Mastering the Art of Leaving

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Hey my faithful lolcats, remember how last time I wrote on this thing I was blathering on about being scared of the wind because wind is change and change is scary but change shouldn’t be scary because everything changes and grow a pair and turn and face the strange ch-cha-changes, blah blah? Well that last gust of wind brought some bad and heartbreaking sad change in the death of a friend which made the rest of my dumb problems seem like a side plate of cold french fries. I realize that’s a confounded metaphor that might only make sense to me but bear with moi as the last weeks have been unsettled and no sleep!!!! But! One night after a tortuous week of tossing, I remembered that Bob, who has to wake up at ungodly wee morning hours, takes a Gravol with a rum and Coke and conks out hard and wakes up as such (so he says). So one night I needed to sleep because I had a job interview the next day (ugh, more on that later)  I had a Gravol and a glass of wine and guess wot? ZZZZ! All the way through! Woke up with dry mouth and a sore throat but it was worth it. And don’t worry this post has a happy ending so stick with me.

I tried it again the next night and it kind of worked but I actually threw up in the morning. I never throw up even if I’m hungover! Gravol is supposed to make you anti-nauseaous so I am obviously already abusing the medication! Michelle told me about some sleepy time hot drink from the health food store that contains magnesium. I know me, I will never go through all the steps of boiling water at night, mixing something in a cup, wait for it to cool and sip it the whole thing until it’s gone. Why not just take the tablets? With the wine, duh. So I’ve been doing that and it’s been working! And the dreams! You’ve all been in them! Especially you, Scarecrow.

The day of my friend’s funeral, Freddy left for his camp job for the summer. He’s been doing this for a couple of years or 3 and usually I feel that sweet melancholia sadness that I can easily console myself with by thinking one less egg to fry when he leaves but this time I felt like my fucking heart was being ripped out by a dark monster. The couple of months he was home from university, he and I have been super close. Spotting each other at the gym and watching Jeopardy every night, real mother and son bonding stuff, good times. Sometimes we watch a movie and he is all reluctant when I make a suggestion for a classic because you need to see these things for just for reference sake. This time round we watched Se7en which I hadn’t seen since it was in the theatre. I remembered being scared by Sloth and SPOILER ALERT: Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box but this time around I found the whole movie slow, boring, ridiculous with the rain machines trying to make L.A. seem like a dank mystery city and an overwhelming bloated music score. Gwyneth’s head tho! LOL!!!!!! Freddy liked it so that was good David Fincher representation, not my idea of a classic per se but whatevs. I also would have seen Fight Club again, but he was like, no, mama, I know who Tyler Durden actually is, and this is where I have to remind my son of the age old wisdom that it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that counts.

So off he went last week and I felt physical pain watching him go but! No more socks to sort! By the way, potential suitors out there and I know you’re there, I can feel it in the wind, that’s measure where you know if I love you if I sort your socks. But! If I leave them in a random pile then you should take the cue and leave. Anyway I just did some laundry and there was one random sock of his and I didn’t know what to do so I threw it out, I figure the other one has petrified under his bed somewhere and that’s something I don’t want to know about.

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So I’ve been on a few interviews for various jobs that we won’t go into specifically because I don’t list my strengths and weaknesses to just anyone and tell. I will say that there’s no rhyme or reason for these employers’ criteria out there. You can have all the qualifications and more but they think you’ll be bored even though being bored is not one of my issues in life. I could stare at a blank wall and knit a scarf all day. Conversely, your “busy” office and need for someone to “multi-task” and have a “sense of urgency” is not a problem for this OCD insomniac who does complex math in her brain at night while furiously masturbating. Or! They think you don’t have enough experience as though you can’t learn anything new. And you people are always telling me I’m too old in general for anything but! I know who Tyler Durden is because I actually saw Fight Club in the theatre back in the days when popcorn had “golden topping” instead of real butter. Young people know who Tyler Durden is because they saw it in a meme. AND HEY! I KNEW WHAT MEMES WERE BEFORE JESUS GREW A HIPSTER BEARD. Holy shit.

The prize interview of the lot goes to an Asian chick named Zoe who I think we can all agree needs to be called out and nailed to a cross. She advertised on Indeed a couple of positions being available for a home reno showroom WITH A SET ANNUAL SALARY OF NOT BAD MONEY, dreams of a bathroom demo danced through my head. She replied to my application that she was conducting a “soft” interview with a group on Wednesday. I’ve done this group interview charade before, it’s a disaster, there is always this one dude who needs to take the floor to mansplain every stupid fucking thing that comes into his head. But whatevs, I went, enjoying my little commute to the flatlands of warehouses and Chinese banquet halls.

So there’s 8 of us, all ages by the way. Everyone was in a chair but I was perched on a high stool which you would think was embarrassing but I felt empowered like I owned the joint. It was kind of cool place, a giant warehouse with good lighting and shiny things set up as sample showcases. My magpie sensibilities would never be bored except for the barf-awful ugly art on the walls. There was actually a giant portrait of Marilyn Monroe in pixelated tiles, it was much wow but very fucked up at the same time. If you can’t tell if something is amazing or hideous, it’s probably really tacky.

So Zoe says: “Hi everybody! Thanks for coming. I just want to let you know that we have hired the salary positions over the weekend but I am offering you all an opportunity to a part of my team of commission sales.”

This beautiful elegant Persian lady bats her lashes and says WHAT THE FUCK?

And Zoe is like, flustered: “It’s a great opportunity for an entrepreneur. You can set your own hours and use your social media to network…” She started to stutter when she looked at everyone’s faces and somehow ended her vomit of words by exclaiming “Pinterest!”

I thought it was just me that was confused but Elegant Persian Lady interrupted her and said; “I’m sorry but I’m leaving.” And she haughtily left in a puff of smoke, closely followed by an old groovy dude whose name was actually Elvis, then the young people silently got up and left also.

I stayed!!! Why? For you! So I’d have something to talk about. After everyone left, Zoe got all sweaty and nervous. I pretended to be interested in her obvious pyramid scheme which was probably a front for some elicit activity. She claimed she worked with “real-a-tors” who did staging and developers who built new construction in the big city. 4% percent commission on a half million dollar decorating job! Do the math! That’s 20 grand! She kept saying the same sentence over again and somehow ending it in “Pinterest!” It was really the weirdest thing. I asked her some hard hitting questions, like who are you, where are you from? She was dodgy and kept getting up to leave to tend to something in the warehouse, which, by the way, was devoid of any other people much less newly hired salaried employees. She did tell me her Welsh father-in-law hated her until she cooked him something delicious and now he loves her. Which I find hard to believe.

