Girls in Bikinis and Boys Doin’ the Twist

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Only one of you out there will get the reference of the title of this post and you and I will laugh together at the misery of it all. For the rest of you, suffice to say it’s SPRING MOTHERFUCKING BREAK and it is snowing projectile polar bear diarrhea outside, how’s that for IRONY? If there was actually school, it would be cancelled and declared a snow day for sure…oh, the weather trolls win at this one. Yesterday was sunny and warm and we were wearing shorts and waving to the light at the end of the tunnel and calling it in for some cocktails while we sucked in our stomachs and maybe shaved our armpits…and then today, jokes. Trololol.

*pulls grey sweat pants out of the laundry*

Something exciting happened last week though. I got a message from a reader named Erica from TASMANIA. I know y’all know your geography and are aware that Tasmania actually exists outside a Bugs Bunny cartoon and is the island state south of the main giant blob of Australia, but I am just grooving to the fact that she and her awesome flatmate (Hi, Meagan!) read this blog from such afarness and found it by googling “hot ginger men.” Hot. Ginger. Men. HOT. GINGER. MEN. Sorry, that’s my SEO whore coming out, stay with me and we will be discussing GIRLS. IN. BIKINIS.  

Anyway, Erica was on vacation and travelling through parts of Canada and the U.S. and asked if I would meet up for a coffee (lol) or a pint (YES) when she comes to Toronto. I love this kind of thing!  We bantered back and forth while she was in Quebec and I encouraged her to try poutine there because they have the authentic cheese curds and don’t get all pretentious and add foie gras and charge you $17.  I think Quebec is a nice place to visit, even in the winter because both cities, Quebec City and Montreal, have that old scary wretched architecture which compliments the brutality of the freezing cold, it’s like being in a thrilling Gothic horror film. Like you could be brutally murdered at any moment. In a good way. AND THE CHEESE CURDS SQUEAK ON YOUR TEETH! How magical is that?

But here in Toronto, the shite weather is an embarrassment.  I know that sounds weird because the weather is not anyone’s fault *per se* but on the other side of the coin, isn’t it strange to run around with Canadian Pride because “we” won at hockey in the Olympics? Seriously, the day of the men’s final, I did nothing but wake up at an obscenely early hour on a Sunday and drive around trying to find a spot in a bar that served beer at 7 a.m. I am so Proud of my contribution to the Olympic gold medal. As a Canadian citizen, I bitterly pay my taxes and enjoy the “free” healthcare and the rest of the time I grumble about the weather and the shitty potholes ruining my tires. Maybe I am Canada’s insolent teenager and should be Grateful (freedom! diversity! microbreweries!) but seriously, fuck this town. I do not belong and sometimes it takes a visitor to make you realize that.

I met her at the Eaton Centre, and we drove around the city, showing her some main bits that are normally charming but that day was all kinds of depressing shades of grey that don’t involve melting candle wax and orgasms. Who knew what the city really looks like when you actually look at it? I am a happy hermit, normally all I see in January and February is my tv screen. Kensington Market in winter looks like a bleak version Borat’s village but at least there were no righteous neo-hippies banging on my car yelling that I am “idling” and “ruining the environment” at a stop sign…But! Get this: As we were driving around, Erica said: “The snow is so pretty!” And I’m like, wow, this girl is CRAZY! She’s also hilarious and smart and if that’s what Aussies are like, I want to move to Australia. Anywhere but here.

Soon.

*scratches bum through grey sweatpants, opens new tab to Netflix*

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Now it’s Spring Break, or March Break, whatevs, it’s technically not really spring yet and may never be if the weather trolls get their way. The level of despair here has given me my first ever actual  panic attack. Yes, I have anxiety like everyone else, I have insomnia where I ruminate, fret, and number crunch at night, and by morning I’m so beat up, I don’t care anymore. This little episode was different. On Sunday, the Golden Boy, aka Freddy, left for his school trip to Cuba. Cuba! So jalooooz! We got up early, had a leisurely breakfast watching Comedy Central because we both have impeccable time management and organizational skills and  then I drove him to his GF’s house to catch the cab to the airport. I got home, walked into the kitchen and noticed a puddle of water by the dog bowl. I had turned on the dishwasher before I left and was gone a half an hour and jumped to the conclusion that the pipes exploded and some plumbing disaster had occurred and I immediately got wound up so tight (like the Tasmanian devil!!!) that I went into a tailspin. I started to hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, and I lay down and made a whole lot of noise of some sort that Betty the dog took notice and jumped up and sat on my chest. Wagging her tail like a helicopter, she forced her snout in my face and licked furiously inside my mouth. Thank gods for furry friends and their awkward methods of resuscitation because otherwise this would have gone on a lot longer and seriously, once I came to my senses, I realized the puddle wasn’t a plumbing disaster of epic proportions but merely some tea kettle spillage. What the hell???  I can’t logically reason with my brain when I get in middle-of-the-night insomnia/fret/mathematic-number-crunching-manic mode, but this little meltdown was in broad daylight and for no good reason. Is this just the tip of the Titanic’s iceberg?  Is my mental state in peril? And why am I the only bat I know over 40 I know who isn’t medicated?

Thank gods of mental health for HBO and Netflix. Let’s cheer up now, shall we?

GIRLS IN BIKINIS!

You know what’s actually a good movie? Spring Breakers. It is chockfull of drunken party gratuitous frontal nudity that you would hope and expect because why else would you click on this:

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I guess the American release poster made me think it was a trollop-in-training parade of ex-Disney starlets making duck faces but no! It was a cinematic masterpiece, who knew? Freddy knew. “It’s an art film,” he said when I asked him if he had seen it. Which meant no. I guess kids today don’t need to bother with “art” bikinis when there is so much floppage to scroll through on Instagram. It was dark and moody and really scary and James Franco is sinister as fuck. I had just finished watching “Freaks and Geeks” for godsakes, was not expecting postmodern Marlon Brando.

And then there was the episode of “Girls” where Lena Dunham wears a green bikini in almost the entire episode, even when they go grocery shopping, which now makes hilarious sense since it was filmed after Spring Breakers was released. Her character, Hannah, says “Spring Breakers was a beautiful blend of art and commerce.”  Genius:

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Go Hannah, shake yo jello. You make me happy to have HBO.

