Mastering the Art of Achieving Relationship Goals

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Valentines Day is coming, LOLCats, so you lonely hearts  better get your best Tinder game on this week. Best advice from moi: Start swiping right for godsake! There’s no bone in the ether where you dismiss all the lefties! Me personally, I like to take my swiping moves out in the real life world these days. Like for example I’ve discovered recently that Friday night at my local Loblaws is an unofficial, unspoken singles night. I know this because a) they switch the jam from 80s Brit pop in the day to house music so it feels like a club not a grocery store and b) the produce section feels exactly like a grade 7 school dance. Everyone is like shuffling around with their awkward not-so-hidden agendas, lingering over radishes, wondering what are they for anyway, gazing over the selection of herbs, trying to come to terms over cilantro, and then furtively looking in each other’s baskets for signals. The sexual tension is palpable, particularly in the phallic fruit section. “Why are the bananas always so green here?” I asked a random dude last Friday, demurely swinging my basket of juicy figs and ripe papayas in my left hand. “Go left!” he actually answered, rolling his cart of cucumbers and zucchinis past me toward the plantains. And so it goes.

Speaking of bananas, let me just swing over to another tangent tree for a minute before I get on to the nitty gritty of today’s life lesson. Last weekend, my fam and I  went to see “The Danish Girl” at the world’s most antiquated Cineplex in an uptown business mall that time forgot. This theatre had all that plush red carpeting and seats where the cup holder is on the chair in front of you where your knees  are supposed to be and you have to practically hire a sherpa to get to the washroom which after going through a maze of twists and turns, is up two flights of stairs, holy god, and that particular day, the entire place was heated like a sauna. It wasn’t just hormonally-charged me, trust, everyone was sweating and stripped down to their undershirts.

Conversely, a few weeks ago, I saw “The Revenant” in a theatre where there are reclining leather seats and a butler brings you a pint of craft beer in an actual glass, a platter of charcuterie, a blankie, and a pair of slippers. The sound system and air flow quality was such that I could hear Leonardo di Caprio (yes! I would, shut up) shivering hot breath in my left ear and Tom Hardy’s unintelligible (but kind of hot if you like that sort of thing and I think I might) Southern accent in my right ear as though they were snuggled on the leather chair with me as their centre of gravity! And talk about my hormonally charged brain slapping together a pheromone sandwich. What depraved things I did with my charcuterie platter no one else in the theatre would have noticed because they were tucked away in their own wombs with their own thoughts. Genius design.

Anyway, this old Cineplex was one of those theatre scenarios where the audience was flesh on flesh from elbows to thighs stuck together like a Club Pack of vacu-sealed chicken wings IN A GODDAMN SLOW COOKER. And my anxiety level was high because popcorn is the disgusting scourge of all snack food, chewing noises and the smell of the “butter” topping blends with  the low-note seepage of muffled farts, just gross.  And having to endure the other symphony of the slurping of straws and constant rattling of ice cubes in the shitty plastic drink holders that your knees crash into made me wish I didn’t have to actually sit there and watch the movie and somehow it could just be implanted in my brain and the fam and I could just go to the pub ASAP. Beers, please.

Soooo…when the movie started there was hope for some pretty decent leg sprawl over top of the chairs because we had no one in the seats in front of us but then! 15 minutes in, three ladies sat right in front of us and no joke, they pulled out these electronic caption readers the size of that small iPad and they set them on top of the chairs in front of them. Yes, they were deaf peeps and I have compassion and shit but they came in late and their caption readers were going to be as distracting as any cell phone. If you ever had to suffer some bitch in front of you texting during a movie you know what rage towards strangers feels like.

But! Here’s what. Turns out these ladies and their captions readers were a godsend because Eddie Redmayne is in the Tom Hardy school of acting where if you have no idea what you’re doing, just mumble quietly and make them guess. In case you are living under a rock, “The Danish Girl” is loosely based on a true story about a man about to undergo one of the first sex change operation in the 1920s. In Denmark, obviously although they all had British accents. The captions came in handy for sure. Good movie, but! Eddie Redmayne as a woman, meh, and his chapped pillow lips at the melodramatic deathbed scene made me want to scream to put on some damn lipstick. Not an Oscar-worthy performance for sure and even though I agree that #OscarsSoWhite, I’m still going to watch because Chris Rock is one of my fave comedians AND the actress that played his wife, Alicia Vikander, is luminous in the film. She carries the whole story but she is only nominated for Best SUPPORTING Actress even though she has as much screen time as he does and is infinitely more interesting. So typical, right? Women, in films and real life, are the one who have to support, react, and adapt to situations where the men go through life swinging their balls and pointing their dicks in whatever direction they want, even taking the junk to the dump in this case.

Which brings me swinging back to the first tree, the hashtag relationship goals! Last week, in one of my seminars, ie. wine around the kitchen table, I was talking with some young women and whats up on the Tinder trail and they are all worried about the danger of losing themselves when they get into relationships. Like reading too much into text messages and getting paranoid when they don’t call, flipping out, this, that, and all that goes along with modern mating rituals. Good times. Same stuff I went through in my youth but with a Snapchat stories and electronic evidence.

When I was a teenager, one of my best friends told me that if you ever get boyfriend or want to snag a husband one day, it’s best that he is the one who loves you more than you love him. It was the tao of her crazy mom but I had no reason to dispute it. For the longest time, I kept this thought in the back of my head as I went through my handful of dudes. If they chase after you, then you have the power, is whatI stupidly thought. Be the bunny to the hunter was my modus operandi as I hid under bushes and buried holes in the dirt, reacting with feigned indifference, pretending not to care, but really I was afraid. And then the problem with this game is hunters get bored and want more bunnies. Then as said  hunted bunny, guess what, you are left bewildered, and thinking what does that bunny have that I don’t have? Then before you know it, you’re getting a boob job. I mean, not me personally, of course, but I did go blonde once.

At least the young women are aware of this process and that there is a game that must be played even though no one really knows the rules. Hence the “drama” when someone missteps. What man doesn’t have it on his dating profile that he is “not looking for drama?”  And also I question why does the man have to be the one who loves the most? Don’t men just want and need as their active verbs when they chose a relationship which somehow women translate as love? As in: they WANT blow jobs and they NEED their socks sorted, or visa versa. Do they actually “love” women? In “The Danish Girl,” before he transitions into a woman, Eddie Redmayne has only eyes for his wife as described by the hot ballerina played by Amber Heard…but really only because he WANTS to wear her dresses and NEEDS someone to help him with makeup.  It’s a fucked up situation to have to put your wife through, and yet she is devoted to him until his character’s chapped lip demise. Fierce bitch is a like a bear, fearless in her capacity to love and protect, unlike most of us who would probably be re-activating our Tinder accounts the second we saw some dude wearing our panties the first time. It’s actually inspiring.