She gave me a tour and told me she really wanted me to be a part of her team because she liked my personality. I smiled ruefully and told her “I like you too, Zoe.” I found some ceiling tiles I wanted for my kitchen. I took note of the manufacturer and I’ll go straight to the source because fuck her. As if I’m going to use my social media to sell shit, I feel bad enough I plop this blog on my Facebook wall. Anyway at the end, I grabbed a heaping handful of candies from her desk and told her I’d be in touch, and hauled my sad deflated self out of there. #FML

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But! The next day the universe actually threw me a bone. Some young dude on my dating website sent me a message, the kind I always ignore, you know the “I’m in your city for a night, wanna hook up?” kind of message. Except his was better written and had a legit reason which was he is in a band and playing at a specific venue which I looked up, watched a YouTube video of him playing and basically exploded in my loins. Yes, yes, yes. Holy shit. We had Facetime chat the day before which usually means the death of everything. Ghost city. I don’t know how to behave over the phone. I always end up saying too much. But! Not this time, dude pulled through and showed up after his show. Okay, on YouTube and Facetime, he was very cute and with a hot voice and sexy af accent but IRL, him standing under a streetlight in front of my house, I practically fainted. If Serpico and King David from the Old Testament made a baby, threw in a bit of LeBron James for the height and dapperness, it would be this guy. You should know of my fetish for big black beards by now, he was too young for the silvers that set me over the edge but you know they’re just around the corner. His future is paved in pussy for sure.

Anyway, in the house he happily entered. I offered him a beer which he took of and we hovered in the kitchen and stared at each other. He took a sip from the can and even before he finished swallowing came the throw down. OY VEY! To think that I almost pressed the delete button and sent him off into the ether, it almost makes me cry for the missed opportunities every where. Anyway, later when we were waiting for his Uber to take him away, he said: “This was fun and very healthy.” And it’s true, it was. He left behind a bunch of tiny fingertip-sized bruises on me that will eventually fade away but I’m going to keep the memory awhile longer. And yes, I finally showered and yes, washed my face eventually. But took my sweet time about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Not Being Scared of the Wind

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I used to have these two Shiba Inu dogs, or #doges before they were Very Meme, Much Interwebs, So Pupular in comic sans.  They were father and daughter, and every time it got windy outside, they would go ballistic inside. I guess it was the noise and the rattling of the windows that set off some vestigial primal fear of  tsumanis from their natural homeland of Japan. When the wind blew, the father dog, Cruise, who was a big pussy, and so very cute, would try and bury himself in my head. Whether I was laying down or not, he’d hop on the bed or on my lap, then climb my shoulders and start digging on my neck and face. So exfoliating. In his mind, my head was the highlands, some kind of mountainous safe space for him to seek sanctuary. What an idiot, if he only knew what a dump my brain is and how I fail to clean it up, he should have dug into my stomach and aimed for the womb because maybe its not a luxury hotel but it’s a pretty decent air bnb with free booze at happy hour.

The female dog, his daughter Penny, feared the wind with the same intensity but faced it head on like the savage warrior she was. When the windows rattled, she’d run up the the second floor of the house, scratch at the bay window in the front room, snout the window open and then scratch the screen so she could bust through, and then plop her ass down on the porch roof  and sit ever so still like Much Gargoyle. She had that ninja dog thing that no matter what barrier you created, she would find another way out.

Pretty much anything I needed to know about life, I could have learned from Penny and Cruise had I have paid closer attention. Especially about on-line dating: Penny had mad hunting skillz and could catch small animals (birds! squirrels! hamsters from their cages, oy!) and actually follow through and kill them and then actually fucking eat them, wasting no meat, INCLUDING A SKUNK, unlike most domestic dogs who may catch a squirrel by the tail, get freaked out, lol about it, and let go. This is like everybody on Tinder by the way. A bunch of wily woofers chasing squirrels in the fenced park, all game no bone. Swiped right, match! What to do now? Close app, so scared, pretend it didn’t happen, back to Candy Crush.

****NOTE: Im just going to carry on about this wind business THEN I’ll tell you how I faced my fears and went on an actual Tinder date because I know that’s why you read this blog, bear with me.

So! It’s been 11-12 years since those two crazy shibes have gone to doggie heaven and I still think about them every day. Especially yesterday when a random gust-o-palooza of wind starting blowing out of nowhere, certainly my iPhone weather app gave no indication of a hurricane. I get all antsy in windy situations from all the years of #ShibeLife, and the memories of coming home and seeing Penny sitting on a slanted roof and going into panic mode: me, inside trying to bribe her with food while the neighbour, outside on a ladder, pushes her stubborn ass back into the window and thinking she was going to slide off and plunge to her death or worse, get injured but not so serious she would have to be put down for a set price, but like a broken leg or something, think of the vet bills, oh my god.

I think I gave current dog, Betty, the wind phobia by transference as she is very intuitive. By “intuitive” I mean spoiled as fuck where the whole family anthropomorphizes this beast like she’s a doggie oracle who runs the household based on her love of pizza parties and belly rubs. But we love her and it bonds us all, don’t judge.

So during the wind last night, Betty and I huddled on the couch, panting frantically and watching Jeopardy, fucking dog always forgets to answer in the form of a question. The windows rattled, Betty’s breath was so bad, I tried to bury my head in my iPhone. At one point, I channeled my old dog Penny, and ran onto the back deck and Instagrammed the branches flailing in the wind. Yes, this is it, those fucking weed trees from the jungle next door are going to rip up by the root and leave giant holes and plumbing issues and I’m going to have to call the insurance company and get shit fixed which will take forever and then inflated premiums! and! the whole thing will cost way more than a vet bill for a broken dog leg. That’s how my mind works: Stop worrying about one thing and go on to the next and make the worst case scenario into a movie-of-the week drama starring Daphne Zuniga. Maybe if Dean Cain isn’t doing anything, he can be the tough-as-nails insurance adjuster who at first is a dick but during the plot twist, maybe where he saves her dog from the roof, they end up falling in love, proving there is hope for divorced middle aged women everywhere. Might as well make my fears have happy endings.

My next door neighbour, Colleen, bristles with excitement every time the wind picks up from our stagnant porch life. “Peterson! It’s amazing!” Maybe she has Penny’s ghost sitting on top of her head?  I’m always, like what the fuck, it’s so scary, the wind is all about change and I hate change. I want everything to be the same always or at least gently eased into the new status quo. I have to be greasy and blindfolded to keep moving. In fact I’m amazed I even made it out of my mother’s womb in the first place.