Also normally I like to  boost my slumping blog ratings with an homage to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue but I think we can all agree that not a single gym sock in any of the Americas was soiled with this year’s cover:

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Ugh, it’s painful to even look at these starving girls. I am not buying the contrived sex appeal here. They are arching so hard, they look like 3 bony centaurs. And oh, how I laughed because my local magazine store opened up all the magazines and displayed the inside cover instead:

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MUCH BETTER! Home girl, Kate Upton, the mighty blog whisperer herself! Go, Kate, spike my ratings!

Why do girls in bikinis sell? Hope. Hope for warmer days and sunburns on the top of your feet and bug bites and sand in your cracks and orifices. I think everybody should just shut up already and put on our bikinis and go walk to the store and hang out, Spring Breakers style. If we all stand united, maybe the sun will finally shine. Or we can just warm up and build a massive bonfire and throw our parkas in it.

SIGH

*spills wine on grey sweatpants, laughs, pours another glass.*

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Inside a Snatch of Beavers

Shannon Szabados

Some hot dude on my Facebook newsfeed posted something the other day about women hating each other and listed ways that they sabotage each other by translating their back-handed compliments, this was one example:

“Is that your man? Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
TRANS: He must be part BLIND bc you are one UGLY bitch.

He listed 7 more, each one more brutal than the next, of what we say to each other with what we “really mean” which is always “bitch, you is fat AND ugly AND dumb AND did I say FAT?” … his statuses always have the “read more” icon on the bottom and ramble on with random caps and ghetto spellcheck…Seriously, get a blog like me, windbag, and I mean it as a compliment. His posts make me laaaaaaugh. I refuse to believe that he is your regular garden variety hot-but-dumb dude but a brilliant intellect whose Kanye-esque rhetoric provides us with insightful social commentary. Also I fell in love with him a couple of weeks ago when he blathered on about how the only way to please a woman is to go “deep sea diving” and then described the vagine as a “seductive pink grotto,” imagine that! *swoon.* If I was to describe my lady parts as a place it would be the scary burnt out church ominously surrounded by a swirling murder of crows in episode 2 of “True Detective.”  Omg, I found it on youtube, this is a metaphor of my abandoned poon, so poignant:

“There was a fire in here a long time ago,” Woody Harrelson  drawls. I AM LOVING THIS SHOW SO MUCH IT HURTS.

I am going off on a tangent though, back to Ghetto Jesus’ point, “WOMIN HATE WOMIN.” I have to agree to a certain point. There is something about being in a group of vaginarama that makes me very nervous.

A gaggle of girls.

It’s not like you’re socially conditioned as a child to be a bitch but I think it’s something inherent in our human nature to ostracize the weak and the freak. It starts in the schoolyard playground…Me in Grade 1 playing “Red Rover” however that goes, I forget, but it involves hand holding and shouting out names. I am holding some girl’s hand but I am dying of shame because I have a worry of gross warts on my palm that Compound W can’t kill. I think my older sister ended up gouging them out with nail scissors, that is right up her alley.  But then and there, I have a carbuncley cluster of them on that fleshy part at the base of the thumb and I am holding hands with this second-grade girl with blond pigtails…she looks down at our hands because it probably felt like all moist and toad-like and she saw my bouquet of verruca and she dropped my hand like anybody would and bolted to the other side of the game. Needless to say, I never got to play “Red Rover” again and spent the rest of elementary school with the other lepers banished to the back corner, building forts in the gravel. THIS IS HOW IT GOES, BITCH, GET USED TO IT.

A conniving of cunts.

Sometimes when you are in a small group of women friends, say a trio, at some point, two of them might turn on you. This is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is typical high school girl behaviour and can range from the subtle to the all-out cruel. My worst one happened in CEGEP (that is Quebec’s version of Grade 12 and 13 fyi, my foreign friends) when I had inadvertently “stolen” my best friend’s crush. I know that sounds bad, but this girl had a panty-raid of crushes and a new boyfriend every week and I am not exaggerating, I can count on one warty hand the number of sad dates I have been on in high school, so what if I poached her crush? Grow up, there’s a surfeit of dicks out there (no, there’s not), choose another one. So she had our other friend pretend to be on my side so I would confide in her so she could report back the things I said. So after she warmed me up with charlatan sympathy, I told her I thought she was being selfish and why can’t she throw the one bone, and I am going to lose my virginity once and for all. When bitch ratted me out to the crush hoarder, our friendship ended in a huge fight where a boiling pot of mac ‘n’ cheese was hurled in my general direction. For the rest of the school year she would stare at me like a wounded cow from across the caf. The guy in question ended up dumping me not once, not twice, but three times over the course of two years so she had that to be smug about. Serves me right, I guess, plus I got fat when I had to go on the pill.

A hag of hens.

Fucking book clubs. Do I even need to elaborate on this one? What is it about a roomful of wine-drinking middle aged ladies that fills me with anxiety? There is always one rotten apple in the bunch. Once, during the infamous battle of “Eat, Pray, Love”  I got angrily shushed by one when I interjected a remark in agreement to her raging tearful rant against all the haters. We were the only two who liked the book and she shot me down when I was trying to support her. What a dumb, ugly bitch.

A racket of  cooch.

A group of tennis ladies eating salad for lunch, a terror of twat or what? A horror of snatch! A fright of gash! A while back, before you knew me, I took up tennis because my beloved friend JHo described our future: Old ladies who play doubles in the morning and drink pitchers of iced Pimms  in the afternoon on the veranda  in our tennis whites, cable knit cardigans wrapped around our bony shoulders, we leave red lipstick stains on our glasses, and we talk in old timey mid-Atlantic Hollywood accents and say things like: “Shall we ring round the waiter and have another round?” until we start slurring. Good times! Well that dream died quickly. I joined a round robin which was kind of fun because everyone was the same level of  crappy and we played and laughed and went home. But then something happened and cliques were formed. Some of the women became obsessed and made up teams. It was just like high school and these grown women reverted back to their 16 year-old selves where there was a hierarchy of social standing. There was no room for goofball round robin. They became viciously elitist. Seriously, it’s a gym where people waddle on treadmills, not a Slavic tennis farm. All the hos were getting private lessons and I was left behind in the land of tennis misfits, the wretched ones who missed the boat, the old and the crazy. And those bitches weren’t so nice either. I overheard one old lady in another locker bay talking trash about me: “She always misses the ball, she swats it like she’s trying to kill flies.” Fuck her and her thicket of varicose veins, I never played after that. Now I just watch the chosen ones, they take over the restaurant after their vigorous court play, glowing and giddy like they just fucked a Serbian tennis pro all morning. How do they even tell themselves apart? They are all blond with horse faces and you just know that when they finish their lunch salads, they hit the drive through on their way home. One good thing though, JHo and I are enjoying our afternoon pints together, which means our future is on the right track. I love her so.

