her nurse, Ivo, found her in tears and talked to her. He was just a young guy, but his words brought her comfort and, as she said, "I just figure there's no use crying about it". She has a strong faith. It's in the Lord's hands and he will be her strength and comfort.

She is recovering remarkably well, so well in fact, that it is hard to realize that it wasn't "just a surgery." We're waiting for the next report and treatment options. Suffering from a blood disease that requires regular phlebotomy, blood thinners and special diet, she is already treated by an oncologist who will decide what to do next. In the meantime, I am holding it together.

Christmas Party Hor d'ovueres for dinner!

Yes, in the Cann family only the finest of organic, low sodium, fat free, health food is served!

Lets see:
Little weenies in a Blanket? check
Grape jelly meatballs? check
Hot Parmesan Spinach Artichoke dip? check
BBQ chicken mini sandwich? check
Cream cheese Roll-ups? check
Water Chestnuts wrapped in Bacon? check
Smoked Oyster and Clams? check
Chips and Dip? check

Hey!! Who brought that Vege-Tray!

Let me start the New Year by telling all of you how much I love you!

Recess Duty

I had recess duty today.
It was an unexpected assignment, on a freezing cold day. Luckily, I always have my ratty old "fire-drill coat" hanging from the back of my door because I hadn't worn a coat to school.
I know, I know, "what if you got into a wreck while driving!" As irresponsible as it is, I often don't wear my coat. It's a short dash from the parking lot to the doors of the school, it's warm inside, and a coat is bulky in the car, hot in the store.
I was wearing a sweater along with my extra fluffy, extra long scarf. I figured with the coat, scarf, casual-Friday jeans and a sweater, I could last my half-hour assignment on the snowy playground.`
As I stepped outside, a light snow raced along on a breeze. I was glad my scarf was long enough to tuck the fringed ends into my pockets to snuggle my hands.
I surveyed the play areas, frosted wood chips under the monkey bars, kids persisting in a Winter soccer game, girls whispering and giggling, leaning against the walls of the portable.
Two little guys, kindergartners, approach me.
"Will you put on my gloves?"
"Sure, hold up your hand. Push it in. No, hold out your thumb and spread out your fingers...like this. Push hard, there! Give me your other hand. What's your name?"
"Jesus."
I get his gloves on and off they go but in a couple of minutes they're back.
"Will you put on my gloves again?"
"Okay, give me your hand..." The scene is repeated.
They come back! This time, he takes off his gloves in front of me, reaches up under his coat and hitches up his pants. I realize they are a size too big. He can't hitch up his hand-me-down pants without taking off his snowy gloves! When he's done, he turns to me holding out his gloves and I know what to do without being asked.
His little friend exclaims, "My hands are freezing!" He has them clenched up inside the sleeves of a light coat that is too big for him.
"His mom gave him girl mittens!"
The little boy nods in affirmation.
"How do you know they're girl mittens?" I ask.
"They're purple!"
"Well, boys can wear purple mittens. Let me see."
He pulls out lavender mittens, girl mittens. His little hands are frozen.
"You know what, it doesn't matter what color they are! They keep your hands nice and warm. If anyone says anything you just tell them you don't care what color they are, you want to be warm! Give me your hand, hold your fingers like this..." Soon the mittens are on.
"Here, let's zip up your coat."
"The zipper's broken."
I feel like crying when I advise him to hold the two sides closed by crossing his arms.
They go off to my side to play "pick up big chunks of snow and drop them on the ground". I hear them giggling and turn to see one holding a chunk of snow that looks, remarkably, like a breast prosthesis, up to the chest of the other.
"Chi chi" he says with a naughty giggle. The other looks down and snickers, "yea, chi chi."
"Boys, that's not nice" I say as I shake my head. They sheepishly giggle. The bell rings and they run to line up, only after Jesus has taken off his gloves to hold up his pants.

Creepy Santa

Sometime in the early 1960's, the era of shiny aluminum Christmas trees, plastic reindeer and the first Charlie Brown Christmas, my grandma Alba bought us a Santa. Standing about two feet tall, it wore a plush polyester Santa suit with little black plastic boots. His face was also plastic, plastic that had been molded into features that were decidedly not Santa-like. He didn't look like the Santas we were used to, Santas like the Coke-Cola Santa, Norman Rockwell Santa or the Santa in the movies. No, this Santa looked more like a happily demented, half-Asian, leprechaun who somehow had stolen a Santa suit.
Over the years, once we realized he was harmless, we came to appreciate him. He was our creepy Santa. He was a conversation piece. No one else had one like it, that we knew of.

Just a couple of years ago, while looking at a web site about abandoned places, I found another creepy Santa! This was Creepier Santa! His little hands, seemingly ready to strangle you in your sleep, his unfocused icey blue eyes, ghaaaaa!This got my daughter Shan and I thinking, "there are other Creepy Santas out there!" She knew she had to have one of her own. One that would terrorize her own sweet, children some Christmas in the future. The first photo of "cute, Creepy Santa" is actually one that she bought on ebay a couple of years ago.

THEN..I saw THIS Santa!!

It is Creepy Santa incarnate!
How could anyone hand their baby over to such a monster?

THEN, I SAW THIS ONE!
He doesn't look like our Creepy Santa...

but he's creepy, baby!
Oh... he's creepy.

Check out www.sketchysantas.com