Colleen doesn’t see wind as impending doom, instead it’s fresh opportunity. I don’t know for what, neighbourhood watch fodder? Or maybe when she saw The Wizard of Oz she actually thought it was a barrel of fun instead of a depressing allegory of a girl reaching puberty, getting her period (ruby slippers!), leaving home because wind, yo! landing in some strange place and then running into a bunch of hapless jerks, 3 dudes who represent the holy trinity of male foibles that we’ve all dated:  a dumb ass scarecrow who is friend zone material, an emotionally unavailable and obvious closet case tin man, and the quintessential cowardly lion who has erectile dysfunction because he probably drinks too much (I’ll take that one, btw, I can work with it). I think the wizard represents religion, he is a deity of sorts,  and the witches are directional pulls, where is the witch of the south though? Hmm. I could go really deep into it and blow our minds but my local weed dispensary has been shut down. But! Suffice to say there’s a lot of anxiety in the land of Oz and that Dorothy is a pretty bad ass lil bitch because she FACES HER FEARS. Just as an observation though, I feel like when she poured water over the wicked witch that that was a real lame-ass deus ex machina in terms of the plot device. Like oh, yeah, we’re supposed to believe that water is going to melt this bad bitch into oblivion when the ho flies her broom in the dankest of skies where there is probably 90 percent chance of showers and dollars for donuts she has gotten wet before.

So yeah, maybe wind isn’t so scary if you keep the windows open and try and remember those flying monkeys are all up in yo head. Your dog wouldn’t want to scratch his way inside if they were actually real. If the breeze brings change, like in the form of a scary email or something, maybe it’s just best to deal with it rather than stress over it. It’s better to be the dog sitting precariously on the roof, than the one scratching itself into a living human head and even if it was a hollowed out skull, he couldn’t possibly fit like a LolCat in box. Am I right?

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So yeah, just thinking about Dorothy and her 3 main archetypes of men reminded me of a Tinder date I went on last month. It was an actual earnest date, not like a hookup-Netflix-chill type thing, this dude asked me out in public for a drink. In the daytime, I might add, which wins points for me. Also he was “age appropriate” which is not necessarily a good thing from my field studies. I find that the middle aged men in the dating pool deny that term as though in their 45 year old minds, they are planning on living way past the age of 120. I don’t fucking think so, but I will give the term “middle age” a loosely dug out cave window of 40ish-60something less than 65,  just to be nice. And so my field studies indicate the middle aged men are all out in the park chasing squirrels half their age because they think they can until they realize they are cowardly lions, than haha, joke’s on them. So anyway! More points for this dude for asking an old tree bound squirrel out on a date. Here’s how it went down:

We meet at the bar place and he is cute! Like a swarthy hipster with some character. He has one of those haircuts with the intricate fade and pineapple mess on top (hipster, and I’m ok with that) and a massive scar on his cheek that looked exactly like someone hollowed out a beer bottle and smashed it in his eye (totally hot). Best of all, he has a big black beard with silvers in it, you know that’s my number one weakness since I’ve given up on ginger ones.

We sit outside in the brightness of the sun which is pretty brutal, why not just go to a nude beach and stand in front of each other and lay the sunscreen on, but whatevs. He has a British accent! Cute! But! He keeps saying “wanker.” Ugh. First beer goes down nicely and then he orders shots of whiskey or whisky whichever. Is that a red flag in day drinking first date? But YOLO and did I mention it was my birthday? And it turns out he’s a shot sipper! Just like me! Teeny tiny sips! Cute! But his eyes have turned to slits already. Ugh. We order another beer. He mentions I seem nervous. I fidget, it’s my nature. He calls the waitress a wanker because she thinks our shot sipping is wimpy. She is awkward, it’s probably her first serving job. She’s a mere child though, I’m sure she drinks Bodacious mixed with 7-Up and calls it Sangria.

Second beer, second shot, he tells me the other waitress should take off the dress she is wearing, which is tight as fuck, you could play mini-golf on her cellulite, meow. I’m thinking seriously? Is he’s ogling the waitress in front of me but I play along because I’m one of those bro-girls you can talk shit in front of even though I hate it and say, “Oh is it because she has one of those hot tear drop shaped asses like a Vargas girl?” and he looks at me all squinty with no understanding whatsoever and says, “No, because the pattern on the fabric clashes with her tattoos.” THE PATTERN ON THE FABRIC CLASHES WITH HER TATTOOS. I don’t think I could get a lady boner over someone who gave a fuck about fabric clashing, had the wherewithal to even form that thought in his head and then actually say it out loud but! it was my birthday and I’m willing to be open. Silver in the beard, silver in the beard, I keep thinking.

Third beer, third shot. “You seem so nervous,” he said it again! No, I’m not nervous per se, I just didn’t get high before the date, Perky McPercocet. His eyelids have melted over his nose. Which was small by the way, I like me a big ass nose. Plus I’m actually just trying to carry on a conversation and not pretending to be a guest judge on Project Runway. We kind of run out of things to say, although second beer in, I did get the story of his life where he described himself as the family “ne’er do well” and how his first boner was with a nurse who held his little boy peen for him to pee after he got an emergency circumcision at a cognitive age. Her fingernails were red and pointy, and when he looked down at her feet, she was wearing sexy spiked heels. Of course she was.

Anyway, when we were done and waiting awkwardly for the check, he lays back on his seat, stroking his beard,  and staring at the men in front us, he actually says, “That wanker shouldn’t wear that fedora in that colour.” Oh my god. He may as well as poured water over my head, ding dong, the lady boner is officially dead. This guy was a tin man if there ever was one.

Footnote (literally): From the get-go, I could tell his disapproval of me when he looked down at my shoes which were Sketchers and yes, like they are stitched up from sexy grey upholstery of a Hyundai Sonata but fuck it, who cares, when I wear them I feel like walking on a winding road made of the tender soft balls of a million munchkin menfolk. Squish, squish. Bring on the wind machine!

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Spring Fever

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There’s a particular spot on my front lawn that randomly grows a bunch of mushrooms. It’s been happening for years, same bat time, same bat channel. Like wtf, I mow them down and they sprout back up again. Once a few years ago, some super ancient dude neighbour passing by carrying his liquor store bag of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, don’t knock it, saw me stomping on them and stopped in his tracks. My mind was about to be blown.

“There used to be a big ol’ oak tree in that there spot,” He said in a cute Mark Twain-y old man way.

I’m like, ah, smiling politely, stomp stomp.

“Even though the tree is gone, the mushrooms will still grow where the stump was,” he said.

And I’m like, huh, interesting, and thinking go away, stomp, stomp.

“That’s not going to get rid of them.”

“But they’re so gross, they’re like lawn zits!” Really, more like grass dicks. Nature’s pornography.

“Well, miss,” he smiled all twinkly blood shot eyed, “You better get used to them. They always come back.”

Stomp, what. When? Sigh.

