Monthly Archives: June 2013

When Bad Things Happen To Stupid People

Isn’t that hilarious how just last week I was talking about how my greatest fear is highway driving and how my car, Precious, hates velocity? True story, scroll down to the last post…AND THEN IT HAPPENED! It turns out Precious doesn’t hate velocity PER SE, she just had some lady part problems. Like her mother, she is middle aged, 7 car years is fair to say prolly equals a 50 year-old drying up bitch with some good years left but with scrapes from an enraged mall parking incident two days before Christmas and a side door dent from another parking lot on a super windy day…and yes, both were my dumb faults for backing into a pole and parking too close to an SUV with those righteous stick family adhesives on the back window, although anyone with common sense knows not to park theirs next to one containing children because parents are too drunk or frazzled to care if the doors swing open too far and hit the next car, can you blame them? Have you ever tried to stuff an arched back wailing toddler into a car seat? Who cares if a middle aged lady Scion XB needs $500 worth of body work? Get that child safely tucked into the Jeep Sahara so you make it home without breaking anyone’s legs. I SO understand, but back then I had the smarts to have a mom-van with sliding doors and you laughed at me, see? Makes sense now, right?

Anyway on Sunday, five of us family member drove up the Don Valley to Newmarket for Father’s Day, and because I hate highways so much, my nephew Arne drove us: He, Me, Freddy, Evangeline, and Sister Sue.

“The clutch is not engaging properly,” Arne said mid-way somewhere beyond the moon. But he always says this, at least since Christmas, I think it’s his tag-line on Grindr.

“What does that that mean?” I ask from the backseat, looking at my eyebrows in the rearview mirror. What is going on with my eyebrows? They used to be so dark and lush and now they are all but gone. I haven’t even been stress-plucking, I think they are just shedding and rotting in my old age. And why did I used to hate my eyebrows so much? They were way better than Angelina Jolie’s supposedly perfect brows, they arched more cleverly and with wry humour that made you think I was laughing at you (and I probably was back then, not anymore). Now I am drawing them back on with a brow pencil. Pain in the ass, sometimes I end up looking like a chola. Or Joan Crawford when I rub the gooey brown junk off. What the hell?

He said nothing and my daughter kept giving me worried glances and then we managed to get to Aurora, except we didn’t know it at the time because who knows where you are on GeoGuessr ? (Seriously click that link after you finish reading this and play the game with Google maps, fun fun fun). Relatively speaking, in case you don’t know the geography, is like if Toronto is Earth, then Newmarket is Mercury, we’re now in Venus, which is basically in the middle of nowhere, and that there was cell phone service was a fucking miracle and how grateful were we when the car finally died safely at the side of the road. And Arne, bless his heart, had the wherewithal to Instagram it. And then call a tow truck.

I, on the other hand, had lost all the saliva in my mouth and production came to a halt. I started to bark.

“What are we going to do? I don’t have CAA! I don’t even have a credit card!” I am so stupid. Pro tip: Do not hide those envelops in the back of your junk drawer, pay the minimum balance each month. You can do it.

Everyone else is all chill, as that is the Peterson nature, I am the Chihuahua of the family, all nervous and neurotic. Don’t worry, blah blah blah, they kept saying and Sister Sue finally placating me with her enviable vacant Mastercard. So we waited for the tow truck and my Other Sister Sandy to pick us up from the side of the road. Other Sister Sandy came almost immediately (or at least as long as it takes to get from Mercury to Venus) and the tow truck driver took his sweeeeeeet time. ಠ╭╮ಠ

That was when we a) got sunburned and b) met Officer Excellent from the OPP who bellied up to our wreckage with his cruiser. His last name was actually Excellent! Is that not awesome? He was the sweetest man, all laughing and cheerful, and he hung out with us until the tow truck arrived. There was a kerfuffle about how would would all travel, squished in my sister’s car or one of us on the tow truck? Officer Excellent would figure out for us. Dude could do anything. Even the Russian mafia tow truck driver was enchanted by his charm (“That is the nicest OPP officer I ever met!” in thick Russian accent) but alas, he had a hooker in the passenger seat and yes, she was definitely a working girl with her feet up on the dashboard and one of her tacky pink gladiator sandals was hanging on the rearview mirror, I am not even kidding, so he didn’t have room for one of us. We begged Officer Excellent to give us a ride but “that wouldn’t be safe” instead it was A-okay with him for all us all piling all sardine-like in the back of Other Sister’s sedan-type car, “Godspeed!” he said as he whizzed away in his blue OPP Excellentmobile. Adorable. Sigh.