So while certain groups of women scare me, presently I do cherish and find all my comfort-slash-mental health therapy in the company of my true lady friends. Unlike what Ghetto Jesus might say on the Facebook, we don’t have hidden agenda when we compliment each other. In fact the other day,one of my friends said: “I am loving the colour of your hair, KP, but fuck, you need to wash it. Girl, it is greeeeeeezy!” Oh how I laaaaaaaughed. Power to the sisterhood!

A riot of pussy and a team of hockey players, how about them bitches? Huzzah!

Dr. Internet’s Cheap Tips for Health and Beauty

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So I changed the title of this blog the other day, partly in a fit of rage and also because I want it to be less localized in this fucking shithole city of Toronto that I plan on escaping as soon as the kids leave and the dog dies…and be more of a citizen of the World Wide Internet, to attract a broader audience who gets me. I started it a few years back as a real estate blog…you know, showcasing pretty little over-priced pimped-up houses and twee local businesses destined to fail in the gentrified Stepford neighbourhoods that no one can really afford to live in because of our modern day fixation of wanting the same shit as everyone else, GRANITE COUNTERTOPS, I’m looking at you. Over the years, the blog evolved to something else entirely, which has been me talking to you about every else besides granite counters. Fuck them and their stainless steel appliances. Heated floors, seriously?

Onward: Last month I had my annual checkup, and while everything was reasonably A-OK, my doctor did call me to say she wanted to retest my “bad” cholesterol because it was “borderline.” She gave me some number that I promptly forgot. Yes, I can remember my old crush, Sweaty Man’s, license plate number from 1998 but I forget the important ones, don’t even ask about my chequing account.

“What does that mean, borderline?” Me, clutching my wine-stained blankie, like suddenly my world has come crashing down for having too many nuggets of cholesterol in my bloodstream that I didn’t even know I had two seconds earlier.

“It’s a tad higher than I would like to see. Did you say you’ve been eating cheese over the holidays?”

“Yes…,” I have been eating cheese constantly, not just to celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus, c’mon.

“Well I’d like to get you re-tested in a couple of months….also, how many drinks would you say you’re having per week?”

Of course I lied. I don’t even remember what I said because you can’t really toy with that doctor, my lie crushed me. You know the old joke about how you’re only an alcoholic if you drink more than your doctor, who drinks like a sailor on shore leave…that joke is from the 1950s when your doctor kept a bottle of Canadian Club in his drawer and smoked a cigarette while he gave you a prostate exam. Well my doctor is a Lilliputian size triple 0 (she shops at Gap kids!) who would probably throw up if she drank my Monday intake.

I lied to her then but I am on a mission now. I’m down to 5 units a week! No more bacon! And cheese! Also, I looked up on my beloved Internet ways to improve one’s health all around. I am super sceptical when people tell me about herbal remedies. Like some crazy bitch told me to take Primrose Oil when I had a case of the sadz. Fuck, I am depressed because I am unemployed, celibate by circumstance because nobody in this bullshit city gets me and I am all alone AND NO AMOUNT OF EXPENSIVE URINE WILL CHANGE THAT. Come on.

Although one thing that did stand out was the power of Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV fo’ short from here on in). I know, I know, junk science, old wives’ tale blah blah blah. But! as I transform into a wise old bat, I am more and more into the folk remedies and a simpler way of life. You know, lots of things are making me sneeze and giving me patchy rashes these days and I have that daughter who nips at me in righteous socially aware buzzwords that are sounding less like gibberish each day: GMO* MONSANTO* ORGANIC* LOCALLY SOURCED* SUSTAINABLE* SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION WHORE.

ACV (apple cider vinegar! did you forget already?) is supposed to help lower cholesterol, decrease belly fat (Dr.Oz says so it must be true), help alkalize the body (do I care? so does red wine by the way), and helps decrease the appetite because it’s so fucking foul, you want to pucker up your pie hole and run out of the kitchen, never to return. It’s supposed to promote all over good health which is worth a try, especially since it’s cheap, and all you need is a couple of tablespoons diluted in a glass of water to shoot back first thing in the morning.

So I’m on Week Two of ACV regime. You have to get the organic, raw cider, Bragg brand, because it contains “the mother,” with all its enzymes and living bacteria. I know it sounds very “Alien” but I just do what I’m told, I don’t question. Contrary to what those bitches on the Internet say, I have not gotten “used to” the taste. Every morning it is a tortuous swallow-ordeal, I’m not a gulper but I am learning to be now (dudes, call me!). It burns going down but I will say, I feel virtuous afterward, like I have sedated all the screaming candida and stifled out their raging inflammation shindig for the day.

So far, ACV has made me pee a LOT, like a ton. This is good, I am a water hoarder. We live in the first world where clean drinking water comes out of taps in any given lavatory…Evolution, I’m talking to you, why do you bloat us so? Don’t answer that, sodium, you troll motherfucker. Salt, too little and you get goiters, too much and you blow up. Whatevs.

Also ACV has made my poop stellar, according to the Bristol stool scale. Every morning, rather than plopping out angry inconsistently messy clumps, it slides out stealthily in the shape of a snake. If they weren’t my own babies I’d be afraid of them.

I’m trying this out so you don’t have to, I will let you know next month if my cholesterol count goes back to a proper lady-like amount.

More crazy ACV action, and I am diffident (don’t judge just yet!) to tell you is that I have joined the “no-poo movement.” WTF? is that, you ask: It turns out there are people in the world who don’t use shampoo, of any kind, any time, any how. Shampoo and styling products, with its sulphates and silicones, tampers with the hair’s natural ability to be its own magnificent crowning glory. Half the time my hair is lank, limp, and stringy, and when it’s not, it’s out-of-control and flyaway. And then I have to put shit on it to make it look less puff-tard. It’s a vicious and frustrating cycle.

My son Freddy is a card-carrying member of the “no-poo movement” since last summer. Aside from the fact that he is lazy and hates showering, his hair is curly and needs a place to go that only styling product can make happen, or so we thought. A few of the kids at his summer camp job are on the no-poo bandwagon, not because they are savages but because they are neo-hippies, and their manes are soft and shiny. Yes, they are young and swim in fresh water lakes, but there still must be something to it. Freddy’s hair is in a perfect natural pompadour that you can run your fingers through and mess up a bit and it still looks good.