He just kept standing there and then went on to say that lived around here all his life, from back in the day when the neighbourhood was all boarding houses for horse jockeys, prostitutes and Anglo Saxon street gangs. The neighbourhood was like Pottersville in George Bailey’s alternate reality in “It’s a Wonderful Life!” I remember when there was a horse race track down the street, which is now a 20 year old development wryly nicknamed “Pleasantville,” but given the current price of real estate, I did not know the neighbourhood was once so dodgy. I would give anything to time travel! Anyway, the old man was born in the same house he still lives in to a teenage mother and his grandpa was a longshoreman. Gramma worked at the hospital and his teenage mom facked off to join the circus when he was 2. They had jockey boarders and there was brawling #porchlife 2.0 and even the children drank beer because the water was so dank.

I love the stories of yesteryear! I asked him if he wanted some lemonade and he looked me up and down and said no, he had to go home and feed his cats. Maybe another time, he would bring his Harvey’s Bristol Cream if I could supply the ice cubes. I never did see him again though. But he was right, the mushrooms multiplied. I think the mighty majestic oak tree and recurring phallic mushrooms are metaphors to a life lesson I have yet to fucking learn because years later I am still stomping on the grass and chopping down trees on Tinder.

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Anyway spring fever hit me with its pointy mushroom cap head. It’s hard to say exactly when because the weather so was so dodgy. Warm one day and snowing the next. About a month ago, there was a full moon waxing and a decent day and I finally woke from my Netflix coma and decided yes, I am ready. I poured myself a Bristol Cream! and texted some young dude from my Internet Dick Farm, or IDF. These are the fresh fellows in their prime without any important baggage from dating websites who are all about the messaging. They don’t actually want or expect to meet you in person because scary and work and messy and bodily fluids, blechhh. And this particular dude especially. He would always text at like 2 pm on Sunday asking me to drop what I was doing and come over when really he was at the laundromat bored, waiting for his Tommy Hilfiger cotton staples his mom bought him to finish twirling in the dryer. I think he appreciated my quick wit and prose. I like to pepper my sexting with actual real life descriptions of blocked nostrils and embarrassing farting sounds. I am always game to hone my writing skills but the boys on my IDF are not ones I want to actually meet IRL either. I usually message them for about 3 days or so and then we mutually move on. But this particular dude hung on for the past year or so. He’d like to tell me about his dates and stuff and all the girls he banged. I’d make him tell me about their apartments and what kind of sheets they had, did you stay for breakfast? What was her French press like? And the stuff in the background of his dick pics, I would actually zoom in on and assess. Once I thought this black blob was a cat and I got excited, what’s your kitty’s name? But it turned out it was his gym bag, lol. A couple of months ago, I wasn’t my usual self, I was kind of depressed, not sad per se,  just flat and bored, and he suggested I go get my thyroid checked! So cute and sweet! He said his mom had a thyroid issue and it affected her mood also. So last month, I did book a full body hoe checkup. My tiny doctor, who shops at Gap kids does not drink or even eat, asked me about my alcohol intake. I lied like a rug and told her I averaged 15 units of spiritual beverages a week, her jaw dropped to the ground, luckily it was carpeted with mendacity, and she booked me for a liver scan. Apparently women are supposed to have 8 units maximum! Bear in mind there are 6 pours in a bottle of wine. Let’s do the math. Can you imagine? That’s like one bottle of wine and 2 beers in a week!!!!! What the hell. I’m of Scandinavian descent, my liver is basically made whale blubber and black tar. Can you give me a medical marijuana card at least? I have the perpetual condition of menopause and rapidly growing chin hairs, FFS. She’s like, no, that wouldn’t be good either. Jesus Christ, the indignity. That’s whole other blog post though. Thyroid is fine however. And liver has some good decades left, told you so, Dr. M, skál!

Anyway, back to dude and the full moon. I decided let’s do this or this texting will have to die soon, the next girlfriend this dude gets, he’s going to have to marry, I’m sure his mother would agree. So I made a booty call. I actually never do that. Yes, I beg and plead for a certain faraway peeps to hop on a plane and make my dreams come true but I NEVER casually text someone in the deep 6 to come over for good times. Not because I am a rules lady but only because I fear disappointment. So I texted him some nonsense I forget and since deleted and he texted back that he had to go to some birthday party (right?) because you know how millennials love to celebrate their birthdays like they are all second comings of a twisted entitled version of Jesus Bieber. So I said ok, no problem and went to bed and fell asleep and in my Bristol Cream dream haze, my phone actually rang. Like real phone, not just dopey text alert. Somebody has died! But no, it was dude and he wanted to come over! In the middle of the goddamn night! It’s like 3 in morning but I’m so stupid I say yes and he takes the address and slurs it to the cab driver. And I say, why don’t you Uber? But he has moral principals about the taxi industry, he tries to explain but goes off on another tangent, something about a fight he had with one of his Ninja Turtle buddies, prolly about a Pokemon battle. I am fully awake now but wearing a men’s XXL 3 wolf moon tshirt, appropriate but ugly as fuck, and pyjama bottoms, the bad ones I have! They sag at the ass and I have been working on it so diligently! I have slept on wet hair and I have too much to deal with including a bunch of dogs that I am dogsitting because it is a full fucking moon. And ladies without proper menstrual cycles attract small needy house pets when everyone else is out howling, prowling, and working it all out, sexy times, U.S.A.

It took him forever to get to my house because when the cab driver let him off, he couldn’t figure out which way the numbers went and he kept walking in the wrong direction as the numbers got smaller. Oh my God,  in all my Bristol Cream hazes, I have never had this problem. Odd numbers are on the south side and even numbers are on the north. The spine of the city is Yonge Street and if you are east of it, the numbers become greater as you head toward the rising sign, more east. They don’t go randomly like 17, 15, 13, and oh 35 is next!  It’s not hard, dude (that’s what she said). I had to go out in the street BAREFOOT IN MY STUPID PYJAMAS to find him, he was heading west, the house numbers were getting smaller but he just didn’t get it. I waved at him from the distance and went inside and waited. Somehow he crossed the street and was heading more east, omg. Then when he finally staggered in, all the dogs ran out of the house and onto the neighbour’s front lawn. Okay, there were only 3 dogs in total but that’s still a wrangling situation that was probably as hot to watch as that episode of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” where the whole fat family chases their pet pig in mud.

And this is where all time stood still. we were standing in the front hall, dogs barking and jumping. I told him to take off his shoes. It stared at the ridiculous dogs, it took him forever to move, do something, say anything and when he finally did, he looked over at me and said WITH AN UMISTAKEABLE SNEER: “You have some white stuff on your face.”

And I’m wiping my cheek, “Oh! it’s toothpaste…whatever…” And the worst sinking feeling of disappointment started to flood in. He was probably expecting me to be dressed like a slutty version of his mom in a Talbots sweater set and spike heels.

“I think I’m going to go,” he said with that creaky vocal fry tone, emphasis on the word “go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Am I that bad? It’s just toothpaste,” I swear I was about to cry.  Somehow I channeled an episode of “Sex and the City” where Stanford get rejected by meeting an on-line date on a street corner and the guy just looks at him and sniffs dismissively, “this isn’t going to work.”