Aaaaaand the Russian mafia tow truck bill came to $270.71.

Pro Tip: When your car breaks down on the highway, THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU CALL CAA and join on the spot and enjoy a free tow from a driver who probably enjoys his hookers AFTER his shift. These are the things that stupid people learn after the fact. Because everybody with a car of a certain age should have roadside insurance. Holy shit, most people with only a brain stem know that. Why don’t people tell us head-in-the-sand-types that you can actually join when your car breaks down? Well I am now, and you’re welcome. ****UPDATE: Apparently the old dude at the gym was WRONG, membership is activated 24 hours after initial sign up for new membership, so that was $270.71 well spent after all.

The next day, my beloved mechanic Mike, took a look at the car and the obvious was true: Burnt out clutch. He called me no less than 3 times that day and the next while he was fixing it and said: “Kristeeeeeen, why do drive a standard transmission? I think you should have an automatic, blah blah blah!”

He was clutch shaming me to the point of tears. Clutched shamed and horrified that my stupid veiny long-toed feet caused $850 worth of damage, I actually did cry and have a massive meltdown. What the hell? The car is 7 years old and needs a new clutch, that doesn’t seem too crazy, or does it? So I googled and found out that NORMAL people, not just the stupid ones, burn out their clutches. (Also confession: I have done it before on the Mini Cooper but maintain it was a faulty, piece of shit car because it was only a year old and everything else broke on it within the first year. Fuck those BMW crooks).

But nonetheless I cried and cried all that night and was talked off the ledge by my fellow blog friend, Erin. The clutch shaming was too much for my fragile ego. It was an accumulation of the shit storm that has transpired over the last few years. Although everything “bad” that happened, happened because I was a dumb ass. Like for example, even when I went to pick up the car, as I was walking along Eastern, I tripped and fell on both knees, shattering my dainty, dollar store quality crepitated knee caps and scraping both shins. You know those types of road burn wounds take forever to heal. Betty the dog won’t leave me alone, she thinks the scabs are raw bacon bits, licky, licky, licky (tickles, I kind of like it, gross I know). If I wasn’t wearing stupid flip flops, it probably wouldn’t have happened. So now I am wearing Birkenstocks, which is almost as ridiculous but the soles are hard and less slippery. A stupid bitch can actually learn a lesson once in awhile.

Also back to the important issues like my eyebrows. Pro tip: I found the eyebrow kit from Benefit, it’s way better than a pencil because you brush it on all feathery so it looks like hairs, not a sharpie marker line. If I didn’t have the internet for things like that, I would be spending at least $850 in 7 years having my brows groomed by the professionals at the Brow House, so by that estimation, who cares about a little old clutch? Honestly, get a grip, Peterson, these are all just first world problems.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: This Charming Man. Tags: Benefit eyeshadow, CAA, chola brows, eyebrows, manual transmissions, roadside insurance. 4 Comments

Jun. ’13

How To Tell Someone They Are Making A Huge Mistake

Wow, I feel like I haven’t blogarrhea’d out a post in eons, not because I’ve been lazy…okay, maybe a tiny bit lazy, Freddy and I are power-watching, or Bluthing, all 4 seasons of Arrested Development before he goes away for the summer. But I have also been busy flying my broomstick in the west end of the city. I’m going to have to change the title of this site to “my toronto WHEEEE”…you know the “EH” stands for “east hoods,” right? It’s not that bovine Canadian colloquialism, “eh” that every patriotic hoser uptalks at the end of every sentence whether it is a question or not, because I never do that….eh?