So I googled: Should I bother to use shampoo? And I got all the answers I wanted from The Hairpin’s dirty hippie, Lauren O’Neal “How To Quit Shampoo Without Being Disgusting.”  For cheap and lazy hos! In a nutshell:  Wean yourself off shampoo by washing your hair with a paste made of baking soda and water and then rinse with ACV (apple cider vinegar, you forgot again?), a couple of teaspoons diluted in a bottle of water. There is a period of 2 to 4 weeks where you suffer through a period that looks like you have bathed in Kraft Italian salad dressing but soon enough your natural oils will come through in a more tempered fashion and you won’t be such a greasy, frizzy mess, and you will be shampoo-free and no longer a slave to the system.  Huzzah!

What’s with the picture of Mona Lisa, you ask? Those eyebrows are a vast improvement aren’t they? Just a reminder that we will never let the inner hippie overtake our aesthetic sensibilities because that would be just awful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things To Do in February Because It’s So Boring

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It’s February now so let’s everybody get out of this frozen funk, shall we?

That Polar Vortex was crazy town. I have completely forgotten how to wardrobe. I am no longer wearing grey sweatpants, they are too formal…I am wearing stained (!) pyjama bottoms and an Old Navy tshirt. I may or may not be wearing a bra, I can’t tell, I am numb from a layer of warming blubber. That’s the beauty of Nature, it’s so intuitive, it bestows you with your own flesh version of a bulky Canada Goose jacket. I have fattened up quite a bit during that cold snap but I am grateful for the extra layer because I am a survivor, bitches. The lady at the gym who is proudly maintaining her thigh gap but wearing a Snuggli in spin class might die from hypothermia in the parking lot but I will reign as Queen of the Polar Vortex, so what if my bra broke and just flew across the room? Roar.

Highlights of January included: My annual physical concluded that that blobby thing in my belly button is not an alien fetus but a petite hernia, not to worry, it’s gross but harmless. But a real baby was born IN MY DOWNSTAIRS APARTMENT. Polar baby was two weeks overdue because warm womb is like Turks and Caicos and why would you want to come out? Interesting though, is a home birth. What goes in the green bin? I am afraid to know but happy to report that the baby is healthy and very, very cute.

That deep freeze was pretty crippling but now that it’s warmed up to icy slush outside, it’s time to shake things up. I’ve got some ideas I will share with you. Of course carry on with your usual winter activities like power-watching tv with back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-infinity episodes of your favourite shows even if it does have a deleterious affect on your life. I’m going to be watching “American Horror Story Coven” in one sitting and I’m scared already. I actually think I am witch, my super power is manthrax. Lock up your chickens, I might be getting some ideas. Here are some activities I am also going to partake in this month and maybe you will join me, gather round, kittens:

1. Did you know, according to Jezebel, that it is The Year of the Clean Person? For many years, my friends and I would make a theme for the year that would be our guide, like “The Year of the Smart Cocktail” where we would go out of our way to add extra ingredients to regular booze. A smart cocktail has to have three ingredients or more which is what Cointreau and Triple Sec are for in case you were wondering. You know how always at some point you end up with an empty bottle of vodka or bourbon, and have a few slugs left in a supplementary liqueur stash? Well fuck that. For me a third ingredient in a rum and Coke is my own backwash, it’s too much for me to deal with a third of a rogue bottle of Blue Curaçao hanging around past Labour Day. Another year was “The Year of Deception” where we lied all the time and played deleterious pranks on each other, one involving a hefty fine for “improper leaf disposal” typed on City of Toronto stationary stolen from the rec centre and my ex-husband putting on a thick Romanian accent pretending he was a city worker. Oh how we laughed. Then there was “The Year of I’ve Got Nothin’ To Prove,” that pretty much ended all the years and became my life long mantra, it’s so Buddhist, pretty much nothing can top that.

But Jezebel, and yes I read that AND Gawker, AND xojane (It Happened to Me! is my porn) which all good, harmless toilet reading…it is pouring over the comment sections of these on-line rags that has a deleterious affect on my life, oftentimes sending me into a venomous rage. Why do people hate Lena Dunham so much? I just love her so much that it hurts my soul when she gets trashed. Back to the topic though, Jezebel had a post about cleaning your bookshelves by Jolie Kerr who wrote My Boyfriend Barfed in My Handbag…and Other Things You Can’t Ask Martha which I am definitely going to order. I would love to be a clean freak, but I am not which is why I can’t have nice things. I am thinking that maybe if I start cleaning, even just a bookshelf, some karmic energy will flow. Maybe I’m being blocked by an army of dust bunnies? We shall find out. I am going to start with my fridge which needs more room in it for vodka.

2. Pistol squat progressions. What?

Why? Because this:

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Jen Selter, that’s why.

I know you’re probably thinking “give up already” but I will not. If Helen Mirren can twerk, there is hope for me yet.

3. Henna you hair! I did this yesterday, it’s so boring I almost died though. I know it’s such a seventies thing and hairdressers will hate you for it: “You completely coated your hair with orange shit and now we can process our chemical fuckery over top of it!” They will for sure yell at you but trust, they are wrong. First of all, henna is not just orangey red, it comes in all colours of the fecal rainbow, including black (get that checked). And it doesn’t “coat’ your your per se, but it is a permanent die. It smells weirdly funky at first but I’ve gotten used to it, I feel very earthy-like, like a white witch should. It is also really shiny and feels thicker and the silver chards at the temples are sparkly red, phew, because I was worried they would go green. The boring part was that you have to glop it on your head for about four hours and you are stuck at home texting your friends who are out brunching and won’t come over to hang with you. And you wouldn’t really want them to see you wearing just a towel  with green diarrhea dropping on your back from on top of your head unless they really loved you for who you are, which they probably don’t.

4. Speaking of love it’s Valentine’s Day month. I know some of you hate this “Hallmark holiday” but I assure you, it is not. It originated 1500 years ago as a day to honour Christian martyrs, dudes who were tortured to death with fire. That makes it much more meaningful. I say don’t worry about your shitty love life which is either non-exisitent or stuck in a one-way train ride to Delusionville, I say go out and buy yourself something and be happy, all martyrs unite! I’m going to get a pedicure and maybe a manicure if I can sit still long enough. And perhaps a little Botox, dem elevens are starting to deepen. Martyrs gotta look calm and cool, no furrowed brows on the burning stake.

