Category Archives: dumb things

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 Pulling Your Head Out of the Sand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Procrastination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THIS IS HOW TO PROCRASTINATE, BITCHES #GOODTIMES.

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Intent

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Happy new year, motherfuckahhhs! I’m jealous of all of you who have managed to strip down your Christmas trees and drag them out to the curb. I have no heart for this type of deconstruction, me and Christmas go together like booze and more booze. WHEN ELSE CAN YOU GET AWAY WITH BAILEYS IN YOUR MORNING COFFEE EXCEPT DURING ORGY WEEK? Don’t answer that, I know at least two of you who think “Orgy Week” is just a state of mind and not the days and nights of gluttony, fapping, and tv binge-watching from December 26 to January 1. This might be the better way of thinking, instead of all this self-deprivation resolution gym/diet shite that only leads to self-loathing by mid-January.

One of my friends on the Facebook posted a New Year’s greeting that last year at this time, she set an “intent” for each and every day and is now, a year later, reaping the rewards. I’m earnestly (yes!)  happy for her and I think we should all take a page from her book (or I think she might even have a blog more constructive than this one) so I’ll try and interpret what is the crux  intention. I am a self-proclaimed armchair Buddhist with my moon rising in the fundamental teachings of Jesus, so my heart in almost the right place, bear with me.  I think “intent” means she is going through life mindfully and with purpose, rather than trudging through the cornfields like bewildered space aliens thinking we have some place better to be. Cornfields, fuck, I’m never going to get over last year. See, I, personally,  have to mindfully intend to move forward, NOT think about the past. So I’m going to list some intentions that I found in an old Oprah magazine I breezed through at a walk-in clinic, UTI’s, yo, what a bitch….Remember, intentions are not to be confused resolutions because those are for amateurs.

1. Live in the present. I don’t really know what that means either, aren’t we always living in the now?  Now I am writing a blog post, there’s an Uncle Smoke chicken pot pie in the oven, I am way too excited to eat. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to 45 minutes from now? I don’t think so, maybe I should revel in the anticipation? Also I have to pee. I’ll go pee, wash my hands, come back. I always intend to wash my hands but I never do. It’s true, my friend JHo always says I’m the fastest pee-er but I’m not really, I just don’t want to waste time washing hands. THESE ARE PRECIOUS SECONDS I WILL NEVER GET BACK. So many things in the present (like handwashing) are just so boring I don’t want to do them. How can I possibly live in the moment when the moment is so fucking time consuming? Isn’t while I’m doing Amish chores like scrubbing the pots and pans, where I get to mull over the past and those particularly poignant moments where I have been hard done by, the place where I can work myself up into a rage that I actually don’t need steel wool, I can scrape all the burnt grease off with my emotional bile and chewed off fingernails? THIS IS GOING TO BE SO HARD. Also, I fret over the future, you know this about me. Hold my hand, please.

2. Keep a gratitude journal. What’s that? Oprah is such a task master. Everyday write 10 things you a grateful for and the gods of Disney fairy princesses will bestow you with all the luck in the world plus an abundance of cash money, fame, and all the hot fucks so your genitals will explode like an A-bomb that will actually create all the love the world needs to end hunger and war. I think we’ve gone over this before like last year, me with my eyerolling and you with your leather bound notebook from the Japanese paper store. Show me your diary now. I thought so.  You didn’t even bother to write in it, that’s okay though, I like the way you draw anime porn. Personally, as your poor man’s Oprah, I think you should just be in a permanent state of gratefulness, fuck writing this quackery down in list form because you’re sure as shit not going to be rewarded for it. You should make gratitude (and humility while we’re at it)  your default attitude. But don’t be a dick and expect anything out of your newfound lease on life because that’s not how it works. Also I think gratitude journals are the gateway to becoming cripplingly superstitious which is just plain unmindful. True story: I know of a man who drives with one hand on the wheel and the other hand massaging the  crucifix around his neck as he mutters his thanks to Jesus of how he is grateful for his healthy crotch spawn, who in is mind are the second and third coming of Messiah-palooza, whilst interspurtantly  he yells obscenities at other innocent drivers, who by the way, are obeying the rules of the road, all the while safe in the confines of his American-made gas guzzling SUV, windows rolled up. Mastering the art of gratitude is going to take more than writing in a journal, it’s going to take an ass kicking. We can hold each other’s hair back while we barf out our egos. Gratitude comes from the deep bile hole which contains this poison:

3. Judgy-wudgy-itis. To paraphrase the true second coming, Oprah, stop judging other people so goddamn much. Yes, we are all going to laugh at the follies of the crack couple who thought they were trapped in a locked closet and pooped in it FOR DAYS  because that is just natural selection. I still think it’s okay to hate on the buffoonery of the Bieber, and we can write in our gratitude journals how grateful we are that he has been more or less quiet lately and how the gods of social media were on the ball when he lost all those Instagram followers in the master cleanse of 2014. If ridiculous didn’t exist then where would comedy be? BUT! Can’t we let people express themselves who they are, how they self-identify, dress ,or create artistic content if they are not hurting anyone? Aren’t we all in this world together, like aliens in the cornfield, and we should look out for each other? Or simply just leave each other the fuck alone…maybe I did learn something from last year. It’s just such a hard road sometimes. Sigh, fap, lather, rinse, repeat.

Okay, I just ate the pot pie and feel the happiness of satiation which leads me to my own intent for 2015 and I hope Oprah feels the same way:

Stay fat, bitches! There’s so much to do with that waffle iron you got for Christmas, it’s crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Internet Kinksters United

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So I deleted my OkCupid account…okay “suspended” it, it’s currently hibernating like big giant grizzly bear waiting for Spring. Just so you know, during the last couple of months I was on there to “make new friends” which is legit option on the site, it’s not just dating and whatnot. Randomly, serendipitously, miraculously, and mathematically, in August I found my Great White Whale and he’s a keeper. He understands and even embraces my Myers-Briggs ESFP personality quirks: That insatiable need to deep sea dive into the bowels of the internet for all the fucked up crazy-ass antics that people hide in their day-to-day lives. The internet is not just for deep fried ramen noodle recipes, IT IS A FREAK SHOW WHERE THEY ALL COME OUT AND PLAY 24/7. I love it so.

Anyway, back tracking a few weeks ago, one of my family members sent me a barrage of Facebook messages about how my blog was inappropriate for human consumption and my gross sex life should be kept to myself and reminded me that I have children and I should be ashamed, would I talk about such things at the dinner table  and I’ll never get a job and blah blah blah. AND YET! if you can take a week off work and manage to scroll through an hour’s worth of her inane Facebook postings, you will find it littered with Kim Kardashian’s (awesome I must say) oily ass, a reposting of Jian Ghomeshi status declaring his penchant for hard-core BDSM amid all the bitstrip cartoons (no judgement but really?)…so a porn star and a dickhead misogynist, their agenda she sees as A-OK newsfeed fun and yet my cute story of shopping for sensual aids at the Shoppers Drug Mart IN THE SAME AISLE AS BEN-GAY AND DISNEY PRINCESS NIGHT LIGHTS brings shame to the family and doom to my future. I mean, seriously. Like I care. I’m a middle-aged woman with a propensity to unapologetically over-share in a blog that as a grown-ass adult reader, you can choose to read OR NOT.

In any case, I became silenced (but only temporarily, ROAR) out of shame because I am sensitive like that. And I also deleted my beloved OkCupid account because it just became tiresome, like going to the same fucking gym for 17 years and all the fantastic step classes from yesteryear have been replaced by boring ass body sculpt classes THAT DON’T DO SHIT, DON’T KID YOURSELVES. I don’t know where that analogy rant came from but you know what I mean. I have become desensitized by all the internet kink that maybe should just go back to participating in Facebook commentary, Twitterrhea, and Instagram buffoonery. SIGH.

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Kink. Let’s over-share.

I might be “out there” yapdoodling about embarrassing things, but on the grey scale of kinky, where Jian Ghomeshi is leather strap black, I am like a soft heather grey sweatshirt, you know the kind of faux- retro white flecked fleece they have at Forever 21. I am what they call vanilla, more or less. I have one little “kink” and thanks to the other over-sharers on the internet, I found out I am not alone. I have an ear fetish. Not your ears, don’t be sending me your ape-like lug hole pics, my own ears. I like having my ears fiddled with, even when the doctor does things to them. I had an ear infection over the summer and as a result, my left ear drum became punctured by the excess pus fluid…YES, TRUE STORY, contrary to urban legend, I did not jab a shish kebob stick in there, I SWEAR. Consequently, I’ve had to go to the hospital to have a mini hoover stuck in my ear to suck out all the  goo to keep it dry. The doctor is hoping that in time, the hole heals itself, so I can avoid surgery. I, on the other hand, am hoping this goes on forever. I get dressed up for these appointments. For one thing, can the intern be any cuter? And for another, I am in heaven with a hose in my ear canal. He barely has to flip the switch and my toes are curling, my eyes are rolling in back of my head. Last time, though, I had a different intern, a little Asian dude who did NOT get me at all. His hose technique was awkward, it kept falling out, he kept apologizing (DON’T! Shut up! Just stick the fucking thing in!) and gingerly had to placed  it back in mid-suck, so it actually hurt, and it was a big letdown. And at the end, when I demanded to see what splooged up in the Kleenex, he was reluctant and actually said: “Why? Do you have a fetish or something?” OF COURSE I HAVE A FETISH, WTF? WHY ELSE AM I WEARING FISHNET STOCKINGS IN A HOSPITAL?  Oh my God.