So my thoughts are to probably put that game of bunny and hunter to rest. I’m too old and tired to hop around anyway.  I could handle being a monkey instead. Way better lifestyle:  Blithely swinging through trees with another like minded monkey, picking the lint out of each other’s crevasses without judgment. Scratching. Lolling on the fat branches. Netflix and chill while waiting for the bananas from Loblaws to finally ripen. Get a puppy.

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Embracing Your Inner Zombie

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Happy New Year, my interweb angels! Hope you are enjoying your righteous January resolutions as I am mine. Drink more whisk(e)y, is my top one. Apparently brown drinks are the answer. To what question, I’m not entirely sure.  It was on my Facebook newsfeed that whisky prevents cancer and has less sugar than wine so it must be true. I’m over that whole Juiceless January cleansing ritual, it’s for amateurs.  You end up with too many lucid waking hours with more time to feel guilty about being alive and not doing the things you said you would do when you were drunk, ie. a 4 hour Zumba class for Syrian refugees at the local rec centre on a Saturday afternoon (there is no way).

Also, for Christmas I got a cast iron pan which is a first for me believe it or not, so I can make a proper steak and these taters I am very excited about. Fuck you and your kale smoothies, your lazy ass colon frightens me, do you know that whisky makes you poop? THIS gives me a starchy lady boner:

And speaking of fear, why am I zombied up, you ask?  Evangeline did this to me because she’s been bingeing on The Walking Dead for the past few weeks which I just can’t with. I tried the first episode but it did not grab moi but because she watches it in the living room (to be close to mama because she’s too scared to watch it in her room) I have the soundtrack in my head constantly. There’s hardly any dialogue on the show, a bit of hillbilly babble and the rest is all just low level guttural monster groaning/snarling/gurgling interspersed with silent bits and then bam! some really loud growl and screaming (Evangeline). You could set your watch by the ebb and flow of zombie moaning. Freddy, when he wasn’t downstairs engulfed in his own rattle and hum cocoon of PlayStation, we would huddle in my room and laugh at the predictability of it all. Then when she was done watching it on Netflix, she watched it again! AMC actually aired a 24/7 marathon of it on natural television after Christmas, and Jesus and Jose in the manger, there was nowhere to hide. Also! the hot dude with the cue cards from Love Actually is now her tv boyfriend which means there will be more zombie groaning in the future.

Normally I would rather talk about stupid vampires than entertain the mythology of  the ridiculous zombie apocalypse but I softened after seeing how pretty a zombie I am. Dem eyebrows tho! I should change up my eyeliner game and wear darker lipstick, no? According to the girl, the modern obsession with zombies is a tabula rasa for us to project our collective and individual fears upon. Zombie Apocalypse can be representative of a number of paranoias and dystopian disturbances aside from the obvious disease and death, let’s randomly list:

  • global warming
  • terrorism
  • Isis
  • people in general
  • North Korea
  • Labradoodles
  • aliens!
  • guns
  • ‘Murca
  • Tinder
  • Internet cookie trails
  • LinkedIn
  • Donald Trump
  • butt plugs
  • Zumba *shudder*

It turns out all my zombie fears are within my own skeletal base, I discovered this by accident. Aside from the frying pan, I also got a massage certificate for Christmas which I was so excited about since I no longer get these things covered by insurance. I know I can just bite the bullet and pay for them but I’m not wired that way. So I booked an appointment last week with a burly Mexican dude name Juan, and since it’s been awhile I thought I would opt for some deep tissue. I figure man hands are clumsy but they can dig mightily and it never occurs to them they might be hurting you when they prod into your organs. I don’t like to be a wuss so I always take the pain and let them have their way. It’s usually beneficial in the end because when it’s done, you feel so much looser. This time I should have maybe cried uncle at some point because Juan was a fearless deep sea diver of a massage artist and he probably should have left some knots stay clenched tight.

It started out fine, he let me lay face down and he poked over the blanket me like I was an interesting beached mermaid with legs. He pummelled his fists down my spine up and down and then he got the point of his elbow and jammed it into my right ribcage and exclaimed, “Oh you’ve got quite a knot in here!” It isn’t a fucking knot, I wanted to say, it’s emotional scar tissue, but I let him keep digging while the rest of me snap, crackled and popped. This spot in the middle of my right ribs is my trigger area for a repressed memory that I once buried and would have completely forgotten about if my mother hadn’t asked twenty years after the fact: “What really happened that night you came home covered in sand?”

So this happened, and I did forget about it until my mom reminded me, and it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of things but it goes to show you about how times have changed somewhat, maybe, in that if it happened today I probably would have said something instead of kept it a secret. Anyway, I was 16, my parents took me to Florida for a vacation in February. I got a sunburn at one point during the week and I slathered on baby oil that night to ease the pain, which is stupid because I think it fries you some more, but we did dumb things back then. At night on the hotel strip which was on the beach, there was a 7-Eleven and a small playground. That greasy night I went out on my own and sat on the swings and a group of young dudes were hanging out trying to score beer from the store. I don’t know what the age limit was but I had been buying beer at the bodegas in Quebec since I squeezed my first zit. So I volunteered to buy it even though I was younger than all of them and sure enough I didn’t get ID’d. It’s all in the attitude and maybe my sunburn made me look 40.

So I made a bunch of friends that night, we drank the beer in the playground for a couple of hours. One dude seemed to like me. He was one of those strapping cornfed first generation of ‘Super Size” American boys with a baseball hat over a mullet. I told him I was Canadian and he said his favourite band was Rush. Ugh. In my personal opinion, Rush was the original Nickelback, that trilling Geddy Lee voice over those synthesizers was enough to me lunge for the radio dial and kill it, blechhh, ear rape. I might be wrong, so sue me, but I was into punk and was obsessed with Blondie, Bowie, and the Stranglers back then. This dude did not interest me at all but when it was time to go home, he opted to walk with me along the beach, which I think I thought was  gentlemanly.

We got to a dark spot on the beach and he asked me if I would give him a blow job, but without a question mark. “Give me a blow job,” he said.  I’m like,” WHAT? No…what are you even thinking? I don’t even like you!” And he got all weird and he tackled me.  I was face down in the the sand and he knelt on top of me, his knee pinning me down in THAT VERY SPOT merry massage therapist Juan was gleefully untangling some thirty years later. I was winded, I remember panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was sure he broke a rib. He managed to get his pants down, and thinking back now, was he not afraid I was going to bite? Oh, I’m going to just take one look at his fructose fatty chode and want to tenderly place it in my mouth? My dad always said if I got myself in such a predicament to grab and squeeze and twist the balls, which I did, he squealed like Geddy Lee and I managed to slither away, all slippery from the baby oil still, and run home.