“I think I’m going to go,” uttered by a drunk dude instantly translated into me thinking I had my last fuckable day like that skit on “Inside Amy Schumer” when they sent Julia Louis Dreyfus down the river. Mine could have been sometime in October of 2015 and I didn’t even know it!  If I did I would have celebrated when I had the chance. FML.

‘I don’t want your dogs to kill me,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment.

“Oh my god, I warned you about the dogs, they’re just precious little woofers…okay go, then. Just go.” Like go home and microwave yourself a pizza pocket, son. Ugh, I’m too old for this.

Some more stupid conversation/negotiation ensued and yes, normally I would have been down for what he suggested but I could tell since he could barely cross the street that his aim would be off so I said forget it. Empowered by my own righteous ugliness, I shuffled him out the door. I was just pissed off by that point. Fuck that guy and his lofty expectations. I watched him walk the opposite direction of where I told him to go, I mean I even pointed with my gnarly finger GO THAT WAY to the main road and he literally skewed 45 degrees toward the graveyard. Part of me felt bad for him because clearly his pathetic sense of direction will lead to many needlessly expensive cab rides but then again, that’s what you get for being a dick. STOMP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being Ugly

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I have an apartment for rent in my house and while I am so very, very sad to see my current tenants leave, I love them so and their 420 baker buddy who looks like Dick Van Dyke but! I am always excited at the prospect of new ones. “The Landlady” is the memoir that I hope to write when I’m accidentally living in Costa Rica during my old batdom. By the way, I’ve given up on planning my next chapter or more precisely, freaking out about having to plan my old age, I’m going with the flow and going to let shit happen day by day, it will unfurl spectacularly as long as you promise to stick by me. Anyway, for the time being, in my middle age, aka, adolescence 2.0,  I’ve had 5 sets of tenants here in this old house so I’m a veteran at this landlady gig. I put ads out on the free advertising sites known as Craigslist and Kijiji and hope for the best because fuck knows who will move in, I’ve seen Pacific Heights. 1990 Michael Keaton was cute, I would totally let him move in and destroy my house while he wrecked my upstairs if you know what I mean. The people from Craigslist are especially dodgy and yes, the site may as well be called Cannibals ‘R’ Us. But I like it because you make your needs be known and even in the darkest hour of despair you can get shit transpiring IRL way faster than a pizza delivery from The Hut. But! There’s always that danger of getting murdered.

Kijiji is more pedestrian apparently. Everyone in the ladies’ locker room at the gym tells me it’s better than CL and those hoes seem to be getting a whole lot of lawn furniture on the cheap. On Craigslist if you were selling and/or buying “lawn furniture,” you would have to be tested for STD’s afterward. That’s just basic modern day social mores and people should just stop questioning the kinks of others. From my experience tho, Kijiji  is a fucked up junky site full of ads and false ALL CAPS promises and they are always trying to get money out of you for the sake of urgency. URGENT! $49,95 YOUR AD WILL APPEAR ON THE FRONT PAGE! ALSO HERE ARE SOME UGGS AND DESIGNER SUNGLASSES! IN! CASE! YOU! WANTED! ALSO! WITH! YOUR! NEED! FOR! A! ROOF! OVER! YOUR! HEAD! Oh my god, Kijiji, here is what urgency is: Urgency is a liver transplant thatI’m going to need sometime soon (don’t ask). If some asshole who’s looking for a place to live can’t fill out a criteria search and scroll through a few listings, then the same dumbfuck prolly can’t scroll through his wallet and pay the rent on time. Team Craigslist, just saying.

Okay, so the other day a dude answered my Craigslist ad via email and asked if he could come and see the place. Yes, of course you may, my potential serf,  I fired back promptly and we set up a time. I immediately googled up his ass because that is what a savvy landlady does and easily found him on Facebook. No, it’s not “stalking” or “creeping,” it’s just smart hockey to check people out before you meet them. Personally, I don’t trust people who have no social media outlets or web presence whatsoever. At least have a burnt out campfire on LinkedIn. I do kind of get shunning Facebook because it triggers anxiety but do try and maintain a Pinterest board of some bogus vegan quinoa recipes. I can tell a lot about you by the what you think you should be wanting to eat but aren’t really. And also what is up with people who put privacy settings on Instagram? Get off the internet,  you have no idea how it’s supposed to work.

Anyway this dude had a kind of strange name and there was only one in Toronto so I clicked on his profile and no word of a lie, I actually gasped when I saw his profile pic. I literally lost my breath, clutched my heart and made the sign of a cross. He was that ugly. So ugly! Fugly ugly was a fug!  Ugly wugly had a mug! Ugly wugly was so ugly he made somebody blog about his fugly.

Now before you get all in my face about how ugly is how ugly does and who do you think you are, bitch, Charlize Theron? I will say no, I am not Charlize Theron and yes, I am ugly as fuck too. I just got my new driver’s license in the mail and I am one passport portrait away from morphing into a bewildered walrus suffering from climate change asking you to sign a petition to save the icy rock I’m melting on. I’m gross. My downfall is my main chin is a golf ball and my other chin is a loaf of sourdough. The plus however: My eyebrow game is on point, my eyes are kind of good but the rest is just garbage that passes off as cute depending how many drinks you have had.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being slightly ugly rocks because you can move through a crowd incognito. Save some lives maybe. I saw Charlize Theron in person once at a party and it was like looking straight at the sun. People were passing out at her beauty, just like dropping their jaws and falling down all over each other. Everyone had to be defibrillated back to life. It was a shit show. Also apparently bitch can’t get any acting jobs because of her beauty, and that must totally suck. So being dealt some ugly cards is not such a bad thing. Bad hair day? No problem, who cares, there’s clusterfuck of lady whiskers on my golf ball right now taking priority.

But this dude who answered my ad was fantasy ugly, off the charts, he actually looked photoshopped. And! His profile pic was a straight-on headshot. Never do this! Know your angles, Quasimodo. Even Grace Kelly had the wherewithal to know how to tilt down 10 degrees, shift right every so slightly and look to the sky to the west as though it was cocktail hour in Monte Carlo. This fucker’s eyes were on all wrong, pinned to the sides of his head on different planes, and you could see up his nostrils, two dark portals like double garage doors into a retrofit Cro-Magnon skull. His face was craggy and crevassed in such a way a topographer would tell you it was Utah. I don’t want to talk about his hair at all or think about it ever again.

He had other profile pics but they were obscured with the overlay of the French flag and a rainbow, which means he is socially conscious. This is a plus for me! Feel the Bern! He also has friends who commented on his profile picture!  This is the internet juice I live for: 27 “Likes” and here’s what some of them had to say: “So handsome!” “Dude! Looking good!” “George Clooney 2.0!”