The internet satisfies my kink by giving me YouTube of people having their ears cleaned. You know how on every city block we have Vietnamese nail salons? Well in Vietnam they have ear cleaning salons by delicate ladies fastidiously digging away at ear canals using long, sharp, pointy instruments. Are you kidding? I am dying, DYING to go to Vietnam. In other parts of the world, they have men do this also on the roadsides and beaches, that I am not so sure about participating, but I’d like to go and watch. Holy shit, this:

RIGHT? If you watched that and got a chub then you and I are going to be really good friends.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My very first encounter with an Internet Kinkster happened innocently enough through the on-line Scrabble games. At first the site just matched you up with whoever but the people began to state their preferences for chatting or not. It took about half a minute for the fetish crowd to catch on. One day I clicked on some guy from the U.K.’s game and he messaged me: “Before we start the game, did you read my profile?” I hadn’t but went back and saw he wrote this: “Oxford student, looking for ladies of all ages. Your flatulence is my pleasure.”

This was even before meme culture gave us this:

dafuq-did-i-just-read-meme

But that pretty much nailed my reaction. But dive deep is what I do and I needed to  poke this weirdo with a spear and see what kind of creature he really was.

Me: “Yes, that’s cool, let’s play.”  I plunk down the first word.

He: “Can you describe one of your farts?” He promptly plays a good word I haven’t heard of but I am too lazy to look up and learn something new.

He is an Oxford student after all. He must be smart. he moves fast so he’s probably not cheating like I am.

Me: “This one I just had seeped deeply into the couch.” I stole that line from an old roommate when we used to watch tv and drink Diet Coke all night, she was positively poetic. This is going to be fun, I think, as I put down a decent word on the board. Scrabblecheat. com, holla.

He: “Delightful! How did it feel?” *plays “Q” on triple point* Yikes, he has a good vocabulary and can strategize.

Me: “Fucking amazing, like dynamic power of a leaf blower mixed with sweet relief of a cool breeze on a hot day.” Whatever. I plunk down all my letters in a lame place for a bonus 50, thank god because I’m already 100 points behind.

He: “Oh my God, what did it smell like?” He changed his letters and passed a turn. I never do this. I am impressed when people do. Isn’t it better to play a crummy 3-letter word than no word at all?

Me: “A very rich hunk of triple cream Danish Blue with a high note of hard boiled quail eggs.” I have nothing but low quality vowels and play “aioli.” Ridiculous.

I feel like I can hear him giggling in an out of control  British hyena accent from all the way across the Atlantic. This has to be a joke.

He: “You are an angel, my dear, straight from the heavens. Would you open your bottom on my face and let Polly out of prison?”  He plays an “X” on a double triple point.  Aaargh. I have 3 U’s.

And I think to myself: Okay, do I need a special dictionary to play with this dude? Who or what Polly out of prison does he mean? (and btw, it’s a euphemism for farting, thank you, Urban Dictionary, without you I’d probably be doing something useful like learning Spanish)  MOST IMPORTANTLY: HOW ON EARTH DOES HE EXPECT ME TO SIT ON HIS FACE FROM A BILLION MILES AWAY?

