Category Archives: an inconvenient truth

The Plight of the Mesomorph and the Oxytocin Haze

Black-Milk-Clothing-Muscle-LeggingsEpiphany of the Week:  Leggings are pants!

I spent faaaaar too long reading some Jezebel article about whether or not leggings are pants and then clicking on the comment section, Holy Christ, you’d think we were talking gun control, but no, gunt control seems to spark the same amount of brouhaha on the internet.

Me personally, I have been on the fence about the whole “leggings as pants” debate for many years.  Leggings were really big in the mid-eighties when I was a cowgirl, riding the range, and wearing them with a black turtleneck, a leather jacket and Doc Martens, actual cowboy boots, or Converse high tops.  They were part of a uniform of an early emo clubster/grunge movement that you could only understand if you were there.  Then in the 90s, I wore them as a pregnant/lactating cow because EXPANSION.

Then in the late 90s some genius at the GAP decided to add lycra into denim and leggings OUT, jeans IN.

So now its 2013 and Lululemon (and its yoga-pants knockoff army) have been around for at least a decade making non-gym going sane people roll their eyes and go: “Can’t people wear real clothes anymore?” I mean, I agree but!  I am a mesomorph body-type with my moon in Gluttonarious and my guiding stars in Slothera and so wearing jeans can be a daily challenge because ZIPPERS.

So this bloated bon vivant mama loves a legging, especially Black Milk ones, but a Lululemon yoga pant, I am SO over. Every woman in every shape, size, age range is wearing head to toe Lulu AND some of so are some of the men.  If I see a dude wearing Lululemon at my gym, I suspect he is gay or his girlfriend/wife bought him an outfit so other women know that he is taken because no straight, single manly man would ever in his right mind would buy himself a “yoga tunic” in a shop in a mall beside Sephora.

Fun anecdote:  Back in 1987 in my nubile years, I moved to the beaches neighbourhood here in Toronto, and I used to visit a store on Queen Street called “Westbeach” where I had a crush on the owner.  His name was Chip and he was a few years older than me which I liked back then because I had big brother issues.  He was like a tall, hunky surfer version of Clark Kent.  I used to flirt wildly with him and he was really kind to me and one day in the summer, he and I rode our bikes downtown to see the movie “Stakeout.”  It was more like a buddy date on his part and he told me that he was probably going to move out west soon because he had a girlfriend there.  Of course he did. He did end up moving and 20 years later founded the company Lululemon, which is hilarious because MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.

Whatevs, if the pheromones had worked out for us and we fell in love the way I had intended, I probably would have told him that yoga pants were for losers and we need to focus on jeans that had drawstrings and side pockets that could hold a six-pack of tall boys. I would have been so wrong and yet so right. The first world would have been a whole different place.  You would probably be out on Tuesday playing bingo instead of practising your sun salutations at your local Downward Dog studio which have become as ubiquitous as nail salons.  I am the worst wife ever.

Anyway, back to the modern time legging debate.  According to the Jezebel article and its commentators, leggings can be considered pants if the fabric is thick enough. Not all leggings are created equal. You do not want the kind of stretchiness that makes the fabric sheer and shiny that you see the ass tattoos, the cottage cheese lumps, or the whale tales.

As for camel toe, these are my thoughts:  I think it is okay AT THE GYM to be wearing leggings/yoga pants where you can see a mound and an EVER SO SLIGHT dolphin lip formation.  However, it is vulgar to be able to count how many slices of cold cuts on each side of the beef curtains.  Although I think men appreciate the display because so many women these days are muscular like dudes that they want to check out if you have a tuck game going on.  Pro tip:  If you are a single lady, you can wear your vacu-seal yoga pants out of the gym and run your errands pretending you didn’t have time to change and probably your local butcher will throw in a dozen free duck eggs to your order.

My gym has a store and on their sale rack, there were a pair of really cool black Puma leggings with a kind of retro 80s constellation print, but I tried them on and my Herculean calves created such a stretch that the entire pattern disappeared and turned white instead.  Ugh!  Less spinning, more yoga for me.  I used to have normal calves and then I became a bike courier, 25 YEARS AGO, and now I have legs like a Scottish rugby player. I once had an argument with a trainer who some sort of convoluted theory based upon Britney Spears, pre-Federline, and according to him, she was the model of female perfection. By his estimation, women could not build bulky muscles like men and Britney was an example of finely tuned ectomorph and she would be a lean machine all her life.  I said:  “Dude, Britney Spears is my mini-me, you just watch that mesomorphic bitch balloon out after she has kids.”  He shook his head like I was crazy.

britney spears before and after

I think we can all agree I was right.