5. The Winter Olympics! I know, it’s a potential hot mess, politically stupid, and scary but! the athletes can’t help that and the Winter Olympics is always the most fun to watch, so hopefully it goes smoothly. I saw these CANADA Olympic hats at Roots over Christmas:

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And yes, I laughed and took a picture and Facebooked and Instagrammed it because I am twelve. The other day I saw a man in a parking lot wearing one and I smiled at him and he smiled back. I really need to get one, how else am I going to get a date?

 

Oscar and That Cat

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Ask me what I’m wearing.

Gray sweatpants and a brown cardigan. Every. Single. Day. I GIVE UP COMPLETELY. This is the January Polar Vortex, kids, and I’m just trying to get through it alive through diversionary tactics.

I’ve made it my mission to see all the Oscar nominated films this year because I like to get emotionally involved during awards season. I am only a Philomena and a Nebraska away from my goal and I am hoping that Putlocker website gets both those up soon so I don’t have to endure the grossness of a Sunday afternoon matinée at a sticky repertory theatre, add that to the list of Things White People Like. You know, like standing in line for brunch and farmers’ markets.

Being a white bitch, I enjoy a lot of things that fellow whiteys like, farmers’ markets are awesome for meeting young farm hands, but movie houses with sticky floors and crusty cum-covered upholstery, I stop there. I do like to go to a theatre for the complete movie experience but now that I am old (and crusty and cum-covered), I have my standards and rules:

1. I have to see movies in the day time to avoid crowds, especially people on dates who have the tendency to talk, titter, and stuff their gob holes with popcorn and DO I EVER HATE THAT SMELL. “Buttered” popcorn smells like the slow release farts from those people who are trying to hold them in because they are on a ridiculous movie date. You cannot tell sickly wafts of warm golden topping end and the deep seeping farts begin. And also stop sucking your ice cubes like your life depends on it, they have free refills to maintain your diabetes.

2. I like to see movies alone, YES, LIKE A WEIRDO,  with the exception of going with my daughter, Evangeline. She likes to sit where I like (second tier, first row to the very right) and she doesn’t eat, drink, or hog the arm rest. She is also a walking imdb guide and will be able to hiss where we have seen a certain actor before without anyone being disturbed and even if they were, they would be grateful to know how the mute boy from “Little Miss Sunshine” has grown into a fine young diligent slave driver in “Twelve Years a Slave.”

3. I now need to go to theatres with proper parking which means I go to Cineplexes out in the suburbs, with the exception of The Carlton. Back in the day the Carlton was the kingpin of multiplexes and even though the actual theatres were tiny and absolute shite with those level seats and mini-screens, it was all glamorous and showed all the good foreign movies and had a cafe that sold actual cafe cappuccino and six-dollar Nanaimo squares! Fancy. Well now that it is 2014 and that Vegas-strip Scotiabank theatre has Imax, a wine bar, and a New York Fries, fancy, the ye olde Carlton looks like a tired old legion hall with the matching patronage (old people love matinees! I love matinees! I am old!)  but it’s SEVEN DOLLARS to see a movie, I LOVE IT SO! Also I found a secret parking spot right downtown that is free before 6pm and you will have to kill me to find out where it is.

This is not a bunch of  film reviews, relax, but here is some of the criteria I have as a theatre goer and what I believe to be Oscar material:

1. Fuck-worthy performances. I’m stuck looking at a screen for 90 minutes or so and if I am by myself, my hands are free to wander because I am not holding poopcorn or your dumb hand so hopefully something up there catches my imagination. I play that game “Would You Hit It” with myself, here’s this year’s contenders although I still have yet to see “Nebraska” and I have always loved me a Bruce Dern and am looking forward to my senior fap sessions, so pardon if he is not on the list yet:

1. Christian Bale in “American Hustle.” Time and time again, I search the internet on dating websites for the perfect fat bald guy and lo and behold, here he is. I just want to write him a fan letter saying “Don’t ever change,” but you know he will, method douche. Dammit. I like him just like this:

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2. Leonardo Dicaprio in “The Wolf of Wall Street’ and I offer no apologies. He is the cat’s ass(hole).

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3. Michael Fassbender in “Twelve Years A Slave.” Obviously.GINGER BEARD I CAN”T EVEN BREATHE! Look down but don’t look too hard or you will get lost in your dream. Or just click here real quick, you’re welcome.

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4. ScarJo in “Her.” I would like to have an OS that wasn’t such a haughty cunt like that beeyutch monotone Siri. As far as the film, I tried to make it work with Joaquin Phoenix because normally I like him so, he has a certain profile angle that reminds me of someone I used know, but I couldn’t get past the high-waisted tweed trouser slacks they wear in the “near future.” Men are fucked. Girlfriend in a pocket, it’s really serious.

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5. Cate Blanchett in “Blue Jasmine.” GIRL CRUSH!!!

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2. I need my emotions to be toyed with. It pisses me off that “Inside Llewyn Davis” was not nominated because why not? I thought Golden Coen Brothers had an in on all the awards, even though some of their films are just weird. This movie made me want a cat. That is saying a lot. I grew up with a dogmatic doctrine (ha ha) that we are DOG PEOPLE and CATS ARE EVIL. The cat in this movie charmed me! I got very upset at one point, I almost walked out, worrying about a fictional cat’s safety. I am a crazy cat person, who knew? I WANT A KITTY! LOOK HOW CUTE:

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“Gravity” and “Captain Philips” toyed with my emotions, made me chew my nails off, and the latter also provided the anecdote for all the white guilt foisted upon me from “Twelve Years a Slave.” I think white people love the slave film genre because they secretly enjoy being shamed. I am probably one of those people because I saw it twice.

3. I need to laugh at least once in my 90 minute cinematic commitment. Fucking “Twelve Years a Slave” clocked in at 2 and a half hours and not once did I even get to snort some kind of emotional relief from all the misery, although I delighted silently to myself at a close up of a pig-faced white man. Director Steve McQueen (!) generally speaking must be a man of little mirth. His other two films, Hunger and Shame, are a festival of grim. LIGHTEN UP A LITTLE BIT, STEVE-O, other than that, keep up the good work:

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Wheee!