My mom asked me then why I was covered in sand and out of breath and I said I just tripped on the beach. And I really forgot all about it until she asked me again a few years back. Anyway, flash forward to last week and fucking Juan and his grind happy elbow and me face down on a massage table, my face smushed in the cradle, trying to breathe through the intense pain. I started coughing, which is the worst when you’re getting a massage, but he finally eased up I got to flip over which is the best part anyway. But no, he jostled something out of me, like my growling inner zombie child, and I started hacking up a lung. That was an entire week ago! I haven’t stopped coughing for fuck sake. And my fucking ribs are killing me.

I can’t tell if the experience was cathartic or what. “You prolly have pneumonia,” my ex-husband just said.  Great, and me without a drug plan. All I know is the next massage I get will be from a lady with sweet soothing fingers. I’ll leave those man hands for other things.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being a Passive Aggressive Ghost According to Adele

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HALLOO FROM THE OTHER SIDE!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Adele as much as y’all but someone please help me get that ear worm out of my noodle bowl. Also I belt it out all the goddamn waking hours of the day AND IN THE EQUIVALENT OF CAPS BUT IN ACTUAL NOISE and I forget I am committing a crime against humanity when I sing out loud.  Also I need to tell you I hate the lyrics to this song. Normally I don’t pay any attention to what singers sing except for maybe Morrissey because he is me and I am him, all happy in the misery in the haze of any given drunken hour but! I have a feminist daughter who is in a band with two other young women (don’t call them a “girl band” tho! )  and is all about empowerment of the female voice. She’s okay with these Adele lyrics but I will defend my case later. She is not okay with Robin Thicke, obv. This is a good story for the usual preamble tangent I’ve been known to take you on:

The other night she and I went to our gym’s Christmas party. We drank a bunch of wine and ate some turkey buffet, saw some prowling peeps we haven’t seen since last party on the same mission as every year. It’s an annual event worth partaking for sure. Good times. After dessert and some low noted fart seepage, I could have ended it right there and Ubered home to blast some big trumpet tunes in my sweat pants but there was an actual live band that came on. ‘Twas this configuration:  3 ripe middle-aged dudes in fitted dress shirts, unbuttoned just so and wearing those kind of jeans with bleached out whiskers around the crotch area, you know what I mean. Like none of you boys is Tom Jones so you have to visually fake a bulge by implying one exists the same way a Kardashian has to fake a contour with ten pounds of slap along the nose and jaw line. And but of course, they played “Blurred Lines” maybe the second song in and everybody rushed up to the dance floor. This kind of shameless spectacle fills me with an unsettling mix of intense embarrassment and pure voyeuristic delight, I love it so, so I puckered up my sphincter for more festivities. Young and old, the gym folk, who all clean up remarkably well by the way, were gyrating as awkwardly as those vapid topless supermodels in the video.

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT.

Well, well, well, you could see a beehive of bees buzzing in the bonnet of my righteous daughter, who by the way just turned 22, happy birthday, my baby.

This her shouting while we were sitting at our otherwise abandoned table underneath one of the deafening speakers:

“Why the fuck are they paying this song? I’m so mad! It’s basically saying promoting violence against women!”

Huff, huff, puff, puff, blow the house down, she went on:

“The lyrics: ‘Tried to domesticate you!’ Ugh! Of course you fucking dickhead!” Steam coming out of her ears.

Who listens to these things this closely? Then she said something about something being “so big it can rip your ass in two.” I am so old now, I’m hard of hearing but that sounds like good times to me. But I let her have the floor.

Turns out there’s a million things she pointed out against the lyrics of this douche ditty but you cannot fault it on its catchy tune, right? But no, she put on a deep prick voice and even made a mockery of the cute “hey, hey, hey” chorus. I love that part! “Hey hey hey!” I used to croon in my room, whipping my crumb encrusted bra off at the end of the night, as a slave to its commanding presence as the ear worm of the summer of 2013. Also because of this song I can partially answer the age-old existential question: When a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe a subtle noise… just because sound travels and echoes and whatnot, but! When a tree is dancing alone half-naked, is she visible?  If her room is brightly lit and it’s night and the blinds are see-through, I think for absolute sure, she can be seen by the unknown passerbys under the soft dewy glow of the moon. And she obviously has problems.

Anyway, as soon as the band took a break (they played resort reggae! LOL: “One Love” holy god), she marched up to them and gave them a piece of her mind, ripped them each a new one with her searing asshole blasting rhetoric. That’s power, sisters. I was far away, I didn’t hear the exchange but one of them looked like slightly scared albeit dismissive and she came back to the table all mad as fuck. “This is a losing battle,” she yelled. I think we got more drinks, this night wasn’t over yet. Then shortly after, the band guy with the least amount of whiskers on his jeans came to our table (which at first I thought was nice) and said: “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to what you had to say, I have two daughters myself… blahhhhhh, blah,blah,” Oh yes, righteous dude, play the your-precious-jism-spawned-a-female-child card, and then his words started to melt into a bunch of dumb man gibberish about how he *pounds chest* has to make a living and therefore must play the songs that the people want to hear. Maybe a valid point but I’m pretty sure dude has a day job as an electrician or something. This gig just feeds his “soul” aka banana-in-his-pants-ego. Plus the people were just as happy to sway along to their white man reggae abomination as anything else. Bob Marley never offered anything but a big doob and an honest bone in his single bed, which was prolly only half chub and wasted, can’t be complaining about his lyrics being degrading to women. And please do not ruin Bob Marley for me and nit pick through his catalogue and send me something like “skanky woman” means something terrible, nobody understands what he is singing about anyway.

So anyway, I’m proud of my daughter for speaking out against the douchebaggery messages we have to put up with in the mainstream music and entertainment industry. She has her mother’s moxy! I don’t know what that word means either, but it sounds very Barbara Stanwyck-y, my role model, google her if you’re too young to know who she is. And she is the opposite of passive aggressive. She is just aggressive, period. Which I love! Passive aggressive people should stick to their own kind and play their games in their own leagues because I cannot deal.

Which brings me to Adele’s “Hello” lyrics. Again, I don’t generally care what people are singing about unless they’re funny. I hate funny songs, comedy belongs elsewhere not in my car radio or my ear worm salads. I only like angst ridden lyrics which seems to be most songs anyway, and definitely all Adele songs, duh. And here is “Hello,” and pay attention to the last line:

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I ain’t done much healing
Hello, can you hear me
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

There’s such a difference between us
And a million miles

Hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

Hello, how are you
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened

It’s no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time

So hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

“But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore” THAT!!!