I’ve been dying to slip that gif in somewhere.  Anyway whoa is me and mesomorphic problems, I have to figure out how to iron out muscle while burning fat and so it might be time to consult Gwyneth Paltrow and her goopy friend, Tracy Anderson.  Apparently it is all about working the tiny muscle groups, not the big ones!  Who knew?  I know you are probably an ectomorph and don’t care and I don’t time have time for you either so let’s move on to more pressing matters:

Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together!  I know this is like the worst thing ever and how stupid can a woman be, let’s all go hide under Gloria Steinem’s bed for 72 hours.  But you know what? I am excited, you go pop the corn and I will make the pitcher of Negronis, the official cocktail of relationship disasters, and let’s watch this mess escalate. I don’t care about Rihanna, we have warned her on Twitter and she responded on Instagram holding her blunt up like middle finger, and she is rich unlike some non-famous battered women who are stuck in hell and can’t get out.

Why is Rihanna so stupid?  It’s not her fault!  You can blame it on simple biology, it’s hormones, specifically oxytocin, NOT to be confused with hillbilly heroin, OxyContin. Women make oxytocin when they are pregnant so that they bond with their baby and become nurturing even if she is a cold fish.  It comes in handy because sometimes a baby is a screaming monster and you just want to throw them out the window but you don’t (hopefully!) because some oxytocin-drunk inner voice tells you not to and saves you from going to jail.

Women also make this hormone when they have sex with the same man more than once.  Hence Stupid Rihanna and Chris Brown.  I think we all know personally know a woman who is with some loser dude, who is a drunk or married or both, that we think: “Holy shit, what does she see in that loser?  Doesn’t she see that he is an ugly douche and a liar?”  But no, she is all like, he is so sweet and vulnerable, and I must follow my heart and protect him in my pillowy breasts as the world is such cruel place for such a loving man and together we are beautiful and love is natural and real.  And you just want to slip her the antidote for this oxytocin haze, maybe it’s a few Negronis, and then she will see the light.  An oxytocin-drunk woman never does even with two black eyes.  STELLAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

By the way, men do not produce this hormone, which why they can go righteously planting their seeds left, right, and centre as it is their duty to mankind.  However, a couple of months ago,it was discovered that if you give them oxytocin, like in a nasal spray, you have yourself a loyal human pet.  But you really should ask yourself, do you really want a giant monkey?  Maybe a dog is better.

I’m looking at you, Rihanna.  You know the other day, I saw a picture of Chris Brown and I have come to think that he looks like his family tree might be more like a Mulberry bush, where the branches are entwined and connect at the bottom.  Inbred, is what I’m saying.  He looks like Pepper the Pinhead from American Horror Story Asylum:

chris brown/ pepper pinhead

I can’t wait to see what their babies look like! I am sure she will be an awesome mama exploding with all the oxytocin-induced lactation to feed the entire world!  Love is fucking hilarious.  And leggings are pants, I don’t care what anyone else says.

Another One Bites The Dust

“Two legs!  Check!”  Keep the captions coming.

And here we have another marriage for Sir Paul McCartney.  This one is to some heiress who looks like a Jewish version of Kate Middleton, it all happened so secretly and “classy” this time around.  Money goes a long way when you need to keep things smooth.  She has two lovely legs.  I don’t know her name, you probably don’t either, and there’s no point learning it because chances are something more interesting will come up and Brad and Angelina will finally tie the knot and that will be the quintessential marriage made in heaven.  Apparently, they will get married when everyone can get married, especially the gays.   When Brad and Angelina get married, that means the whole world order will become pure and true.  And when the whole world order becomes pure and true, I am going to marry John Stamos.  Even though he could be gay.  And if that is the case, I will strap it on.

But backtrack to Sir Paul McCartney and Kate Middlestein.  Apparently they had a low-key wedding at the same place he married his first wife Linda.  So it wasn’t cursed.  But what is up with this whole charade?  Why does this marriage even have to happen?  Clearly he is a serial husband, which is the sad sack pussy whipped version of a Bridezilla.  Let’s just call him a Groom-Gimp.  Lock him in a box in the basement and wake him up when the wedding starts.  Don’t feel sorry for him, he likes it like that.  He wrote all the bad sappy Beatles songs that I fast forwarded on the old 8-track.