So cute! Everyone loves this ugly mofo. His whole Facebook scroll down was filled with sweetness and good times. His girlfriend was smoking hot, too, but her Facebook was on the private settings and so was her Instagram. If she is thinking she is hiding her love of her ugly boyfriend from the rest of the world, she is sorely mistaken. Her Pinterest was filled with wedding boards consisting of Vera Wang dresses and Tiffany engagements rings and cakes with intricately sculpted fondant icing of snowflakes and shit. What a piece work. Why do men go along with that? I guess being ugly is a state of desperation? But even handsome men marry those types of women! It’s head scratcher, we’ll have to analyze that later. Let’s just think about ugly for now.

Ugly is a a subjective thing and there’s all kinds of categories. Like this guy is unfortunate ugly. Tragically ugly. Not a whole lot he could do about it but fix his hair and maybe wear a hat with a brim and a scarf and stick a cigar in his mouth and hide behind the billows of smoke.

Then there is ugly by design, like hipsters 2.0 or the cat lady, Jocelyn Wildenstein, with all the plastic surgery. There’s also ugly by proxy. You can actually get contact ugly if you are related to Donald Trump.

The worst kind of ugly is the ugly that comes from within and leaks out. Like Ted Cruz. Remember when he first came on to the scene, he looked like bumbling comedic actor Kevin Malone or Grandpa Munster? Hilarious memes, right? Like months ago  @youngvulgarian on Twitter said: “How does Cruz always look both happy and sad? ‘I like lasagne but it’s not what I ordered,” his face says.'” Now every time Ted Cruz opens his mouth, he gets uglier and uglier by the syllable. He’s even uglier than Trump if that’s even possible. He is pure evil. He IS the Zodiac Killer. How can he possibly live ever that down?

And conversely but related, please someone make a Bernie Sanders Beanie Baby because every time I see that man, I feel like I’m looking at a basket full of Pomsky puppies. I just want to hug and kiss him and eat Ben & Jerry ice cream with him all day long. I love him so.

Anyway, so yes, ugly Craigslist guy came to see the apartment and lo and behold, he was not nearly so fug in person. He had gotten a haircut! Also he was tall, lanky and wearing slim jeans and a cute Penguin polo shirt AND he had swagger. He possessed that male version of the thing the French call “jolie-laide.” Ugly-beautiful. And he was confident in his ugliness. He had mojo. Women probably want to date him just to have an ugly boyfriend they think no one else wants to bone. The joke is on them. This guy is a true pussy magnet. He has charm and I can assess he probably some tongue game by the way he whistled and trilled while he walked around the backyard. His whack-doodle eyes that flew off on different planes in his photo were actually kind of bright and sparkly and when he smiled his Utah-landscaped face made these  charming dimples and crinkles. Also he laughed at my jokes! Which is a bonus. Men hardly ever laugh at my jokes as they are always so busy assessing my sexual prowess. Prolly wondering what a walrus vagina looks like and how do they get to have a go.

His girlfriend didn’t come with him as he was checking out places that she might like based on her criteria. Ugly has to do all the work. Usually when I get the couples come see the place, it’s the woman I deal with. And statistically, everybody, one hundred percent, like all 5 of my tenants, who rents this fucking apartment ends up getting married! I told him that, not letting on I had already stalked his girlfriend’s Pinterest boards, he said lol yes, he and his girlfriend were planning a wedding but no date yet. Worth noting: He never referred to her as his “fiancee.” Is that a man thing or an ugly thing? Is it not a deal unless there is a date?

Things were going good between me and Ugly Guy, he loved the kitchen.  Apparently the girlfriend likes to cook and the kitchen is chef-friendly with a gas stove and butcher block. Really cool tin ceiling. Hardwood floors throughout, washer and dryer, basement storage, parking! You should come see it. At one point near the end though, Betty barked upstairs and his craggy face corrugated into his Facebook mugshot  and he told me in his current place the dog upstairs made click-click-click sounds with his nails on the floor which was why they want to move. Seriously. Click-click.

“Oh I love dogs,” he explained, “but my girlfriend hates them.” Ugly Guy’s Pinterest princess hate dogs. You know how they say in New York City you’re never more than two feet away from a rat or something like that? Well that’s what it’s like here with dogs. There’s dogs on the roofs here! You cannot possibly live in my house if you are not canine friendly. In fact, I don’t even want a tenant who doesn’t have a pet, be it furry or scaly or plastic or blow up.

So Ugly Guy left but his ugliness wafted and stayed with me for a few days. A lingering longing, like a zit to be popped. I prolly need to add his ugly mug on my Pinterest board for jokes: “Men I Want to Bone.”  Maybe one day in his click-click free apartment, he’ll google himself and find it there and then wonder about the walrus that could have been his landlady. Ugly Guy, call me! Goo Goo G’Joob.

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Keeping the Flies Off the Pie

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Last weekend I was thinking that it’s time to break up with my couch, maybe not completely, but like Ross and Rachel did on “Friends” with an “understanding” and just “take a break.” I think I need to be on my own for a while and like see other furniture, but just casually for now. Like a park bench. Or a bar stool! Hey, ho, how’s this for smart modern living? A stool in one of those swim up bars in a pool in those all-inclusive resorts! Wait, maybe not. I’ve been to one of those once, and half naked, sunburnt, flabby, drunk, loud, freely urinating middle aged swingers groping each other is not the hot Bruce Weber pool party of my dreams. Who wants to watch Hulk Hogan’s sex tape? Not moi. So forget the pool stool, I need to sit somewhere else.

A horse. I just need to sit on top of a horse.

Apparently it turned to Spring on Sunday and my weekend was a bust. I did two gross things couchbound  that I’m not proud of: First, I hate watched the entire Will Arnett series “Flaked” on Netflix. Here is a synopsis: Will Arnett is a recovering alcoholic in Venice Beach who makes stools. Makes stools. For a living. Uh huh. On his own sweet time, he runs a sparse furniture shop with random junk in it but with one stool in the back. You never actually see him make a stool and I don’t think he even touched the one stool in any of the episodes. Is stool a metaphor for shit? I don’t know. He’s hardly even in the store and he mostly just rides a bicycle around the hood! He’s bored and has existential middle aged angst and he sneaks booze, so what. Oh! and he bangs hot babes in their early twenties. Yeah, he’s cute in those J Crew shorts but that bike, man, sorry, this isn’t Portland. The type of girls he gets work in trendy restaurants and wear outfits of see-through scraps and held up with little strings. These are the type of girls who come from hick towns in the midwest with their cow milking skills on point and really strong, hungry hand game, who, like generations of young hoes before them, are inspired by the legend of Lana Turner getting discovered in Schwabs Deli. And they know “getting discovered” is a thing that involves deep throating old, ugly dudes, but ones who drive luxury cars and can buy them shit. But no, he happens to get the girls who don’t care and love him for HIM, all two cents and two wheels. Ugh. I guess that is plausible because male privilege extends to the poor but it’s INFURIATING. Also! By Will Arnett’s estimation of female characterization, women over the ripe old age of say, 35, are problematically portrayed as a hardened, bitchy, turned lesbian ex-wife by Heather Graham. Yes, ex-wives are always turning into lesbians and their partners are always evil antagonists and if they had moustaches, they would be twirling them. And then the other old bitch in the show is Kirsty Alley, as a batshit crazy mom (but awesome) of his second banana sidekick roommate who he has issues with because of he perceives her free-wheeling sexuality as traumatizing. Fuck that shit. Grow up, dude.