WHAT THE FUCK???  Has this ever happened to you? Someone assumes how you’re feeling or what you’re up to and they state it like it’s a fact. They call and leave a message and they say something presumptuous like “oh, you’re probably out having an awesome time with all the beautiful people at some rooftop hotel pool party drinking absinthe or having sex with the hot guy from the gym” or whatever, of which none apply. You missed the call because your phone slipped into the couch cushions while you are watching “Portlandia” in your sweat pants , drinking leftover Pabst that some Tinder ape left the last time you actually had sex 3 car washes ago. That’s how I keep track of time these days, by car washes. I’m stretching them out now, letting the rain take over, so the proverbial toilet roll, time’s other metaphoric unit of measure, slows down because fuck!  It’s a slippery sleigh ride to the ice floe, isn’t it?

And it’s possibly the worst when someone who dumped…oh, hang on, no they goddamned ghosted you because let’s face it, that’s how Team Passive Aggressive rolls, calls you up after 12 car washes, 164 rolls of toilet paper….In fact they wait the entire time it take you to get over them down to the last square, somehow their spidey senses know  you’re finally done, so they swoop back in: “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, I hope you’re well, blah blah, let’s meet for a drink, I miss you and your little dog!” And before you know it, you’re in love with them again, because you had a weak moment where you convinced yourself they were probably just going through some inner turmoil that had nothing to do with you. Bitch, please, their “inner turmoil” was just their dick pointing in a different direction.

“I must have called you a thousand times”….oh really??? A thousand fucking times? How so? Because I have call display, and if you had tried to call that many times, I would have blocked your ass. Oh, I never seem to be home? If you’re calling me on my landline you know for a fact I never answer that phone! Somebody’s pants are on fire here. And if you had any moxy at all, you would show up at my doorstep and brought me a fucking bucket of Popeye’s thigh meat because you know I love that shit and you wouldn’t be writing an annoying zillion dollar platinum zinger hit song for everyone else on earth to hear oh, what an amazing singer you are and how goddamn faux-sorry you are. BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU.

Anyway, I hate these lyrics, they are the anthem of every passive aggressive fuck boy and the only reason they are daughter-approved is because it’s sung by a woman. “She’s the one who broke the heart,” she said in defence, like it’s a good thing, which admittedly it kind of is. But why is she trying to claw her way back in then? It just means her passive aggressive dick is inside out. And also, why would anyone call a thousand times and not just send a text? That’s a more civilized approach to getting back in contact with someone you feel bad that you fucked over. Still, it’s a good tune and Adele is awesome and I wish I could master that winged eyeliner game once and for all. HALLOO!

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Pulling Your Head Out of the Sand

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I remember the first time I had to give birth after waking up at 3 in the morning with contractions, I was bristling with excitement because FUN! Something new to do! And I was also actually relieved for the burning baseball-sized cramps in my lower spine because my fear was that I would skip the labour part somehow beyond my control, slip a baby out sneezing at Loblaws or some other public place. Yes, I have a tendency to over-share about things in my life but this is my idea of mortifying. I’d be too late to get to the hospital just like the recurring dreams I STILL have where I’m in school and I miss an exam. But no worries with this first baby, I had the unmistakable warning and it was right on my due date! The pain was perfectly localized and concise and came in exact 5 minute waves, not like some misinterpreted vague fried chicken indigestion, which is what I had that night, or a cramping falafel fart fest, which is what I also had that night. Yay! It was text book, just like everything they said would happen in an ideal world according “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”  By the way, my sweet peeps, this was November 1993 and the Blue Jays had just won the second in a row World Series that year so I wore my Jays socks and some army green Cotton Ginny sweat ensemble and headed to the hospital that morning to spew one out. Me so brave. And oh, so naive.

Then hours later that burning baseball sized contraction sequence turned into the worst searing pain in the whole universe according to me. 12 hours into it, I wanted to be anywhere but there. Just forget the whole thing. There’s no fucking way I wanted to give birth, I could go home, watch “Roseanne” and promise to come back tomorrow. I clenched and puckered up my southern holes, especially the sphincter because the b-hole wasn’t an in-style glorious orifice back then. Even though the nurses said it’s okay to poop on the bed, there was no way I would let that happen (spoiler alert: I pooped on the bed). I squeezed my downstairs bits shut in with all my might. And by the way, I’m looking at you authors of “What to Expect, etc,” I did not have the “overwhelming urge to push” like they said would happen in that goddamned birth bible. There was a glitch in my labour experience and I wanted to stay pregnant forever. With my head buried deeply in the sand, thank you very much.

But! I did it like a champ, I gave birth that day even though I didn’t want to. At one point I had enough and just said fuck it, whatevs, and randomly pushed. I faked the whole thing and it all worked out.  The baby was Apgar score perfection and had an exquisite round head which I attribute to all my previous clenching, my cervix acted like a ceramics kiln, and kept her from having that cone shape bullet look some newborns have when they shoot out too fast. My now ex-husband was a great coach, shout out, fed me ice chips and towelled my forehead while I whimpered, curling my Blue Jay sock feet in the stirrups on the birthing bed. He did not crack open the six-pack he brought or open up the Scrabble board JUST IN CASE WE GOT BORED, LOL! Give me boredom or give me death, was all I could think. Also to his credit, he watched the whole thing without passing out or changing his mind midway like I did or worst of all, developing a Madonna-Whore complex later on like Elvis Presley did with Priscilla!  What the fuck, according to lore he never boned her again once her got her pregnant with Lisa Marie! Men’s libidos can be tricky like that. This was not my finest hour(s), and I would not have blamed him.

Anyway I’m thinking now, who we are giving birth, is who we are in life, in my case especially. That was 22 years ago and I’m still pulling moves like that. I don’t wanna! is my mantra as I curl into a ball. But! I need to tell you before we move on to the present, 2 years after that first birth I ended up having another baby. That time of my life was a blur but I wanted another baby but knew I didn’t want to go into labour again? Was I high? Did I believe in storks? I know I  hadn’t forgotten the wretched pain but this time I would demand an epidural, it would be different.  Things were definitely  jollier in the birthing room this time round, however, and instead of clenching and holding it in for literally hours on end, I went on all fours like a dog…. to beg for painkillers maybe? And also  because the nurse told me it would help with the pain. Who knew? I flipped over and the next contraction later, Rocket Baby shot out IN TIME FOR LUNCH, the doctor LOL’d, barely managing to catch that slippery toad. The hardest part of this birth was untangling my legs from the umbilical cord while I awkwardly turned back over avoiding slipping my knees into the goopy birth byproduct that nobody tells you about. Also by the way, I was wearing the same lucky Blue Jays socks as the first birth because I’m hopelessly superstitious and I didn’t want to get them gunked up. If I learned anything that day, it was this nugget of wisdom:  If you submit to change, things will unfurl naturally and easily.  By the way,  I didn’t really worry about pooping because I didn’t think it could happen in that position (yes, it can!) and letting gravity do the work was key. And although this baby looked like a giant bruised frog, I loved him for his sublime efficiency.