Those two lovebirds aside, it seems that everyone I know is getting married or hooking up.  This whole marriage thing is more like a death really.  Now you are stuck basically in one spot even though you think you are on some magnificent journey with someone.  Noah’s Ark is boarding for its voyage to the land of deluded, and there’s me in my lawn chair with a blanket on my lap watching y’all trip and hump your way on board.  Let me open up a wine cooler and give you a heads up.  Ladies:  Did you know he is marrying because there is something about you that reminds him of his mother?  And did you know how easily you can be replaced?  If you died, he’d bag your younger doppleganger in months and everyone around it would justify it by saying that your angel spirit guided him to his next bitch.  “She wouldn’t want him to be alone!”  They’d gossip amongst themselves at their Botox parties.    And Men:  She married you because her clock was ticking and her primordial urge to have a baby was inflicted up on you because you looked like you could swing a golf club.  She wants you out of the house more than she wants you in it.  Do you notice how your snoring has moved you into another bedroom?  She actually hates you and every hair on your back but she enjoys talking about you and your perfect life to her friends, especially the one you are having the affair with.  She knows but she doesn’t care.  You kid yourself when you try to hide it but even you know that she knows that you know.  If you died, she’d laugh her way to the bank and buy herself a yacht. 

Stop the pretense!

Fuck the Ark.  Let’s Dance!

Sleepless in Toronto

The first rule of Insomnia Club is do not talk about Insomnia Club.  The second rule is whatever you do when you are tossing and turning in the middle of the night, DO NOT go on Facebook and check out the green dots and see who else is on-line.  But you will anyway.  Third rule, DO NOT start chatting with the green dots, they could be in a different time zone and will not understand your middle of the night psychotic ramblings.  If they are in your time zone, unless they are up waiting for the limo to take them to the airport, they are also insomniacs and you should never fraternize with someone who can’t sleep when you can’t sleep.  The conversation will be pointless and will create even more anxiety and before you know it, you will be cyber-poking each other to death.

The collective energy in the air these days is so angst-ridden, I’m surprised anyone can sleep through what’s going on.  The world has become smaller because we are constantly bombarded with world events and tied to social media like it was an umbilical cord.  Not that long ago,  we would have watched the news on tv at 6 o’clock, clucked and tsk-ed while we had our cocktails, then turned it off and had dinner with our families and chatted about what happened in our day (ok, not really that idyllic, but that’s how it should happen).  Now we are living with a tsunami (and pardon the metaphor) of information during our walking hours.  We all  know what Charlie Sheen is doing right NOW because if we’re not following him on Twitter, the media is and reports all his rantings.  He is the poster child of a modern anxiety disorder.  And we all have an opinion and I have just this to say:  Wait until he wakes up from his sleepless delusions and has to chew off both his arms when he realizes his “goddesses” are merely garden variety mall skanks.  I can hardly wait. 

But how do you deal with all the anxiety?  I asked around and somebody told me B vitamins.  Oh how I laughed.  In earnest, I think the best way has been to practise yoga.  I go on Bikram yoga binges but on the most part I do Hatha yoga at the gym.  Yoga teaches you how to detach which as a concept seems maybe counterintuitive when it comes to honing your self-awareness.  But the fine art of detachment is the best way to deal with those pesky thoughts in the middle of the night that keep you ruminating and obsessing about things that don’t really matter.  Buddha says that attachment is the root of all suffering so yeah, try to free your thoughts and sleep will come.  Eventually.  And stop following Charlie Sheen on Twitter (note to self).

Ezriders: Urban Transportation for Badasses

Last week someone scraped the side of my car in the parking lot of my gym.  He left a note on my windshield with a detailed explanation of the mishap, an apology, a (correct) phone number and an offer to use his BMW dealership to repair my utilitarian Japanese autobox.  At first I thought I was in love but the more I thought about it, the more I realized his benevolence wasn’t sincere, he was probably being watched and aware of the fact there are security cameras on the premises.  And he drives a BMW, stands for Bad Man Walking.  They are fussy German cars and the typical dude who drives one wears those contrived distressed jeans and doesn’t know how to fix things so when he has an emotional problem, his car will feel it and will manifest itself into electronic breakdown so he goes to the dealership, gives his keys to BMW bellhop and orders a cappuccino from receptionist who has big hooters.  And then he will pace in front of her, fiddling with his Blackberry, but never looking at her.  He thinks she thinks he has all the prowess in the world because he can sip foam and text at the same time.  He doesn’t have to acknowledge her, the whiskers in his jeans point the way.  Anyway I left my car at Douchebags R Us on Monday and declined a rental.  Just because I am nice.