I really cannot believe Will Arnett is Canadian. I’m so very disappointed as I DID love Arrested Development but I think I really hate him now and no, I didn’t watch Bojangle Horsetwat, I can’t possibly watch everything and I tried but I didn’t get it, whatevs. He’s dead to me.

Anyway, the second gross thing I did this spring weekend on my couch raft was that I made this disgusting cocktail out of beer and vodka. So, earlier in the week, Bob randomly brought over some Steigl tall boys that he “took” from his girlfriend. At first I was excited because he stole beer for lil ol’ me? The implications were endless: Were they some kind of symbolic offering? As in some kind of Robin Hood thing, like taking from the bitch to give to the whore? But then I saw they were “grapefruit beer” wtf? Basically shite wheat beer mixed with grapefruit juice in a can that no sane adult would drink or want cluttering their fridge. I really don’t understand society sometimes. Personally, if I’m going to drink a calorie, I need a buzz, and this shit has 2.5 % alcohol which means I may as well drink a pie. Why would I do that? And by the way, this is the idiocy of smoothies that y’all drink in the morning thinking it’s a good healthy thing but guess what? If you actually ate all that bulky sugary fruit and crap, you’d only be able to ingest half what you sucked back in a straw, and without all the chewing, tongue twirling, solid mass swallowing, you’re missing a crucial step for complete appetite satiety. When you gulp down things that have been puréed even if it was once solid, it’s way easier to over-consume, your body doesn’t think it ate, it thinks it just drank, which is like what babies on a tit and old people do with Ensure. Drinking should only be for water, coffee, or booze. So anyway, with this Steigl crap, I used it as a mix for vodka, drank myself sober while I watched that fucking Will Arnett show and got so riled, I actually showered afterwards. And now I’m done. Fuck you, couch. (But I’ll call you later, and we’ll hang when “Orange is the New Black” comes out).

werkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerk……. Rihanna and Drake lol, that song tho.

Okay, so yeah, so rather than sit, or let’s face it, lay on couch, it’s time to hit the gym and I’ve been thinking a lot about my butt lately because why not transfer a middle-aged lady existential crisis into a body part? My ass, in yoga pants, is not bad but could be bubblier. And really, I want it to be big and sloppy to match the boobs but I’m not built that way.  Out of the yoga pants, disaster! Rash city, wtf. I didn’t even know about it until I took a belfie a couple of weeks ago and had to put it on extreme filter settings before it looked passable. I should never have sent it. Oy, oh well.

Go check yours now, I’ll wait. If you have ass-ne, I have the cure along with the million dollar idea that someone should market a butt skincare regime specifically for this problem. But here’s what for now: Go to the acne section of the drugstore, find something with salicylic acid and get something to exfoliate with like those gloves and wash your ass cheeks with that and then put cream on it. It seems to be working for me but zits can be tricky I know, you think you’ve got them beat and then they come back somewhere else. Thirty years later, lol.

I have been going to the same gym for almost twenty years and I’ve done it all, I tell you. I had an epiphany a couple of months ago. I have done personal training, step, spin, bootcamp, yoga, tennis, and fuck all that shit, I’m tired of other people telling me what to do. I need agency when it comes to my body. I google, I read the magazines, and I’ve seen the same people for twenty years and I’ve got case studies of all types to figure out what my own ass needs.

Recently, the gym underwent a huge renovation where everything  went from dark crannies, where people accidentally on purpose brushed into each other, to a big open concept warehouse-like setting where people couldn’t cheat anymore. At first I was, like, ugh this is awful, I can see clearly now and it is not pretty. You walk in and there’s a big hallway in the middle, on the right is all the cardio machines, and to the left are all the weights. In very back is a golf station taking up a third of the real estate so that 4 white men could be happy, the dance studio which has a serious feng shui problem with its strange hanging ropes, and the cycle studio which I think I might be done with because of my recent epiphany.

So when I look at everything in the bright light of the Best Buy, this is what I see: People who spend all their time on the cardio machines believing that they are burning fat are on a 45-minute elliptical ride to Delusionville. Cardio fatties, the whole lot of them. Even the ones on the treadmill who are not fat but sinewy, which is way worse, are the embodiment of misery and joint pain.

All the really hot people in the gym are to the left in the weight area. Case study: There’s a dude that I’ve seen for two decades who spends all his time in the weight, hoisting heavy weights, then sitting around, he never really breaks a sweat, he practically does his workouts in street clothes. He’s in his forties now but he looks exactly the same as he did in his twenties. His shoulders broad, his abs are steel, his butt could recite poetry, prolly. He’s built like Zeus. Sometimes he goes on a bike, but I think it’s just because he’s lonely and wants to watch tv. I never want to talk to him because I don’t want to know his story. It’s probably tragically boring.

In January, I got my favourite trainer to show me all the new equipment. He’s so cute and easy to talk to, I thought he was gay because he knew all the Kardashians in proper birth order but turns out he is just married. “I just want to keep the flies off the pie, maintain the junk placement and the solid parts for the next phase of my life” was my fitness goal, which he found delightfully refreshing as people are too fucking focussed on some ideal they will never be. His words. Listen to your body and what it wants to do when it’s not laying on the couch. Mine is mighty and bodacious and it needs to heave, push, pull, slam heavy shit while jiggling somewhat.

What about cardio? You ask incredulously, clutching your FitBit. Well guess what, if I do it fast, without resting and finger fucking my phone like my life is important (I leave it in the locker), I  get my heart rate up and break a sweat (I am not Zeus). I am also not one of those delicate ladies in Lululemon who think a 5 pound weight is going to cut it. And I strongly suspect that spinning is what gave a butt rash.