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Okay, now I’m going to tell you something and don’t judge. You know how when I was about to give birth that first time 22 years ago, I wanted to bail midway to go back into my own mother’s womb and stay there and never come out? Well I still to this day have issues with head in sand burial plots. Have I not learnt anything from giving birth to Rocket Boy that facing one’s fears upside down is the way to go and let gravity’s intelligence show you the way? And do not hold your poop in, proverbially speaking. Well, I just had another life lesson. Don’t be so self-contained!

I have like 3 or maybe 4 problems at any one given time. Sometimes they keep me up at night and sometimes the main problem takes a short nap and the other basic bitch sub-problems decide to play with my mind. These include: Leaky kitchen roof, electrical system in my car out of whack, enamel on front tooth chipped, crevice on forehead needs immobilizing with botulism product, getting old, tired, going to die alone, boo hoo. I toss and turn all night and everything becomes so overwhelming I can’t even get it together to change a burnt out lightbulb the next day.

My main problem these days is I’ve been fiscally irresponsible for the last few months. It went like like this, its textbook like in “What to Expect When You Don’t Pay Your Credit Card Bills.” Goes like this: Let the mail pile up in the mailbox, then one day have the guts to peak inside, bring the long white envelopes inside and stash them in a shoe box and get to them later. Bury head in sand. Another month goes by, lather rinse repeat. Then come the synchronized phone calls. At one point you will experience the overwhelming urge to push. Or not….like me, guess wot, bury head in sand some more.

Then a few weeks ago, I got one of those registered letters you have to sign for and shit got real. I was going to have to take some action because court order. Shoulda-woulda-coulda dealt with this sooner bit didn’t. I told one of my best friends my woe and she suggested I call one of those scary ass debt management lawyers. Oddly enough, there’s this one random dude who actually posts his services on my Facebook wall. At first I thought he was an emotionally intuitive internet genie but he’s most likely an opportunist who just sprays his jizz everywhere and hopes for business. Do you think he actually goes through his friends’ list and checks their credit scores? I would not be surprised. The paranoia was enough to cause more inertia. Anyway, I told her I needed her to nag me about this constantly as what I really need in my life is a domineering but coddling wife who would make me accountable for all the horrible things in life I keep putting off doing. She said okay and in exchange I can ride her about going to the gym. No probs, we went spinning the next day and she was fish to water! It was like she never took a gym sabbatical! I didn’t have to nag her at all! She started going on her own with her Fit Bit and new outfit. And then the Blue Jays started that winning streak and she kind of got distracted with that and I need a village to raise me, no person with a full-time job should be expected to take me on. Which turned out to be good because that Facebook lawyer seemed a little sketchy. Sometimes you have to listen to your intuition.

But! The good thing is once I opened up the first time, I began to feel less shame. I told another friend, and he had been through the exact same thing. I was floored, why did I not know this? I know his passwords and the smell of his farts, yet I did not know this. Well, because they don’t make t-shirts saying “Collection Agency Deadbeat”written on the front. Or do they?

And I realized everyone has their head in the sand somewhere about something. Yet another friend told me his estranged father let his diabetes go and both his legs got riddled with gangrene, the neighbours complained about the smell called the superintendent and he wouldn’t let anyone in his apartment. Talk about having your head buried in the sand and the rest of your body god knows what….there’s just no good metaphor for maggot infested legs because that takes the cake. He laughed and said my problems were nothing. Normal even. So yeah, I’m not the only one who let things slide a little too long. Then finally another friend I told actually raised the bar of friendship and kicked my arse into gear, googled up some non-profit debt management agencies, and made me go and open up the envelopes. OMG. Once I did it, it was cathartic, and almost empowering. And! It wasn’t even half as bad as I thought. Once I got that worked out, I changed a burnt out lightbulb, got my roof fixed, made a dentist appointment (ugh), and fucking wrote this blog post. Tomorrow, the world is mine.

SIGH, but those Blue Jays, man, I wish I still had those lucky birthing socks, for next year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Tantric for the Lonely and Confused

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 art by mike shinoda

Happy autumn daze, my precious kittens, fleeting fuckboys, and annoying mosquitoes! I will miss scratching all of your bites when I’m holed inside hibernating in the winter. Last night was a lovely porch night with the neighbours on the eve of the Blood Moon which is very exciting for those of us whose serotonin levels are lunar activated, definite mojo overload for this old prowling wolfmilf.  I have de-activated the Tinder app from my phone, so I have no immediate tangible outlet for my howling ways, but that’s okay, I can wait. It turns out I AM too old for the pell-mell, willy-nillyness that is modern day hook up culture. I am a woman of substance so I’m sticking old fashioned courtship techniques like social media cyber stalking and prolonged sexting. And sending photos of fragmented body parts using the classic filters from iOS7.

Last night’s porch life activity included the neighbours making me try some vegan cheese. I’m all cool and even sometimes interested with their lifestyle choice of replacing  hunks of juicy deliciousness (meat!)  with dried up flakes of ever-so-slight saltiness (nutritional yeast LOL!) but please don’t call coconut bacon “bacon” when it’s just dehydrated coconut dipped in liquid smoke. That is not simply a misnomer, it’s an insult to pork and no, carnivores do not feel “more comfortable” sitting around a picnic table while you call your processed GMO manipulated-man titty inducing soy product patty imposter a “burger.” Call it what it is: Dust.

Anyhoo, I didn’t really want to try the “cheese” because I knew it would be, at best, meh and these days if I want to fill my holes, what I put in better be more than just good, it better be amazing. But Colleen was all like “Try the cheese, Peterson” and had it spread on a bagel and waved it in my face and so I did, I ate it,  and I was right,  it was “okay,” I declared diplomatically but thinking: What is wrong with their taste palates? “You’ll get used to it!” she said sensing my disdain only because she was masking hers. I think those were the exact words Diana heard when she married Prince Charles. I don’t want to “get used to” anything. I want to be blown away by the beauty and wonder of the world and allow the splendour to flow through me and bestow on me enlightenment beyond my expectations and send me to another stratosphere that gets me closer to that higher place where the fear of death is placated by the divinity of stuffing  fondue or buttermilk brined fried chicken into my pie hole, is that too much to ask?

Last week I ate a triple cream brie ACTUAL fucking cheese made by monks in Burgundy, France.  Their repressed sexual energy is most probably hard-core pumped into everything they make like all that wine and bread and cheese they’re famous for, which is basically my own personal 3 food groups. Try playing the game of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” with wine, bread, and cheese. I just can’t do it. Every time I try, I get confused and I feel bad that if I married wine, I would cheat with beer sometimes, like every day probably, who’s kidding who. I’d probably be okay with killing bread because carbs but still really want to fuck a baguette on most days in a threesome with the cheese, obviously. What a quagmire. Anyway, eating this triple cream brie was like sucking on the teat of a benevolent deity whose multitude of arms coddled me, stroked my forehead, soothed inner child, made everything okay, and even fiddled with my ears (you know I like that)  while whispering “I love you.”  It was, indeed, a splendorous experience. Eating that “vegan cheese” was like eating a bagel that was moistened with something to make it go down easier. Do not call it cheese, it is merely “emotionally distant non-committal white spread for bread.”  But! The moon was almost full so I could forget what I ate and focus on the other holes.