So I have been walking everywhere, especially on Queen Street East from my new office at Core Realty.  There are a lot of new stores and restaurants that I haven’t noticed before which I will shop, eat, and tell you about in the future.  But a couple of interesting things I saw today, there’s a lot of mural art in the east end. some of it is the Ralph Thornton Mural Project:

But also some really cool small business have putting up their advertising up in graffiti art form.  This one is Pardon Le Dopeness.  They have a great website, click here to see it, and they sell very cool t shirts :

I love that kind of stuff.  It reminds me of my badass youth before I drove a car everywhere!!!  And the other interesting thing from my walk home today was checking out this store:

ezriders, e-bikes, e-scooters and accessories, 1296 Queen Street East

This place is the answer to urban transportation.  The beauty of these bikes is that you don’t need the insurance (badass) and you don’t need to get a special license, which if you buy a little (douchebaguette) Vespa, is mandatory.  And the prices are not shocking at all.   The one I have my eye on is under $700.  Check them out here, they are having a sale (kickass Christmas present) but you can also rent them by the hour which would make for a great first date for some of you weirdos who don’t have cars yet.  Here’s what they look like:

Take a load off, ezriders, me likey the middle one

The Beginning of the End

Date Night at the CNE

The more things change, the more they remain the same.  The CNE isn’t what it used to be, so I’m told.  There is no free ride and I paid 7 Dollalhares for a hotdog…yes, a hot dog (more on that later).  The bearded lady is gone….or is she?  Maybe she just went to the the Shoppers Bazaar in Building A just right of the Prince’s Gates and got herself a honey ginger hair removal system and now she walks among us, flying her freak flag at half mast.  There is still some pretty good people watching (it’s free and see picture above, zoom in wherever) and there is some good things to eat.  Take my hotdog:  I got it in Building A:  a kobe beef weiner (shhh), with wasabi mayo, Japanese curry, and a hovering of deep fried julienned onions smattered on top.  Seriously, the best hot dog ever.  Seven dollars.  And so what?  I got a foot massage for a quarter and a pair of Doc Martens for 60 bucks, I am so way ahead.  I also had another lunch of a vegetarian Middle East platter  from the actual foode court:

Falafel balls!!!! This one is for Scotty

But the best part, of course is the rides, of which I am too old, too chicken, and too incontinent to partake, but Claire did:

The Scary Drop Zone

I’d rather have a hot dog, same sort of thing.  And another big buddy Budweiser, I’ll be back before it all ends.

Take That, Vampires

True Blood vampire mania

Collective insomnia seems to have taken over the city.  I know I can’t sleep and I can tell by the blue dots on Facebook that there are others out there.  And I blame it all on vampires.  On every celebrity website I troll through in the dark hours of the night, there is something going on with vampires.  There was Twilight (*yawn*) and now the new season of True Blood which I have yet to see but I should because it was created by Alan Ball who also did Six Feet Under, which I loved.  I hate it when I don’t know a show that everyone is talking about, but there is something about vampire mythology that makes my eyes glaze over.  The only vampire related thing that interests me is a bowl of Count Chocula, without the milk because I am back to being lactose intolerant.  I hate that vampires don’t sleep or get old or die, their high maintenance eternal lifestyle must be tedious beyond belief.  And thinking of this is what keeps me up at night:  what if a vampire breaks into my house and sucks my blood and I can’t ever eat Greek foode again?  Or fall asleep to the sound of Anderson Cooper’s voice? Or fulfill my destiny of becoming a crazy old lady in Kensington Market?

I have decided to become pro-active in my quest for sleep and went to visit a shop called Keetsa at 2245 Queen Street East.  Keetsa is a mattress store that sells unique eco-friendly sleep products.  The mattresses are recycled, recyclable, and they use natural ingredients for anti-bacterial benefits.  Cedar and green tea extract keep the mites away.  They also have pillows, toppers, and sheets.  I tried every mattress in the store, and this Goldi-loca loved them all.  They’re firm and with varying degrees of mushiness, depending on your preference.  And the price is actually surprising reasonable, considering you are laying in a rectangle of heaven.  A Queen size starts at $499.  Find out more about them, check out their website here.  I think even a vampire could fall asleep in one of these beds.