 

4. If you are going to be an Oscar winning film, I better be thinking about you the next day. I forgot everything about “Dallas Buyer’s Club” the second it was over INCLUDING THE TITLE that I had to just look up on IMDB under Jared Leto because I can’t ever spell Matthew McConaughey-hey-hey. That might be me in a state of exhaustion because that was the third film I saw in one day but still. Meh. Would not hit it. Hey, hey, no, no.

5. A finely crafted film must be able to suspend my belief system so I’m not questioning every detail. For example, if you were to believe to “The Wolf of Wall Street,” you can suck cocaine smoothly out of a butt crack. Would it not get all moist and gunky and create an unsnortable paste? I hate when I have to obsess over logistics like that. I have no problem believing the astronaut, the slave, the captain, and that cat got home from their misadventures safely but there is just no way that a hooker’s sweaty ass can be a proper vessel for gutter glitter. Don’t make me prove it.

And with that, here is the best 3 minutes of cinema that Oscar forgot:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Art Of Modern Living 2014 Edition

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You got to feel sorry for January, not only is it FUCKING FREEZING, it carries the guilt of all your white carbs and liquor on its cold bony shoulders. Then it’s forced to down all that hot lemon water you insist will atone for your slovenly sins. By the 7th, January’s puckered up sphincter is ready to bear down on some wings and beer, so don’t kid yourself with your resolutions. Maybe you shouldn’t put so much pressure on poor fragile January, you should spread out your virtuous game plans throughout the year in fits and starts so it all evens out.

I will not lie, today, January 3rd, I dusted off my blender this morning to make a fruit smoothie, and it was good: Frozen wild blueberries, pineapple, a banana, coconut milk, and a heaping spoonful of hemp powder. After this year’s Orgy Week, I feel like I am dying. I literally lay around watching episode after episode of “Six Feet Under,” (how appropriate) and somehow in the process my back went out, which was annoying as fuck! I could hardly get up to fill my wine glass. You take your health for granted until something happens and then you realize what douche you’ve been to yourself, TIME TO SMARTEN UP, LAZY HO.

5 days later it’s a bit better now. I’ve been popping pain killers and blasting it with the jets of the whirlpool at the gym. It’s a slippery slope, this ageing process, so I better join all the January yahoos and stop the insanity because the ability to consume your weight in cheddar is nothing to be proud of.

So today I made a smoothie, and tomorrow I will make another one, this may or may not last but I will take it one day at a time. That’s all I resolve to do for January, I am but one little soul looking for higher purpose, and I will do it one blender drink at a time. Soon I might even add some kale. I am bad ass like that.

But I know you love your New Year challenges, so I have some suggestions for you just in case you haven’t thought of your own or are heading down on the wrong path of starvation and over excursion. REMEMBER, IT IS NEVER TOO LATE FOR SELF-IMPROVEMENT. Here are some for you to consider:

1. Don’t bother with that fucking “Master Cleanse” that you heard about from your cousin/co-worker/neighbour/friend-on-Facebook. It’s a starvation fast where all you drink is lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper for 10 days until all that is left of you is hysteria and adrenaline. It’s so 2008, I don’t know why people keep doing it in this day and age UNLESS you are adding bourbon and calling it a cocktail. I know your tricks and I know you aren’t doing this because you actually believe that musclehead fairy tale that your colon is spackled with 10-year-old pork chops, it’s 2014, the Earth is round, bitch. Yes, your liver is a dumpster of hazmat whatnot BUT THAT IS ITS JOB. It wants to collect junk, otherwise it gets bored and starts bugging your spleen for activities. Your spleen is busy filtering blood, doesn’t have time to entertain the liver, so keep it on the payroll. Besides, you don’t do this “cleanse” because you give a shit about the quality of your innards, you do it because you want to drop some fast weight, let’s not kid ourselves.This might work for a week but you are going to gain it all back and then some because your body feels shocked and betrayed so it will just go into hoard mode and with vengeful silence keep all your ridiculous gluten-free muffins packed tightly into your fat stores because you are a big meanie starvator. I just saw my friend who lives in London over the holidays and he looked fit and trim, he had lost twenty pounds in AUGUST…yes you can do it any time of year, and guess how he did it? HE JUST CUT BACK AND WORKED OUT MORE. Yes, there’s no secret of belly blasting miracle food, the PROTIP: Just stop eating and drinking so fucking much AND….

2. Join a gym! Yes, I condone this any time of year because every gym needs fresh new meat, especially mine which is over-run by family-types, hapless toddler dads and their Lululemon wives. The caveat is that you actually have to go and not just into the shower and steam room. I am charmed by people have their little fitness goals like running a marathon or signing up for one of those muddy obstacle course races. It’s adorable to see you all working your butts off like your life depends on it.  You will need all your agility so you can come over and help me take down my Christmas tree because I am still recovering from my brie wheel injury and fuck knows if this limited mobility will go on until February. Just try not to get carried away and turn into a piece of gristle, and PROTIP: Those Tough Mudders DO NOT make charming Facebook profile pics, the thumbnails look alarmingly like they’re from a Japanese bukkake scat website, vom.

3. I am so in need of this resolution, for once in your life just finish what you sta

4. Try putting your phone down for 10 minute increments. All people do nowadays is fiddle on their phones even when they are with people. As a first generation iPhone owner, I have been guilty of this and everyone who used to scold me for being distracted is now on the finger-fucking bandwagon. I’ve had to cut back on this greasy habit since downloading that cocksucking  IOS7 and now I have no choice but sit in awkward silence because my battery drains its life by noon. I have seen things out there. For example, I took a streetcar ride downtown and because of construction, we were stuck in front of city hall for what was probably a couple of minutes but seemed like an eternity when sitting amid the dander dust of strangers. Everyone in the streetcar was staring at their phones like obedient robots, I was looking out the window. What did I see? A woman wearing a tshirt and stilletos as a complete ensemble…no pants…no underwear….being chased by a security guard. As she ran across the street in her high heels, the guard caught her from behind and grabbed her by the waist and held her arms back while she kicked her legs up in the air. As her meat flaps waved to us in the streetcar, NOBODY NOTICED BECAUSE THEY WERE ALL PLAYING CANDY CRUSH! Oh my God, if my phone wasn’t dead, that scene would have made the most amazing Vine.