So when the wine ran out and we all went inside to our respective digs, engulfing ourselves with the blue haze of the tv screens for cold comfort. Peeps, I need a new show to obsess over, fire me some suggestions, winter is coming, but don’t say “Game of Thrones” unless you’re willing to come over and pin me down because I get all antsy watching that shit, I’ve tried.

Lately I like to lay in the quiet dark and “meditate” or whatever euphemism makes you vegans comfortable. Carnivores tho, psssst: I’m tenderizing veal cutlets;). So yes, I was in the dark and I got a text from a friend whose meat and cheese would most probably make a mighty fine sandwich and I’m  thinking…long…. and hard about it.  Anyway, his message was non-sensical to moi, something random about “meditating” which was weirdly serendipitous because that is what exactly I was doing, and then he wrote back immediately before I could change hands, “oh sorry that wasn’t for you” and then he explained he was talking to some “friend” about tantric sexual practises. Whoa, what? Is it 1998?  His misfired text got my attention though. What exactly is this tantric practise anyway? I kind of missed the boat on that trend when I was busy breastfeeding babies and wiping toddler butts. I was way too lazy to google it but he said some kind of thing couples did instead of boning without touching each other. I know right? SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING VEGANS WOULD DO TO AVOID GETTING GREASY. I fell asleep just thinking about it.

So this morning I woke up all refreshed and ready to start a new day of same old repressed sexual energy coursing through all my chakras and busting at the seams as per usual, I decided to google this tantric tomfoolery. I got to the wiki page which defines tantra as “an Asian tradition of beliefs and meditation and ritual practices that seeks to channel the divine energy of the macrocosm or godhead into the human microcosm in order to attain siddhis and moksha.” Yeah, okay, so where does Sting and his 7-hour boner come into it?

Well, scrolling further down the pages of Google I found out that  apparently channelling all your sexual energy and letting it simmer and steep rather than explode in the normal 3 minutes or less, let’s not kid ourselves, actually heightens intimacy! Longer is better, yo!  Of course, this is only useful if you have a partner but between you and me, show me a couple practising the tantra and I will show you an exercise in full blown mind numbing boredom. All that staring and breathing and intertwining without penetration is unsustainable. Dollars for donuts one of you is thinking about renovating the kitchen and the other is contemplating murder. You know I’m right.

Anyway, you actually don’t really need a partner to practice tantric energy. It turns out I’ve been doing this all along in every day situations, I just did not know what it was.  I liked this 4 easy steps guide and modified it for every day people who are single or enjoy vegan cheese:

1. Design and “Intimacy Space.” I think this is super important. In my opinion, your whole home should be a place that is a haven from the rest of the world, whether you bone in it or not. Once in a while I will go to a friend’s house with whom  drinking shots out of each other’s belly buttons turned into an invitation for wine and cheese and bread and I walk into their crib and I think: “Who the fuck lives here, your grandma?” And yes, once this guy actually did live with his grandma but what I mean is don’t decorate your house like you think it should be like, all pristine and with a couch that looks like it’s wearing a back brace accessorized with cushions that have decorative beadwork and feathers that you can’t drool on. You should be able to fuck recklessly on every piece of furniture in your space or at least practice twerking on every piece of furniture in your space. Otherwise what is the point of “home?” Or intimacy, especially, if you have a piece of furniture called a hutch or curiosity cabinet filled with Royal Doulton figurines. Boner killer. Tantric panic button.

2. Breathe Each Other’s Breath. What? I don’t want to do this with anybody either. One person breathes out, the other breathes it in? Ugh. No. I breathe really fast and shallow cuz my heart is like hummingbird and I don’t want to know what someone else had for lunch, breakfast, or how many creams in their coffee, this is a mess. I modified this tantric energy exercise though for normal people with boundaries. I like to spin with my one of my best buddies, JHo. We park ourselves on bikes side by side and she’ll all dressed to go, full of piss and Balsamic vinaigrette and ready hit the 20 mark, and I’m like, slow mo, no, Ho,  I don’t go 20 but she is YES, BITCH! Put it on 20! So I put it on 21  just to be the top in our symbiotic energy flow system. I also match my pedal stroke to hers and we to ride stupid songs like “Shut Up and Dance,” we both feel the hatred together which binds us as one sweaty unit. I breathe, and I’m pretty sure she is breathing.  We’re 2 feet apart,with the fan blowing, sucking on each other’s oxygen waste, but not on purpose. Good enough, tantric task master!  Xoxoxoxoxox, JHo!

3. Keep Your Eyes Open.  This means you need to gaze into each other’s eyes and let the energy flow through one another. Again, no. Last time I locked eyes with a dude in an intimate moment, he took it as a signal to put his hands around my throat and throttle away just enough for me to stop that shit and knuckle punch him in his Lumberjerkoff beard. Who knew this was a commonplace hipster sex move? I did not! And! as a consequence I’m still apprehensive about venturing west of the Don Valley. If ever I had a proper dude for staring all soulfully and tantra-like eyes to eyes, I would probably make sure we were both wearing those Bioré pores strips across the bridge of our noses so we wouldn’t get distracted counting each other’s blackheads. Until this happens, I sometimes lay on my back with Betty the dog on my chest and she and I gaze into each other’s souls while I pet her soft furry head. Her big black eyes are so attentive and she looks at me like she thinks I’m pretty, it’s as though we are connected with tantric energy in the purest form. This is what we are thinking:

Me: “Oh, Betty, you are such and exquisite little animal. I love you so much, I want to squeeze you until all the cute comes out, you are so scrumptious, I want to eat you up!”(I am such a carnivore)

Betty: “Cheese, bitch.”

4. Take It Slow.  Tinder fuckboys, take note, this makes sense. Tantric is all about foreplay even if it means grossing each other out and boring each other senseless with the breathing and staring but! there is definitely something to be said about taking your time and letting it all build up when there is mutual attraction. Like going on an actual date for dinner and drinks, then another date some other time where you do something “fun” like indoor rock climbing or mini golf, all devised to check out how the ass moves so you can decide whether or not book a third date, which is the crucial one.  Unless of course, on that first date, you’re both so hot for each other, you lock eyes, growl or snort, and you can barely make it to the bathroom where you mash it out in there. Fuck that tantric bullshit, that’s the stuff that’s makes for real cheese. Just wait for it.

Enjoy the full moon, y’all!