Keetsa mattresses at 2245 Queen Street,  phone: 1-877-KEETSA-3

Another Fine Opportunity to Serve Cold Lemonade



I have to admit, I watched ZERO, nada, niets of this World Cup Finale.  I have to say, I just can’t crush on a soccer player.  They are too handsome, it’s unnerving.  It’s like they don’t need me, wearing their Dolce & Gabbana underwear with their perfectly groomed eyebrows, paying surrogates to have their spawn.  A hockey player might need me, with his missing teeth, to cut up his food in baby pieces.  A tennis player might need me to remind him to put on sunscreen and not to scowl or else his face might stay that way.  Even a golfer might need me to iron his Dockers (I’m digging deep here).  So yeah, the whole soccer thing is lost on me, and besides, not enough close ups so I could at least pick up some makeup tips.

As an aside but in a similar vein, my neighbours, The Chore Family, are on holiday so I thought I could sit on my front porch and guiltlessly read my book ( you know, without having to join in on weeding and whatnot)…but no, when Chore Family is away, even the mice are put to task.  I’m sure I saw one mowing the lawn.  And I am The Chosen One designated to water the container plants in the front yard (and maybe the back? uh oh).  Also they have hired people to put on a new roof:

Fixer on the Roof

Now watching roofers do their thing during a heat wave is a thing to behold.  Roofers are hot!  Pun and no pun intended.  But also impressive was that the crew from Fixer on the Roof were meticulous, polite, and made sure that the asphalt shingles they were replaced were promptly cleaned up.  Years ago, when my roof was done, I found random shingle shards like lost Easter eggs, underneath cushions, in the mint plant, even in the mailbox.  Furthermore, Trish, who runs the operation came by to see if her boys were hydrated (should have been my job) and impressed me with her credentials and knowledge of roofing, she even blogs about it!!!    And greenies, they also do solar panels which is definitely something to think about!  Click here for the website for more information and check out the blog.

Let There Be (Incandescent) Light

According to the Mayans, the end of time is scheduled for 2012.  And then what?  All that yoga and Pilates for nothing? Carry on as if you don’t know, I say, something might come up and there will be an extension so it’s good to be prepared.  Besides, the Mayans may have meant to say it’s the end of light and it just got lost in translation.  Last week I was in Ikea looking for cheap and cheerful things to decorate my personal ashram when an announcement came on:  “Incandencent lightbulbs will be phased out by 2012 and LED lights will only be available.”  Seriously, is this more Al Gore buffoonary forced upon us?  Aren’t LED lights like the devil you don’t know?  They are full of mercury.  If you drop one and it breaks, you have to hire a crew wearing Hazmat suits to clean it up and you need to check into a hotel for a few days while they detoxify your house.  Blue LED has been linked to all kinds of health hazards including disturbed sleep and even cancer.  And the lighting is UGLY!!!  I have them in my hallway and the atmosphere feels like a lobby in a cheap resort.  I am stockpiling incandescent lightbulbs from here on in.  They are getting harder to find, they’re certainly not at Ikea.  By the way, I actually had some good luck there with a discontinued chair and an area rug, but not for lighting fixtures which was what I was looking for.  Anyway, how bad can incandescent light bulbs be?  Folklore has it that they can make them so they last forever but they don’t so you have to keep buying more.  Lots of things are like that including time,  so you can’t really begrudge the manufacturers.  If an LED bulb runs out, you have to shlep to a depot that disposes of them safely.  Regular light bulbs you can make crafts out of with the children, check out this delightful reindeer here.    I found the perfect light fixture at my favourite antique shop in Leslieville, Machine Age Modern.  They have a lot of sixties style furniture at pretty good prices:

Machine Age Modern, 1000 Queen Street East at Carlaw

Here is my lamp proudly lit with incandescent bulbs, along with the drapes I HUNG MYSELF with a drill I bought at Loblaws.  Who needs a man anyway?  I am woman, hear me whirrrrr:

And for your viewing pleasure, here is the rest of my personal ashram:

Think Inside the Box

Day One of the Beaches Bikram 30 Day Yoga Challenge begins today.  This is me:  I ALWAYS say I’m NEVER going do another 30 day challenge and yet ALMOST ALWAYS end up doing it.  Never say never, just sumbit, that’s me from now on.  There is something about putting your name up on a board and then placing a sticker beside every day after each class to mark your completion that makes you feel like as successful as a preschooler who did a boom boom in the potty.  So what is it?  It’s doing 30 yoga classes in 30 days (this month of June), click here for details.  Bikram is the hot yoga in case you didn’t know.  Hot yoga in a heat wave falls into the category of fitness paradoxes (like the cardio fatty who sashays blithely on an elliptical machine and gains weight, Oprah and me).  Why would you do hot yoga in the summer?  Because when you get all wretched and sweaty in a hot yoga class, everything else, including being stuck in a traffic jam without air conditioning, seems like a cool breeze on the Riviera.  When doing a 30 day challenge, there is some preparation needed, emotional and otherwise.  A fresh new Sigg bottle, maybe a new outfit, and yoga matt.  A lot of laundry is involved also.  I have discovered Purex mixed with Borax washed in cold water right after class so the sweat stink doesn’t settle is best for keeping things fresh.  Also I do not use a dryer.  Two years ago, my dryer broke and I have been hanging everything ever since.  Not only am I righteous about it as a speaker of preserving the environment but I have noticed that clothes last longer.  And here is where I got my drying rack and Sigg bottle:

Binz at 1934 Queen Street East

Binz is one of those stores that anally retentive people spontaneously burst their butt plugs with glee when they walk into it.  Their motto is:  “Think inside the Box” which is pretty much my thoughts exactly. It is piled with gizmos and gadgets that organize your life and things you didn’t know you need but when you get it, you wonder how lived without it.  My favourite is the spork (above right):  the spoon that is also a fork!  Binz is expanding their store so more things to behold. I’m planning to organize my closets this summer so I will be shopping there for sure, if I get around to it of course.  That 30 day challenge makes me kind of mellow so we’ll see how that project goes, I’ll keep you posted!

My Car, My Self (Fox in Box)


         She parks in beauty, in the parking lot

          I can find her anywhere

          Because she is a box

          And everybody else has a BMW

It doesn’t rhyme but who cares, poetry is poetry.  Today I am inspired because I heard two funny car stories that I wish to share before I blather on with my thoughts on water consumption.  First story:  there was a realtor tale about a lady who knows a lady (no seriously, I know the lady and it was in the ladies locker room so it must be true)…anyway the lady-realtor took these clients out to show some houses IN HER BRAND NEW BMW and her clients were not so jazzed by what she showed them but they asked the realtor if they could make a pit stop: “Do you mind if we pick something up before you drop us off at home?”  Not at all, the realtor agreed.  The clients came back with a Christmas Tree!  She drove them home and never heard from them again….she picked needles out one by one, but her car was pine fresh for years afterwards!  She never told her husband.

Second story:  I am at my third laser hair removal session this afternoon….in goggles and hacking up a storm is the technician with the laser gun, zip zip zapping away, telling me the story of her weekend (it’s Wednesday) and how she just came back from Vegas yesterday and she hadn’t slept the whole time… zip zapppp (I could feel it in the base of my skull!) and she is only at my toes.  She says:  “At one point we were drinking in the elevator at 9 in the morning and we ran into this guy who wanted to shoot his gun in the desert so we went in his Hummer and he had $5000 of ammo so we thought we should text my brother his license plate in case he was a murderer so when we looked at his car the plate said: PSKOTIC!”  Oh how she laughed, zip zapp zapping her gun up my leg ….Seriously, whatever happens in Vegas should stay there because it’s not so funny when you are stone cold sober and all you are wearing is a towel and a Marie Claire magazine.  And she was chewing an OXO cube as a lozenge because it was the only thing that would soothe her throat.  I guess I was in Vegas by proxy and I shouldn’t have shared that but you know me.

Back to my other Box:

So, I’ve been reading that kiddie version of  “An Inconvenient Truth” from the last post…okay, I’m looking at the pictures…but water, water water!  I think it’s best to conserve it.  It’s Spring and you and your hose are spraying everything….try not to think of it as an extension of your penis.  Do you know it’s actually more eco-friendly to visit a car wash?  I like the one at Leslie and Eastern, it’s got a Subway attached!  If that’s not a big phallic fantasy, I don’t know what is!