I decided to just ignore the chat and keep playing, I am gaining momentum in the game and I love a Scrabble challenge more than anything. Except having my ears fiddled with, lol. So when I didn’t respond after the next turn, dude deleted the game. At first I thought WHAT AN ASSHOLE but now years later, several million hours spent scrolling through the sea of lemon parties, goatsees, and scatpaloozas, I have a whole new respect an admiration for the early pioneers of the internet, putting their kinks and fetishes out there, hoping for a kindred spirit to fart on their face or whatever. I think about that young Oxford gentleman from time to time, especially after a bean burrito, and wonder if he ever found his Polly. I hope so because if there is one thing I learned from the Wild World of the Webs is that there is a lid for every pot. And a bunch of toys too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Winged Eye Liner

 

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June is my favourite month. It has its laundry list of problems though and here are some:

Mystery air fluff that makes you sneeze, mystery tree goo that turns your car into a caramelized apple, glaring white cellulite splattered with teeny weeny blue spider veins on your upper thighs, the compulsive need to go and sit on a patio and drink $80 cocktails, maggots in the kitchen compost, the conundrum of what to wear underneath a skirt if it isn’t long johns, having to go buy new Birkenstocks because you stepped in dog shit last October and your old ones are still underneath the rotting wicker love seat on your front porch, buying your first watermelon because ’tis the season and it is heartbreakingly and disappointingly flavourless (probably because it came from a truck along with those gross white GMO strawberries), sweaty bra smegma, that plantar wart you got in the winter from not wearing flip flops in the steam room is no longer a cute little friend and needs to be lanced otherwise you can’t get a pedicure OR YOU WILL BE TREATED LIKE A LEPER AT 5 STAR NAILS and you absolutely one hundred percent need one if you insist upon wearing those fug-ass Birkenstocks all summer… AND the list goes on.

I’ve been having some health issues recently which I will not burden you with except for the fact that I am quite possibly DYING OF BOREDOM on top of it all.

“Only boring people get bored,” says Dr. Phil when he is yelling at an insolent teenager on one of his shows.

It’s fucking true. I am so boring, it’s like a disease. I am a human Birkenstock. Today, Freddy, my parents, and I went to a mall to actually buy “Baby’s First Birkenstocks” as is our Spring tradition. Baby is 18 now and going off to be a counsellor at camp for the summer as is his destiny and needs to wear giant ass cork paddles on his feet because that is what they all the kids wear. I realize I am in my glory in sensible shoe shops. Yo, I picked up a Croc in “Soft Mocs” and said out loud to no one in particular, “I need this shoe in a size 10.” IT HAPPENED TO ME. I didn’t get them as a sense of shame took over but! These Crocs had a jute wedge, a leather strap upper body with a faux-Burberry underlining. They were genius.

Don’t put my on the ice floe just yet as I am still enjoying my food.

Used to be that June brought on the promise of summer flings, that patio promise of becoming social again, wearing a summer dress and upskirting accidentally on purpose a pair of  neon pink lacy underwear underneath (that is what you wear in the summer FYI) especially after a winter of eating melted parmesan cheese biscuits with your boyfriend, Netflix. But then of course, “Orange is the New Black” came out in the beginning of June, stalling us all.

Anatomy of a Binge Watch, an ode to #OITNB, no spoilers ahead:

Day One: Watch the first episode…huh…what happened to Lori Petty and why does she look 100 years old? IMDB her and she is the same age as me, holy shit. Watch 4 more episodes that day. Order pizza, drink wine, fall asleep during episode 5.

Day Two: Wake up early to move car because tenants are having a yard sale and maybe I can put out some stuff, too, make a few bucks. BUT! First rewatch episode 4 (too drunk to remember) and definitely episode 5, watch also 6, 7, and 8, drinking coffee. Holy shit, it’s noon…too late to yard sale. Feeling a bit of ants in the pants, like no wonder I am suffering from Boredom-itis, I have just watched 4 straight hours of TV. I watch two more episodes. Eat a crumpet with jam and smear it all over the laptop keyboard and sneeze a bit of it all over the screen, it’s a sign. I decide to go to Shoppers Drug Mart and get BB cream because a) I can’t get Lori Petty’s wretched face off my mind  b) I need a raison d’être to get out of the house. The tenants are still having their yard sale. They made much money and sold a giant ass tv to the local crazy and I missed the whole transaction. I buy a pair of red converse because they are in my size and I feel like Cinderella whenever I find random shoes that fit, is that just me? I wear the Converse and go the Shoppers, buy a BB cream and yet another liquid eyeliner because I still hold on to hope. Have we talked about winged eyeliner yet or have I just been thinking about it obsessively all this time?

This:

It’s still Day Two: Go home, I HAVE 3 EPISODES OF “ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK” LEFT. Evangeline is 4 episodes behind me and she is watching it on the main tv. I hunker down with her, re-running half heartedly, and practise my liquid eyeliner skills. Why is it so goddamn hard? I am an artist-type and I cannot master this. Do you notice Red from OITNB wears her eyeliner kind of in the crease in a strange way? I look this up on “reddit r/makeupaddiction” and there is an entire forum discussing the entire cast’s hair and makeup. It’s all Dolce & Gabbana and not actual windowsill soot and Kool-Aid which goes to show you. I hope they made Lori Petty look haggard on purpose because help me, I really hope my BB cream works. Also I need to wear lipstick, my mother keeps telling me. I WATCH THE LAST 3 EPISODES ON MY LAPTOP CLUTCHING MY EYELINER.

I need to watch the whole thing again but more slowly this time.

A scrolling of scrotum. What?

One of my closest friends is newly single and has been looking on dating websites to see what it’s about and is laughing her head off so at least there’s someone who is amused.  Every morning I wake up to a daily email of match dot com eligible bachelors for me, Smiles Pattycake (don’t ask) to choose from. I am not actually registered on this site because they want money and just kill me if I start paying for this, they just send me a scroll full of teasers so that I will join because these dudes are so hot. The other day, my ex-neighbour showed up, the Lillipution divorced sad sack who hired hookers on Friday nights and then moved to a condo with his dog that he was truly in love with, so much so that he fucking wrote about him in his profile. He also had his list of criteria for the perfect woman, including her height and hair colour and AGE. He and all the other middle-aged lumpen moobacious (self-described as “athletic and toned”) men in his age range are looking for women 10 years younger or more, ie. BREEDERS. I have been monitoring my match dot com dick list for over a year and the same inventory of losers show up in different formations so they don’t think I won’t notice I am getting the dregs of mankind. Here’s a tip, DingleDouche69, YOU WILL NEVER FIND LOVE WITH YOUR LIST OF CRITERIA, GO GET SOME SUSHI AND STIFF YOUR FINGERS AND CALL IT A DAY.

I thought I would die of boredom but instead I think I am going to die of despair. I need to unsubscribe from such things.

It’s World Cup Fever. There are lots of men to be found and yet no men who are interested even if you are wearing no underwear, never mind neon pink ones.

Seriously, if you want to find a bunch of dumb men, go to any sports bar right this moment. They are all huddled around talking about World Cup Soccer like they know what the fuck is happening. The other day I heard two men talking for what seemed to be the entire season 2 of OITNB about how the ball rolled off one guy’s shoulder and landed in the net like it was some strategic-inspired miracle of the holy Gods instead of dumb luck based on the wind and the goal tender having fluff in his eyes.  Ugh. So. Boring.

Although fun fact I learned today: The team from Netherlands wears orange jerseys because it’s the royal colour. That is all. Okay, I’m going to practise my winged eye liner now, and wait for this boredom to blow over and maybe see what else is on Netflix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tale of the Invisible Lady

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I’ve been gone from the Bloglands for a month for a number of reasons, have you even noticed? I have been kind cheating on you with Yelp, I’ve been getting my rocks off there because there is a live audience. Last week I got a “Review of the Week” which is like getting an Oscar in the context of mass internet drivel. When this happens, you get messages all day from total strangers who send you accolades in the form of virtual “badges.” For this honour, you are chosen based upon your “FUC” rating. Unbeknownst to me, because until last week I didn’t understand Yelp and its convoluted game plan, my FUC rating (Funny Useful Cool) was high in relation to having only 12 reviews, which are just shorter versions of this blog because it’s all about ME, ME, ME and that $3 donut I just ate and yelped was just a collateral subject. So anyway, I’ve been yelping rather than blogging because like a lab rat, I work for rewards, even if they are full of shit.

Also something has been happening that I wasn’t going to tell you about because it is so awful and I hate it so much and I am full turmoil and shame and misdirected anger and general rage. It’s actually not funny at all.

I am drying up.

The last time I had hosted my tender lady time, Santa was in town. That’s 4 months ago! There is no upside to this, if you’re thinking that at least my underwear is stain-free. They aren’t. I go through at least 3 pairs a day in urinary seepage. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

At first I thought I was having a lot of drunk sweats. You know that hangover feel when your body wants to sweat out the poisons and replenish with grease? Well it was happening all the time. I went “on the wagon” whatever that means, just to be sure, and yes, okay some of these episodes were probably drunk sweats but some of them were not. THEY ARE MOTHERFUCKING HOT FLASHES! Fuck my life. I thought escape this fate and I would be invincible and now I have to deal with the harrowing disappointment that I am not. And by the way, being on the wagon is really boring and I still have insomnia and I’m more bloated than ever, what the fuck?

Here is what is bullshit: I can deal with the hot flashes. In fact, they amuse me. You’re out there in the world, minding your business and suddenly, from deep inside, your core starts to heat up, like from zero to inferno in one second. THIS IS HOW I SURVIVED THE POLAR VORTEX, BITCHES. I can deal with this, just breathe and it will pass. Even though I feel like running out into traffic, it’s okay. But what kind of evolutionary joke is going on when you feel like your innards are having a caloric pig roast, and yet nothing is actually burning? In fact, you are gaining weight, right through where all the heat is happening, comes the dreaded middle-pudge menopausal swell. Gone is that precise waist-hip ratio that when men look at you, they overtly want to plant their magical seeds inside you because subliminally they think that somehow you will be a good mother. I don’t really get it either, but it’s a fertility law that we must respect. Your waist is supposed to be smaller than your hips but these trolling hot flashes are making your waist explode like a tin of Jiffy Pop Popcorn. I’M ON FIRE, I SHOULD ACTUALLY BE MELTING! It’s fucked up is what it is. Nature is an asshole.

Breathe.

AND THEN THERE IS THIS DICK:
johnny-depp-300What the ever loving fuck is this? Am I the only one around here who sees this fool for the pathetic loser he is? “Oh, Johnny Depp, can you believe he’s 50? He’s so hot!” YOU ARE DELUDED! He looks every bit 50 and then some. He looks like he’s been rotting in the bottom of the ocean and then slapped on pancake and a costume from “Death in Venice” with Indiana Jones’ hat (WTF?)  to take his bovine trophy snatch to some function so everyone will see he has a hole with a proper waist-hip ratio where he can plant his creepy seeds. Fuck him.

Breathe.

 

I had an epiphany about the phenomenon of middle aged men and their tendency to dump you for a younger woman just when you think you have it all going on: The kids are in college and you can do some traveling, maybe buy condo in Florida, take up golf. But that goes all tits up because he “has a right to change his mind!” When it happens, you think it’s your fault because you’ve succumbed to the aging process and he wants someone younger and hotter. And then after a while and thousands of dollars in therapy, you run into them at Starbucks one day and you are shocked to see a) she might be young but she’s actually not that hot (Telly Savales in a wig!) and b) she’s pregnant, what the fuck? He had a vasectomy 20 years ago right after you gave birth to Spencer or whatever name was popular back then and he vowed he didn’t want any more kids, no way, no how, even though you could have squeezed out another despite the fact your waist hip ratio was already showing serious signs of inversion.

It’s not that he want a younger woman PER SE, it’s that he wants another breeder. Biology wins. It’s menopause for men! I wish it had an ugly name of its own because it deserves one. Dickopause or something. Men AGE and they go through hormonal changes as they AGE because they AGE and get all estrogeny and soft and pillowy and girly and feminine and slopey shouldered and the moobs! Why, they are ripe for lactation!  Probably some primal signal in their AGING brains gets all desperate and maternal, like a 35 year old woman does with her achey breaky ovaries. Old fucking men don’t even think of the consequences, oh no:  Quick! Spread the rancid spunk around before death comes, who cares if the teachers call you grandpa in the schoolyard and you’ll be in a walker at your precious loin spawn’s high school graduation: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE and you got to keep on splooging. Ugh, fucking gross.

Breathe.

This theory does explain whatever is happening with George Clooney. He has been okay by me until recent news, I like the way he’s aged gracefully and even the way he had serial beards (no judgement) or whatever and said he would never get married because it kept hope alive, that you or me might be the game changer, assuming he isn’t gay. AND THEN he gets engaged after dating some smug lawyer for two minutes whose name looks like “Anal” in the tabloid headlines and we, as a collective force, are never going to remember it. She’s supposed to be some kind of star lawyer (eye roll) who represented Julian Assange. How do you have time lawyering celebrities when it looks like you spend all your waking hours managing your uni-brow and then somehow get to “date” and lube George Clooney up for marriage in the time it takes most people to scroll through a day’s worth of Dlisted? I hate her, I don’t care what you say, and already I told you I’m filled with irrational rage. Suddenly this Anal is the game changer?  She is the 36 year-old with a ticking time clock and he is the 53 year-old spawn bomb. This isn’t love, it’s biology and disaster. Fuck him and Johnny Depp.

Breathe.

I have high hopes for Zac Efron. He’s soooo cute! *sucks self into a pair of Spanks*

That lady on the left looks much better from the back. That makes me sad that I just said that, I AM SUCH A BITCH.

N0UVRUm