Anyway, I have a job in the west end and more on that later, I signed a confidentiality agreement that I read as assiduously as an Apple licensing agreement when downloading the latest version of iTunes,in other words not a single word of it passed through my retinas, so I don’t want to blab about it too much in case I say something that taints the orange halo. When I say “west end,” I am not talking about twee Trinity Bellwoods, half-gentrified Parkdale, or that contrived, trendy, boring dump, Liberty Village. My new job is in deep, dark Etobicoke! Do you know how long it took me to learn how to spell it? So many syllables, where do put the emphasis? For those of you out-of-towners who read me, you say it like: uh-TOE-buh-COH…the K is silent, like all good k’s should be. Etobicoke is the stomping grounds of our mayor, Rob Ford, and where I work, dollars for donuts, he will walk in one day for a weed whacker or a propane tank and I am going to just DIE star-struck. I mean it, the more shenanigans the mayor gets into, the more I love him and I love him more intensely each day as he is such an amazing gaping goatse of an asshole, but in an entertaining way. So delete me or whatever.

I thought I hated the west end and it would be a drag to get there because in my old age I have developed a fear of highway driving. Every time I’m on a highway, I keep thinking my mind is going to snap and I will spazz out and steer my golf cart into a giant truck. That’s another thing, my little first generation Scion XB drives like a toy car and velocity is not its thing, so when Precious gets to the highway speeds, there is a definite sensation that her wheels are going to pop off, especially when she hits those thrill bumps at Humber Bay. So I take the Lakeshore/Queensway and I love it. I am a mellow city driver and stop lights don’t get me down and time is my bitch, I like to waste it doing the most mundane things like sitting in traffic. Also I have discovered all kinds of cute stores and restaurants along the way, like THE CHEESE BOUTIQUE off of South Kingsway. My sister told me about this place, it’s rooms full of cheese, chocolate, and pepperoni. It’s like a culinary museum where everything is for sale and melts in your mouth.

It’s a whole new world for me and fuck knows I need a change, you can set your watch by my east end activities. I am super-stoked about my job. I get to wear steel toe safety boots, so I found a cute pink pair at Mark’s. gonna put the “ho” in Home Depot. There you go. The other day when I was walking to the training room from the paint department, which is going to be my beat, I got all choked up and teary eyed, not because I was sad but because I was so overwhelmed with a relief and gratitude. Weird, right? Everyone there is so nice, I’m just not used it. I’m used to being invisible. Even the training has been fun. Don’t you just hate being in a conference room with out a bunch of motley strangers and then being forced to do that thing where they go around the room and everyone has to say their name and tell something about themselves…like what? I have nothing to say about me, ironically, and I live in absolute fear of these types of situations. I hate saying my name out loud and always have the impulse to say my name is Ginger. At The Home Depot, which I can’t stop habitually pronouncing “DEE-poe,” as “duh-POE” emphasis on the last syllable, they find it funny and my unbridled enthusiasm charming. Instead of circle jerk introductions, we partnered up, cracked open a box of Smarties, chose 3 colours each, and asked each other 3 questions from the board which matched each colour. Important inquiries such as what is your favourite tv show and what would you do if you won the lottery? Then we got to introduce our partner and tell everyone what we learned about him/her. This was genius because in less than 10 minutes and with just 3 questions, I got my partner, George’s, entire life story including his phone number. I am going to rock this job.

Also there is a Bier Market next door which is one of the better chain restaurants. After my third(!) and final interview last week, I met Jesus there for a pint. Not THAT Jesus, MY JESUS, JESUS OF THE JUNCTION, the name of my screen play, don’t steal it. This Jesus has always got something going on, he needs me for “free” therapy which costs him a minimum of 2 pints, sometimes 3…or when he is completely needy then we have 4. Trust me, it’s a bargain, he is such a hot mess. He is 43 and dating a 20-something-year-old like he is entitled even though he barely has a job, you know the type. He lives in his married sister’s basement for free but babysits her kids whenever she needs him. This is a pretty awesome set-up because when they are at school, he spends all his time at the gym or the tattoo parlour getting his ink touched up. He does have the most beautiful mermaid tattoo on his forearm that I am jelly of except that she is wearing a seashell bra, I would have had her sans bra but with strategically placed flowing hair, or not. Who cares about a nip slip on a tattoo? It’s so badass. But Jesus does because he doesn’t want to “shock his mama.” That is just so hilarious.