5. Stop your kvetching on Rob Ford. By doing this, you are giving him more power than he actually has. He does not control the weather. The Christmas power outage was not declared a state of emergency by city council vote and because a “state of emergency’ wouldn’t have made a difference in repair efforts, get your shit together and read things. And your whiney rants just make me want to vote for him just to piss you off. His buffoonery has put us on the map. “But he’s just so embarrassing,” some lady in the locker room said the other day. If she is embarrassed by other people, maybe she should look inward, or even just in the mirror because the hair on her head looks like unruly pubes…why don’t people with frizzy hair use Moroccan Oil? PUT THAT ON YOUR RESOLUTION LIST; FIX HAIR, BITCH. I digress. You know that before RoFo, people in other places didn’t think about Toronto EVER. They think Cincinnati is a more exciting place. Now that they know we have crack and prostitutes, watch the tourism spike and others can marvel over all the construction, such gridlock, so amaze, wow, Tronno be awesome.

6. On the Facebook: Stop posting every cutesy Huffington Post/ Buzzfeed piece of shit blog post you come across. People who write these things are brain dead. Now don’t get me wrong, my favourite peeps on the Facebook are the prolific ones prattle on all day with their own original thoughts and observations, and if I didn’t have chronic blogarrhea, I’d be one of those people, too. They are socially engaged in the world and that is an admirable trait. But posting those lists like: Seven Things You Cannot Say Over the Age of 30 do NOT need to be shared because you snorted in condescension at the thought of a middle-aged antediluvian bitch saying “totes” for totally. I KNOW, RIGHT? I WILL SAY WHAT I WANT, FUCK YOUR FACEBOOK POST. Shit like that just grinds my gears. Although GIFs of kittens falling asleep sure are cute so yes, keep those coming.

7. Freddy: Get yer driver’s license. Mama needs a chauffeur.

8: If you are in a relationship and it is shit, will you please dump that person once and for all? You are not doing anyone any favours by sticking around. The pond is a barren place that needs more fish, so get out there and swim like a big boy. You know who you are.

I know all this self-improvement shit is a process, there are no quick fixes but you have an entire year to get on this.It’s going to take me probably til June to work off the cheese and bend over to put on socks. So take your time, and if you fail, just take a nap. No one’s judging, they are too busy playing Candy Crush. Happy New Year!

 

 

 

Love Inevitably

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It’s been ten years since the release of that movie you PRETEND TO HATE or CLAIM TO HAVE NEVER SEEN, “Love Actually.” It occurred to me that I have seen this film at least two times during any given Christmas, even 3 because I have watched  that part on the DVD where the director, Richard Curtis, Hugh Grant, and that strange boy blather on over the soundtrack telling you behind-the-scene things you don’t want to know, which means I have seen it probably 25 times or even more. let’s not kid ourselves. I am SUCKER for shmaltzy rom coms even though in my real life I am a curmudgeony old bitch about romance and I truly believe that we, as a modern society, should forego the outdated nuclear family units and live in compounds where we sign up for intimate activities like we did for intramural sports back in high school. Organized orgies, makes total sense, think about it before you pooh-pooh it.

I have been to no less than 6 Christmas parties this season. I went manic this year with festivities and even managed to miss a couple of them because I truly feel like my liver is getting fucked up and I can’t wait til Juiceless January, seriously. I am trying to take it easy but! I am grooving to eggnog, I forgot all about it until I had the PC chocolate one…it tastes like melted Häagen-Dazs® Mayan Chocolate ice cream with dark rum, yo. And I am also enjoying the company of y’all in the actual flesh for a change, not in the usual ectoplasmic interweb reality which is so impersonal.

My social circle is a bit like a stagnant lazy river, it need some waves, I think. My organized orgy idea starts making a lot of sense when I see some of you married types year after year, fighting the same fight. Or worse, not even talking at all. Not all of you, but some of you and I think you know who you are, it might be time to let go, just saying. For example, at last night’s church potluck (yes, I went to a church potluck, for the free flowing booze and door prizes) Mrs. C who gave me a glaring stinkeye for “flirting with her husband all night.” I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FLIRT! You need to know, if I really fancy someone, I am either throwing things at them from afar or hiding in the corner chewing my hair, trust. I was only laughing hysterically at his jokes as a cry for help because he was pressing his holy porker into my hipbone. Why do I get blamed for your husband’s shenanigans? Protip: If you love the dickhead, let him go, if he comes back, more laundry for you, if he doesn’t, then one less egg to fry, you’re welcome. Oh my God, people, stop coupling up and sticking like festering glue, it’s not healthy.

I was so happy to get home from that fucking fruitless church social (did not win any door prizes) and “Love Actually” was on! How comforting! All those misfits find love in the end. Although how long does it last? I think we can all agree that love is transient. In time, it either turns to shit or grows deeper….hahahahaha, just jokes, it aways turns to shit, bah humbug!

Indulge my inner Scrooge and let’s visit the 10 year reunion of “Love Actually,”  and call it “Love Inevitably.” I will recap where we left off, it’s a tightly woven quagmire of fuckery, but I will guide you through, couple by couple, so can all follow along, EVEN IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT. LIAR:

Let’s start with these two, the precious nuclear family:

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When we left left Karen and Harry (Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman), they just had a bullshit exchange of Christmas presents where he gave her a fucking Joni Mitchell CD as if she didn’t already have the whole collection. Earlier she had found in his pocket, a fancy pants heart necklace that she thought was for her but then when she opened the shitty CD, realized the fucker was probably having an affair. She confronted him at the kids’ Christmas concert and he admitted to being a big ass fool and she was all like, you made my life foolish. She was super classy and he was dumb dickwad, we can all agree on that. Although, and I will be vilified for saying this, Karen is a bit frumpy and the other woman in question is this one here, Mia (Heike Makatsch). You can’t see it but she is opening her legs (in a skirt!) at the office:

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WHERE ARE THEY NOW 10 YEARS LATER? Well, duh, of course Harry ended up boning Mia, it happened even before New Year’s Eve, come on. It lasted some months and Karen knew about it but said nothing as she is a stoic Jackie Kennedy-type. Although she did start taking matters into her own hands, she stopped wearing those hideous long skirts, grew her Lady Di hairdo out, thank gods, worst hairstyle EVAR. Soon enough, when the kids got older, Karen started taking tennis lessons and even had affair with this young buck from Match Point, Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers):

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It didn’t last though because he ended up getting married to someone else and working for his father-in-law but it did give her the courage to finally divorce Harry, who ended up a raging, lonely alcoholic after his magazine business went under because internettery mags have taken over the publishing business, yes indeed. Mia ends up with some other dude who I will reveal later on, keep reading.