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of the Olds

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I loved the article last week in the NYTimes by Dominique Browning about being too old for certain shit and not even caring if you are too old for it. And definitely giving zero fucks if some slightly younger bitch who is still bothering to pull out her rogue grey pubes gets all haughty and says: “Don’t say “old,” say “wise,” BECAUSE OLD IS A BAD WORD AND MAKES US ALL UNCOMFORTABLE.

It shouldn’t though. Old is an empowering word. Young is for amateurs. Old  is the new black, trust. Everyone is rocking it. I just got a solid case of the olds recently and I don’t completely hate it and neither should you. Stick with me, I’ll take you under my soft downy wing and show you the way, don’t be scared.

Last week at Loblaws,  I ran into this woman I know from the gym. We haven’t seen each other since the heyday of Lululemon active wear, right before Chip Wilson  opened his big douchey mouth and made those of us who want to take a stand against  the Donald Trump of yoga turn elsewhere for our camel toe game. So yeah, we haven’t seen each other in 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 years, who knows, as you know, time flies whatever your age is….however long ago it was, she looked amaaaazing. She’s about 5 years younger than me in her mid-to-late forties and her hair was all blown out and her face all smooth and Botoxed. Okay, relax, I’m not being mean, I’m saying this because I know the injectables and my bae Botox just makes you look rested and not like you’re up all night playing on-line Scrabble with an internet troll in a different time zone, drinking vodka, and bouncing off the walls, trying to find a flattering angle for your titties to Snapchat. She looked super fit, like in her prime hotness. AND LIKE SHE’S BEEN GOING TO THE GYM EVERYDAY.  Shit. So this was the conversation:

Me: “Hi!!! How are you?”

She: “Great! How are you? Are you still going to the gym?”

Me: “Yes! Well…. no…actually. Yes, I do go and walk in the door  but since they started moving things around for the renovations, I can’t figure it out, so I just flail around the hallway and then go drink beer.”

She (nodding): “Yeah, that spinning room in the squash court is kind of brutal.”

OBVIOUSLY SHE KNOWS THIS BECAUSE SHE ACTUALLY DOES THE CLASSES. I have only heard about this makeshift spinning room in a squash court but I’m waiting for it to come back when they’re done with this reno. I hate change and I’m too old for bright lights.

Me (upper body collapsing on my glutenous white carb laden grocery cart):  “I just let the menopause hit, I didn’t bother reading that Suzanne Somers book. Estogen Shmestrogen. I don’t care anymore….”

She looked at me incredulously like I was a frog on a highway and she and her pert antioxidant-filled shopping cart scuttled away before we could talk about how our kids were doing. I had a case of the olds and she was not going to catch it. No, she’s going to run from it. And probably train for a Tough Mudder along the way. Ha ha, the joke’s on her, there’s nothing more ageing than doing some archaic strenuous shit squinting in the sun. “You choose the face or the body,” said the grand old bitch Catherine Deneuve, who wisely chose the face, knowing that the thickened middle pudge is practical for holding Netflix on the laptop and trays of snacks and cans of beers or whatever.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE, THE OLDS ARE COMING FOR YOU, TOO! I wanted to warn her but best let her find out for herself. Cue the theme song from Jaws.

So yeah, she will get the olds in due time and there’s not much she can do about it. But like all of life’s curve balls, it’s how you flail your bat at them that counts. I’m not even sure that’t the right metaphor but you know what I mean. At some point she will tire of fighting with her glorious hair and  it will start looking all fantastically witchy when the silvers start winning. She will also finally get that postal feeling of irascible rage over the song “Footloose” and stop spinning all together like I did. Then finally, by the light of the giant harvest moon in 2019 she will burn all her Lululemons in a giant bonfire and she will yell; “I’M OLD AS FUCK AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE!” And we will embrace her in our old-as-fuck community by getting our Botox on because we are never to old for botulism injectables.

It’s all good. Here’s a random list of things I’m too old for, let me know yours:

  • Snapchat
  • Grown ass adults having birthday parties. Unless the booze is free.
  • Having to continuously re-download the annoying Kik app for a D pic because a certain type of Tinder dude is too paranoid about his precious package to send by old-fashioned text message. Having said that, the last one was worth it.
  • Winged eyeliner…reluctantly :( but it’s just too much work.
  • Yelling at customer service phone representatives like a toddler as though the world owes me HBO and faster internet for free. I am NOT going to become one of those cantankerous cane-tapping old bats who get their way only because they are about to die on an ice floe unbeknownst to them. Instead I will always use my freakishly girlish phone sex voice in order to get free stuff.
  • Thongs

And like the NY Times article says, just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you can’t embrace new things and make new friends. Also things you shouldn’t have to apologize for because you’re old as fuck, here’s my list:

  • Lipstick, especially those bold colours from the 80s that only Gwen Stefani gets away with. I know the olds come with those vertical lines that can make a mess of things but! Fuck it. Also I have discovered those 8-hour BJ-proof-stay-on formulas like Kat Von D’s Everlasting from Sephora, caveat: You have to paint it on carefully with a super steady hand so get rid of last night’s martini shakes by having good morning Caesar BUT! Once you get it on and let it dry, you can eat a gooey delicious croque madame sandwich and your lips will stay intact. Oh, also: I put this shit on in public because I’m too old to care.
  • Cheetos
  • Long Island iced tea, let’s bring these back in style, mama needs to howl at the moon again.
  • Tinder. Where has this app been all my life? This is the dating app for those who don’t have time or the life skills for meaningful relationships and base their attraction solely on a few photos and a couple of sentences. Me: Boobs, Soft downy wings, Sandwich maker, OCD hair twirler, Boobs…Looking for  a D for my V. How concise is that? The boys in the photos are all flying through the air on bungees, parachutes, and trampolines. Catch me if you can, bitches, they seem to be saying. Swipe left and it’s nope, you can fly off the cliff and die, dude; Swipe right, and yes, we can totally bone if you can hold still for a second. Of course, nothing has come of this for old as fuck moi because everyone on this has severe ADD and they expect you to stop what you’re doing RIGHT NOW and come over PRONTO. I need witty banter for lubrication and Tinder boys can’t take light repartee, unless you’re asking them what their favourite boneage position is, they’re like, “you’re wasting my time, lady” and off into they go into ether on their roller blades or pogo sticks. Whatevs, like I care. Maybe I am too old for this, but I’m waiting patiently to catch the great white whale.  Also I get a cheap little thrill when there is a match which means both of us swiped right! This is destiny at work! Then I plan the mock wedding:
  • Dumb bridal shows, like “Say Yes to the Dress.” This is my Friday night guilty pleasure slash porn. Back cleavage makes me gleeful. I don’t know why.
  • Your dad, please have him call me.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Procrastination

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Happy summer daze, kittens! I’ve missed you more than you know but I’ve been busy with some other interweb activity for a group of cute dudes who asked me to write things for their website about Toronto neighbourhoods. They asked me nicely so I couldn’t so say no but it’s a lot of work. It’s research intensive and then I have to digest and  ruminate before I spew things out to sound less Wikipedia-ish and more like that Drunk History You-Tube channel. I love it but it’s a brain workout and it’s going slower than I would like. People assume my stream of consciousness style comes out easily like a prolapse after Pride weekend but it doesn’t. It puckers up and gets shy. Sometimes I just have to take a break from reading about John Simcoe’s pissing contests in the 1700s and stop and stare at the wall. For about two seconds. And check out OkCupid. Pretend I don’t notice my OkC crush in on-line and not responding to my message. Freak out a tiny bit. I don’t need a dude to complete me. Especially one who drinks wheat beer. Deal breaker. I need a snack. Then go on Twitter and stalk the food truck situation within a 5 kilometre distance. Too much effort to collect rogue toonies and loonies around the house for $12 order of mad-fried chicken. Play with my bean instead, get temporary carpal tunnel, wash my hands (not really), repeat.

The worst is I’ve been neglecting y’all, and when I neglect you, I neglect myself. So I’m taking a break from procrastination to sit down and gab for awhile to get my fingering motor skills back in order. I’ve been thinking about procrastination a lot lately and maybe it’s not such a time waster as it is a way to recharge the old battery, maybe people need to put things off because everything is so chicken-with-head-cut-off-rush-rush sense of urgency bullshit. Although, I bet John Simcoe, during his 58 years on the planet, didn’t have to procrastinate all the live long day while introducing institutions such as the courtstrial by juryEnglish common lawfreehold land tenure, and the abolition of slavery …why? Because he wasn’t on Facebook, let alone OkCupid or Tinder. He got ‘er done AND founded a little town called York, now  known as Toronto btw…and he probably never abbreviated anything either because there was nothing but time back then. And vast swamp land to create a massive village of future finger-fapping, screen-addicted, orally-fixated, anal-probing (not me! you know who you are), citizens with ADD, ADHD, OCD and insomnia. Well done, sir.

I feel like most of us should live slower in order to disguise the fact that we’re actually procrastinating. I am sure this is how most people with 9 to 5 jobs actually function. I know this for a fact because they always have their green lights on during work hours. Busy bees checking out cat videos all the live long day, pretending to be productive.

My thoughts on time management: I have a real problem with dismissive people who say things like “You’re wasting my time” for being slow or asking questions when their time is as useless as anyone else’s. Time isn’t ALL THAT. My fucking crazy pregnant neighbour down the street probably spends the better part two hours every morning stuffing a bump-it in her hair and creating a cascade of blond tomfoolery so spectacular, it would take your breath away if you saw it IRL. This is precious time she can’t get back but she does it for whatever reason floats her boat. You can just tell her husband is dying of embarrassment when he walks her lumpy bumpy, sausage-encased self over to Starbucks every morning, waiting impatiently for that baby to come out and scream WTF? right along with him.

Anyway, here are some procrastination activities I’ve come up for yourself that I deem worthwhile and can maybe help get the creative juices flowing, but probably not. Go waste some time:

1. Watch the movie “Chef” on Netflix.  Jon Favreau as a hairy fat man has finally got my full attention. I am in love. Hot, hot, hot, but! Also: this movie inspires me to cook. Especially that Cuban sandwich he makes on his food truck. I need to have that NOW, the way he fiddles with pulled pork, help me Jesus. I do like cooking kind of, but I take too many short cuts which always leads to something too crunchy or not caramelized enough. The other day I watched my friend Lo make a quiche. Not only does she NOT multi-task, she makes fucking Caesars in between each chopping activity, tells a story, then moves on to the next step. THIS IS HOW WE NEED TO LIVE OUR LIVES.  Slow your pie hole down, and make the entire day a slow eating and yap-doodle day.

2. Drink beer with the neighbours.  My neighbours and current tenants are the best and I’m very lucky and grateful to have them so it makes good common sense to maintain these friendships. Especially in the summer when you can walk outside and drink some beers with them whenever procrastination hits fever pitch. The neighbours are always busy hand picking out rogue clovers or other non-conforming spritely weirdlings in their garden and perfectly trimming the sides of the grass against the entire walkway so the blades don’t stick out willy nilly. Can they cut hair? No, no they can’t, or at least they won’t. But they will help me pull out that pernicious weed that has taken deep root around my Rose of Sharon and imitating its foliage so it strangles it like an ugly jealous step-sister. They will proceed to yank out more weeds because the OCD sets in. This is thirsty work that requires refreshments during and afterward. The tenants also make delightful Pimm’s cocktails from the mint grown in the backyard garden, so it would be rude not to except an offer of one.  Also I feel like John Simcoe would approve of this procrastination activity as he gave all east end land in olden day York, including the lot I’ve parked my arse on, to the gardeners of yore.

3. Clean something, anything. My daughter wrote a list of what to clean and she was very generous in saying that we can do one area once a week. I cannot possibly go on a cleaning frenzy that lasts more than 2 hours. I always say I gave birth to my own mother but my mother would never write a list like that, she would just do it all and you would come home and take it all for granted, all the sorted socks and ironed underwear, and yes she read my diary but whatevs. Anyway, my daughter has been moving from the back end of the house to the front “doing ALL the work, FFS” except that I cleaned out the fridge and freezer the other day. It wasn’t that hard, I don’t why she makes such a fuss. So much forgotten ice cream though which is tragic because it gets gummy with those hard crystals on the top. DNR and toss but not before scooping out the bottom inch and zapping in the microwave for 10 seconds and a have break while watching “The View.”

4. Shop. I’ve been in an anti-shop mode for the last couple of years. I’m pretending to make a stand against excessive consumerism but it’s really because I’m broke as fuck.  But! I have found that rifling through the endless racks of a department store so serenely contemplative that I don’t know why I stopped doing it just for the sport. I guess I was afraid I’d be tempted to buy something stupid except that I realize now I don’t have to, I have the power to say no! I think your nan called it “window shopping.” Possibly all that OkCupid scrolling has trained me to thinking you don’t have to bone everything you send your veiny boob pics to. This is a very liberating thought.

5. Have a nap.  It’s so cute, I wish you could see what I’m looking down at now. I’m on my upstairs balcony writing this on a lawn chair under a shade tree, my backyard is like a camping spot, it’s really very nice and peaceful.. My tenants are on their deck laying eyes closed and tits up in reclining lawn chairs with their dog flaked out at their feet and they’re all having an afternoon siesta. Yes, they are probably in a Pimm’s induced coma but they spent the whole morning clearing out all the beer cans from the night before. I need to Instagram this before some little asshole Pomeranian-cross bitch with a smoker’s bark wakes them up. Goddamn, too late…oh, Betty.

THIS IS HOW TO PROCRASTINATE, BITCHES #GOODTIMES.