Also! Here’s an unpopular opinion: Yoga is bullshit, it actually feeds my anxiety, I don’t care what anyone says about that. Fuck being centred and all calm, using your own body weight for resistance, and wringing yourself out like a washcloth.  That makes no sense to me unless you’re in prison. I need to be scattered and looking around the room at other people, trying to make eye contact while grunting. Because that’s entertainment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Shopping for the Perfect Couch

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Sweet Jesus, I saw this photo taken in Portland, Oregon because of course it was, while I was laying on my couch because naturally, that’s where you can find me between the hours of 5pm and the end of of the second episode of Seinfeld on Peachtree, surfing the Reddit dot com as I am hourly, and thought: “Yes, I totally want to fuck my couch.” I love my couch so much it hurts. It’s a masterpiece of form and function. I can move its pieces and it’s a regular “Chesterfield” (as per my mom)  and matching ottoman (what, why? wiki here) then I can get up off my ass and turn it into an L-shape settee thing, or better yet shove it all together and make a giant bed, yes. Which is what it is most of the time. It’s sturdy and dark brown and hard and firm and big and hard but! Its skin is soft and plush like a teddy bear. It’s definitely a man couch and totally fuckable. If it were to manifest in human form, it would be my tv boyfriend, Michael Strahan. You know how he has the super cute adorable perfectly nipple-sized gap in his front teeth? Well that’s the cushions that split open and swallow all the couch accoutrements like the tv wand, cellphones, and chopsticks. I think of it as more playful than annoying on most days. Like the innards of my couch are scrapbooking, archiving all my antics. Oh, look, there’s a Swedish condom wrapper from that time when ginger beards were my thing.

Also I took a lot of time looking for my couch which had to be my soul mate. It’s my part of my marital separation collection of furniture. I swear to God it took my ex-husband less time to find a new wife than it took me to find this fucking couch. And please don’t get me wrong, he did well in his search, she’s awesome and I love her, but me finding the perfect couch would have to be matching my criteria precisely from tits to tail.  My inspirational couch belongs to my brother and his wife which lives in their “tv room.” Tv room, lol, right? Every room is a tv room in my house, greasy laptop + Netfix = Toilet hour. The couch they have is so the embodiment of comfort that it’s virtually non-descript and metaphysical in its form. What it does is it turns into a bed and there’s all these pillows and the softest blankie and it truly is the best place ever that you want to be, not even an ocean front coconut shaped pod in Bali could compete. It’s more like a  womb, not a room. So I had to find one like it but somewhat bigger because of scale and math and it had to fit the room just so. I finally found it at Philz on Queen Street, one of those mid-century junk places in Riverside that also sells modern furniture that costs zillions of dollars. I don’t even know if it’s still there anymore, it’s a scary place to visit because it had all this great stuff and you want everything but don’t have space to put it. Same reason I have to avoid puppy adoption fairs and certain internet websites.

But! I remember the first time I laid eyes on the floor model which was the same one I chose. It came in custom colours and fabric and I could have had it in leather but got talked out of it by someone (who shall remain nameless) giving me a visual of what it’s like to lay on a leather couch naked. Just no. And aside from that, it was smart to go in furry bear fabric because the wretched dog I ended up adopting later is one of those primal beasts that must violently dig out a spot before she twirls around and lies on it like a sweet little angel baby croissant. Don’t worry,  it’s okay, the couch is strong and can take her paw gouging, in fact her scratching kind of rakes up the upholstery and makes it fluffier.  Can you imagine scratching Michael Strahan while he is watching his favourite tv show? Oy. Betty has it right.

Anyway, I saw the couch, I fell in lust! Which of course, I mistook for love because that has been a recurring problem in my life. I ordered the couch in furry dark brown, paid a zillion dollars because I had a line of credit back then, and waited them to make it and deliver it three weeks later. Well, well, wouldn’t you know, when it arrived, it didn’t fit up the stairs, even with the legs taken off. It had to come in from the back balcony by hoisting it up to the second floor with rope and manpower and some yelling and beers and more yelling and regret. And then I had to get some rubber placemats for his soles so he wouldn’t keep slipping all over the floor like a sloppy mess, defence men who play for the NFL need to stay put. But yeah, that was almost eleven years ago and couch and I are still banging, so it must be love. Or long lived lust. What is the difference again?

The other day, one of my best buds called me and asked me to come with her over March Break to buy a new couch. I was floored, pardon the pun, because I was with her when she got her current couch which was around the same time I got mine….like a decade ago….oh my…. times flies, kids, so go forth and fuck your bunk beds and keep moving, that’s my best advice at this point. Also: Don’t fucking worry about feng shui either, just let energy flow where it wants to go, it will find a way in and out whether or not you put a mirror at the north east corner in front of a rock soaking in a bowl of water or not. DO NOT SPEND $500 FOR A SAGE CLEANSE! Spend it on weed instead.

Anyway, I had shopped so long and hard for my couch, I was known as the couch whisperer so I was the perfect person to go hunting with. Plus I wasn’t going to talk her out of spending money she wanted to spend but was afraid to, because in my mind, couches are an investment. She found hers at Biltmore, so fucking fancy there that they call their feather-stuffed couches “sofas.” Also a zillion dollars required but we were living large back then and felt we deserved a place to park our lady arses on to drink wine on, fart our lady farts into with impunity, and watch Gilmore Girls. No Ikea for weary old broads.

Her couch is so beautiful that if it were to come to life in human form it would be Nigella Lawson but before she lost so much weight after she dumped that fucking Saatchi prick. Her couch was and still is gorgeous! It’s plump and full and bodacious and thick and curly and juicy and soft and lush. When you walk into her apartment and see her sofa, all you want to do is dive on top of it and stick your fingers in it, lick it and then ask how she does her eyebrows with such an exquisite arch. And then let her make you whipped creamy pea mash and tell her all your secrets while you wiggle your toes in her butt crack.

So when she told me she wanted a new couch, I was like WHAT?

And she: “I’m sick of it. It’s old and so dirty now, the cushions spread open and there’s crumbs stuck in there, ugh.” She is dissing Nigella’s vagina basically. I will not have it.

So I, channeling my inner Martha because she is in there, farming her own weed an making popsicles out of vodka:  “Jesus Christie Brinkley! Sprinkle that baking soda stuff on it, leave it on for 2 hours, and then vacuum it up! It just needs a spa treatment.”

This conversation went on with me championing her sofa and her slowly changing her mind that she could salvage it, perhaps get it re-upolstered (dumb) or put a blanket on it (smart) and then through all the flippy-floppy I started getting excited to shop for a couch again. Is there is sofa out there that looks like that glassy eyed dude from The Vikings? I love him! I bet if he was a couch he could pull out into a bed. And have a wet spot that you’re cool with. And have a rough patch that you can exfoliate on. I think that’s key anyway. Your couch is your raft in the sea of life that you should be able to surf the internet and watch your dumb ass shows on perfect peace and don’t let anyone, least of all some judgmental graffiti tweeter in Portland, tell you what to do. Yes, fuck your couch, and then make it breakfast in the morning.

 

 

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.