And right now, 10 years later, Karen is remarried to THIS:
imagesI know, right?  It’s poetically perfect! It’s her tiresome widower friend, Daniel (Liam Neeson). When we left him 10 years ago, he was just FRESHLY WIDOWED, stuck with a stepson, Sam (Thomas Sangster) ..and I still don’t get where the real dad is even after watching this 25 times. He obsessed over supemodel Claudia Schiffer like a dumb dick. The sad part of this story line is how life imitates art and Liam Neeson ends up a widower in real life by my birthday twin, Natasha Richardson, I don’t want to confuse you but it’s just very tragic is all. He meets a mom, Carol, at Sam’s school play, who looks exactly like Claudia Schiffer! Cross eyes, rabbit teeth and everything, total doppleganger (insert eye roll). Did they live happily ever after, you wonder? No, fuck, no. They went on one stupid date, and she bored him to tears. He ended up on-line dating for YEARS and then finally, he and Karen hooked up in 2009 after a drunken evening at a pub quiz and they got married a year later. Good times.

Oh and the little boy Sam grew up to look like this:

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And since this film lacks a decent gay story line, he ends up with the boy, Marcus (Nicholas Hoult) from “About A Boy:”

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Works for me. I know you’re saying this is wrong, both films have Hugh Grant, how can they crossover? DEAL WITH IT!

And then there’s this dumb fuck:

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Jamie (Colin Firth) finds his girlfriend in bed with his BROTHER, ouch, and goes off to France or somewhere to write his crime novel on a fucking actual typewriter. He FALLS IN LOVE with the housekeeper, Aurelia (Lucia Moniz) even though she only speak Portuguese. I was watching this with some 20 year-old girls last night, and they where all like fawning, this is the cutest coupling in this entire shitty movie. NO! The more I see it, the more I think that this dude has a severe attachment disorder. For one thing when we first see him, he is going to work and saying I love you to his girlfriend 8 million times in a row…red flag, sisters. We are supposed to feel sorry for him when he walks in on her later on with his brother but MAYBE it’s not them, it’s him, a cloistering, soul sucking creep, perhaps. I’m just saying, let’s not judge until we have both side of the story. Boohoo to him because he falls in love in an instant, as soon as Aurelia strips to her panties and tramp stamp to save his wretched novel that blows away into the freezing cold lake because he won’t use a laptop like the rest of us writer-types. Yes, they had laptops 10 years ago. Anyway he learns rudimentary Portuguese and asks her to marry him and she says yes. FLASH FORWARD 10 YEARS LATER, they never actually bothered even getting to third base. She came to London for the weekends, it was a lunchbag letdown of a romance, but she ends up with someone else, keep reading, friends, don’t fret. Shit happens but it’s all good.

But! He did end up with Mia, Harry’s office slut! Fun fact: in the original script the character of Mia was Jamie’s original girlfriend but the director changed it because blahblahblah…(this is amongst the things you don’t want to know when listening to the director talk over a DVD).

Then there is this fucking bitch:

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*GASP* She’s so beautiful.

Juliet (Keira Knightley) marries Peter (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and she thinks his best friend, Mark (Andrew Lincoln) hates her because he won’t talk to her but! really he is madly in love with her. She finds this out when she asks to see the wedding video he shot and realizes that all the focus is on her, and she’s all like, I’m so pretty, doing her weird teeth grinding thing watching herself, and then she is like, you really like me. And he is super embarrassed and comes to her house later and does this GRAND ROMANTIC GESTURE:
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Oh, my God, I am so in love with this guy, I don’t care what you say.

10 years later, Juliet and Peter are divorced because Juliet, like Narcissus before her, fell into a well of Botox and Juverderm and drowned. Peter ended up with one of the Sirens from Wisconsin (stay scrolling for that). I end up with Mark. It’s plausible. It’s my blog and I can write what I want.

Okay, so then there is THIS STORY LINE:

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The Prime Minister (Hugh Grant) and one of his assistants, Natalie (Martine McCutcheon) have a flirtation because the PM is single, like that ever happens, and we are supposed to buy the story that she is a hambeast and too fat for fairy tale love. Just as an aside, this whole fat shaming thing has gone a bit too far, people need to fucking stop. At first I was going to make her into a bulimic and that she turns into a grisled looking Maria Shriver-type but I am not, I’m going to be nice. !0 years later, out of her lush womb, she births 4 babies and she might even be pregnant now, who knows, he is no longer PM and they live on some tropical island…you know, tax shelter, trololololol.

And this clown:

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Colin (Kris Marshall) decides to go State Side to get laid so he ends up in Wisconsin and gets more pussy than he bargained for. These are the Sirens. I don’t fucking know their names, it’s a pointess story line EXCEPT there is January Jones, in blue, ACTUALLY SMILING! And I have a girl crush on Elisha Cuthbert. 10 years later, Colin was actually in a coma the whole time IN LONDON and these girls are ACTUALLY his nurses and live in the UK but with American accents, and they are on the loose. Let’s let Peter, Juliet’s ex-husband, have his choice.

AND THEN THIS MAKES ME WANT TO HURL MY EGGNOG AT THE SCREEN:

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Sarah (Laura Linney) and Karl (Rodrigo Santaro) work for Harry and have had crushes on each other for a couple of years but did nothing about it until this scene where stupid bitch keeps answering her incessant phone calls from her mentally ill brother. I still fucking yell at the tv when this story comes on because: a) her fucking ringtone is so annoying and b) she keeps calling her brother “babe,” “love,” and “sweetheart.” I hate her so much. Their romance fizzles in the movie and in my sequel, she ends up institutionalized with her brother AND! Hot Brazilian dude, Karl, end up with the Portuguese maid, Aurelia. Bam!

This guy:

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Billy Mack (Bill Nighy) ends up with his cute manager, Joe (Gregor Fisher) when we leave him 10 years ago. Not in a gay way but in a bro way. 10 years later, nothing has changed, they are like a twisted version of the Odd Couple and have a spinoff sit com State Side! that consistently wins Emmys and Golden Globes.

These two, John (Martin Freeman) and Just Judy(Joanna Page):

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Live happily ever after, obviously because they did it in the right order. Fuck first, fall in love later, hos. And THAT is the moral of the story!

Merry Christmas!

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