He can’t sit on a patio in the sun because one of his arms, the non-mermaid one is freshly scabbing over with blue and red flakes of skin. It’s some big mess based upon the “Red Wedding” from “Game of Thrones.” Gross. So we sit inside at the bar on the only nice day of the summer so far. Whatevs, I actually care about the weather. The sun is bullshit anyway, I like this whacky cold summer. But let’s get right into Jesus’s problem du jour.

Jesus’s younger brother, Hector, is getting married at the end of the month. It turns out EVERYBODY, family and friends, hates the guts of his fiancee. She is a “conniving cunt,” his words, and is after him for his business which is a fish market, The Fish Monger’s Cunt, name of the next screen play, don’t steal it. He went on a big rampage about her that we don’t need to repeat but suffice to say, this is one of those women that give bitches a bad name.

Jesus asks: Should somebody tell him, before he gets married, that we all hate her? Or do we just let it happen and watch the inevitable train wreck?

What do you think, people?

I am of two minds on this sort of thing, having been in and seen people in destructive relationships. On one hand, you can’t tell someone NOT to be with someone because they won’t listen and they will resent you.”Love” makes people not just blind, but deaf AND with the judgement of a drunken teenager. Ages ago I used to be in a circle of couple friends (“couplings” *barf* I know) where the dude was funny, smart, and handsome but his wife was this super-ugly, chinless, pear-shaped militant vegetarian twat with no humour or redeeming qualities whatsoever, and yet I was the only one who vehemently hated her. I am convinced the others in the group just put up with her because the guy was so nice, but no, they seemed to actually like her. I had to scratch it up to one of those mysteries of life where I am the outsider and everyone else is in the Twilight Zone. But when EVERYONE hates the person, that is meaningful and maybe someone should say something. If you don’t, then some day, maybe not next year, but in two or three, Hector will wake up from his oxytocin fog and look at the woman he married and shriek whilst biting off his arm: “WHY THE HELL DIDN’T SOMEONE WARN ME I MARRIED A COW?”

I think it’s up to Jesus, the best man.

So the burning question is: How do you tell someone they are about to make a huge Bluth-style mistake?

1. The passive aggressive approach. You tell a story as though it is an Aesop Fable and you hope the person understands it is about them. Like Jesus could watch Arrested Development with Hector, specifically an episode that depicts Michael’s disdain for George Michael’s homely girlfriend, Anne, and he could turn to his brother and say something LOL-like: “This show is so much like our family, if I were a character, I would be Michael and if you were a character, you would be George Michael.” And then hope he gets it. But he won’t, because people are stupid. And Jesus is totally GOB anyway, so that point would be moot.

2. Get even more passive aggressive. Send him an anonymous note like: YOUR FIANCEE IS A COW, DON’T MARRY HER. SIGNED, A FRIEND. This will probably never work. People believe anonymous notes are written by embittered cat ladies or hermit men who have enough equipment in their sheds to build bombs. BUT! At least it plants a seed in their dumb heads.

3. Tell him gently. Simply say: “Hector, I think you might be rushing into this and if you want to back out, it’s okay.” And you have done your due diligence, although probably far too mild mannered for it to have any impact that when he does end up chewing his arm off, coyote-style, he will completely forget you said anything at all.

4. Just tell him straight up. I am a fan of this one and have been known to point out many loitering, flatulent elephants in any given room. Say it in language he can really understand: “Hector, usted está haciendo un gran error, tu novia es una vaca, todo el mundo le odia.” And there you have it. Brutal honesty is super scary and sometimes you will have diarrhea afterwards but it will be a great relief, trust me.

5. And if you chicken out: Get your friend to work it into a blog post and send him the link, and if he gets past the first 5 bloated paragraphs then he gets the message and if he doesn’t, it is out there forever living in the ethers of the internet where you can access it in 10 years and say: “I TOLD YOU SO!” Oh, and anybody else who knows somebody who is about to make a huge mistake, you can send this as a cautionary tale. You’re welcome.

This is about fixing a broken heart and I am OBSESSED with this video: