Category Archives: go girl

Mastering the Art of Being a Passive Aggressive Ghost According to Adele

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HALLOO FROM THE OTHER SIDE!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Adele as much as y’all but someone please help me get that ear worm out of my noodle bowl. Also I belt it out all the goddamn waking hours of the day AND IN THE EQUIVALENT OF CAPS BUT IN ACTUAL NOISE and I forget I am committing a crime against humanity when I sing out loud.  Also I need to tell you I hate the lyrics to this song. Normally I don’t pay any attention to what singers sing except for maybe Morrissey because he is me and I am him, all happy in the misery in the haze of any given drunken hour but! I have a feminist daughter who is in a band with two other young women (don’t call them a “girl band” tho! )  and is all about empowerment of the female voice. She’s okay with these Adele lyrics but I will defend my case later. She is not okay with Robin Thicke, obv. This is a good story for the usual preamble tangent I’ve been known to take you on:

The other night she and I went to our gym’s Christmas party. We drank a bunch of wine and ate some turkey buffet, saw some prowling peeps we haven’t seen since last party on the same mission as every year. It’s an annual event worth partaking for sure. Good times. After dessert and some low noted fart seepage, I could have ended it right there and Ubered home to blast some big trumpet tunes in my sweat pants but there was an actual live band that came on. ‘Twas this configuration:  3 ripe middle-aged dudes in fitted dress shirts, unbuttoned just so and wearing those kind of jeans with bleached out whiskers around the crotch area, you know what I mean. Like none of you boys is Tom Jones so you have to visually fake a bulge by implying one exists the same way a Kardashian has to fake a contour with ten pounds of slap along the nose and jaw line. And but of course, they played “Blurred Lines” maybe the second song in and everybody rushed up to the dance floor. This kind of shameless spectacle fills me with an unsettling mix of intense embarrassment and pure voyeuristic delight, I love it so, so I puckered up my sphincter for more festivities. Young and old, the gym folk, who all clean up remarkably well by the way, were gyrating as awkwardly as those vapid topless supermodels in the video.

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT.

Well, well, well, you could see a beehive of bees buzzing in the bonnet of my righteous daughter, who by the way just turned 22, happy birthday, my baby.

This her shouting while we were sitting at our otherwise abandoned table underneath one of the deafening speakers:

“Why the fuck are they paying this song? I’m so mad! It’s basically saying promoting violence against women!”

Huff, huff, puff, puff, blow the house down, she went on:

“The lyrics: ‘Tried to domesticate you!’ Ugh! Of course you fucking dickhead!” Steam coming out of her ears.

Who listens to these things this closely? Then she said something about something being “so big it can rip your ass in two.” I am so old now, I’m hard of hearing but that sounds like good times to me. But I let her have the floor.

Turns out there’s a million things she pointed out against the lyrics of this douche ditty but you cannot fault it on its catchy tune, right? But no, she put on a deep prick voice and even made a mockery of the cute “hey, hey, hey” chorus. I love that part! “Hey hey hey!” I used to croon in my room, whipping my crumb encrusted bra off at the end of the night, as a slave to its commanding presence as the ear worm of the summer of 2013. Also because of this song I can partially answer the age-old existential question: When a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe a subtle noise… just because sound travels and echoes and whatnot, but! When a tree is dancing alone half-naked, is she visible?  If her room is brightly lit and it’s night and the blinds are see-through, I think for absolute sure, she can be seen by the unknown passerbys under the soft dewy glow of the moon. And she obviously has problems.

Anyway, as soon as the band took a break (they played resort reggae! LOL: “One Love” holy god), she marched up to them and gave them a piece of her mind, ripped them each a new one with her searing asshole blasting rhetoric. That’s power, sisters. I was far away, I didn’t hear the exchange but one of them looked like slightly scared albeit dismissive and she came back to the table all mad as fuck. “This is a losing battle,” she yelled. I think we got more drinks, this night wasn’t over yet. Then shortly after, the band guy with the least amount of whiskers on his jeans came to our table (which at first I thought was nice) and said: “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to what you had to say, I have two daughters myself… blahhhhhh, blah,blah,” Oh yes, righteous dude, play the your-precious-jism-spawned-a-female-child card, and then his words started to melt into a bunch of dumb man gibberish about how he *pounds chest* has to make a living and therefore must play the songs that the people want to hear. Maybe a valid point but I’m pretty sure dude has a day job as an electrician or something. This gig just feeds his “soul” aka banana-in-his-pants-ego. Plus the people were just as happy to sway along to their white man reggae abomination as anything else. Bob Marley never offered anything but a big doob and an honest bone in his single bed, which was prolly only half chub and wasted, can’t be complaining about his lyrics being degrading to women. And please do not ruin Bob Marley for me and nit pick through his catalogue and send me something like “skanky woman” means something terrible, nobody understands what he is singing about anyway.

So anyway, I’m proud of my daughter for speaking out against the douchebaggery messages we have to put up with in the mainstream music and entertainment industry. She has her mother’s moxy! I don’t know what that word means either, but it sounds very Barbara Stanwyck-y, my role model, google her if you’re too young to know who she is. And she is the opposite of passive aggressive. She is just aggressive, period. Which I love! Passive aggressive people should stick to their own kind and play their games in their own leagues because I cannot deal.

Which brings me to Adele’s “Hello” lyrics. Again, I don’t generally care what people are singing about unless they’re funny. I hate funny songs, comedy belongs elsewhere not in my car radio or my ear worm salads. I only like angst ridden lyrics which seems to be most songs anyway, and definitely all Adele songs, duh. And here is “Hello,” and pay attention to the last line:

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I ain’t done much healing
Hello, can you hear me
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

There’s such a difference between us
And a million miles

Hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

Hello, how are you
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened

It’s no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time

So hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

“But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore” THAT!!!

WHAT THE FUCK???  Has this ever happened to you? Someone assumes how you’re feeling or what you’re up to and they state it like it’s a fact. They call and leave a message and they say something presumptuous like “oh, you’re probably out having an awesome time with all the beautiful people at some rooftop hotel pool party drinking absinthe or having sex with the hot guy from the gym” or whatever, of which none apply. You missed the call because your phone slipped into the couch cushions while you are watching “Portlandia” in your sweat pants , drinking leftover Pabst that some Tinder ape left the last time you actually had sex 3 car washes ago. That’s how I keep track of time these days, by car washes. I’m stretching them out now, letting the rain take over, so the proverbial toilet roll, time’s other metaphoric unit of measure, slows down because fuck!  It’s a slippery sleigh ride to the ice floe, isn’t it?

And it’s possibly the worst when someone who dumped…oh, hang on, no they goddamned ghosted you because let’s face it, that’s how Team Passive Aggressive rolls, calls you up after 12 car washes, 164 rolls of toilet paper….In fact they wait the entire time it take you to get over them down to the last square, somehow their spidey senses know  you’re finally done, so they swoop back in: “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, I hope you’re well, blah blah, let’s meet for a drink, I miss you and your little dog!” And before you know it, you’re in love with them again, because you had a weak moment where you convinced yourself they were probably just going through some inner turmoil that had nothing to do with you. Bitch, please, their “inner turmoil” was just their dick pointing in a different direction.

“I must have called you a thousand times”….oh really??? A thousand fucking times? How so? Because I have call display, and if you had tried to call that many times, I would have blocked your ass. Oh, I never seem to be home? If you’re calling me on my landline you know for a fact I never answer that phone! Somebody’s pants are on fire here. And if you had any moxy at all, you would show up at my doorstep and brought me a fucking bucket of Popeye’s thigh meat because you know I love that shit and you wouldn’t be writing an annoying zillion dollar platinum zinger hit song for everyone else on earth to hear oh, what an amazing singer you are and how goddamn faux-sorry you are. BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU.

Anyway, I hate these lyrics, they are the anthem of every passive aggressive fuck boy and the only reason they are daughter-approved is because it’s sung by a woman. “She’s the one who broke the heart,” she said in defence, like it’s a good thing, which admittedly it kind of is. But why is she trying to claw her way back in then? It just means her passive aggressive dick is inside out. And also, why would anyone call a thousand times and not just send a text? That’s a more civilized approach to getting back in contact with someone you feel bad that you fucked over. Still, it’s a good tune and Adele is awesome and I wish I could master that winged eyeliner game once and for all. HALLOO!

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of the Olds

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I loved the article last week in the NYTimes by Dominique Browning about being too old for certain shit and not even caring if you are too old for it. And definitely giving zero fucks if some slightly younger bitch who is still bothering to pull out her rogue grey pubes gets all haughty and says: “Don’t say “old,” say “wise,” BECAUSE OLD IS A BAD WORD AND MAKES US ALL UNCOMFORTABLE.

It shouldn’t though. Old is an empowering word. Young is for amateurs. Old  is the new black, trust. Everyone is rocking it. I just got a solid case of the olds recently and I don’t completely hate it and neither should you. Stick with me, I’ll take you under my soft downy wing and show you the way, don’t be scared.

Last week at Loblaws,  I ran into this woman I know from the gym. We haven’t seen each other since the heyday of Lululemon active wear, right before Chip Wilson  opened his big douchey mouth and made those of us who want to take a stand against  the Donald Trump of yoga turn elsewhere for our camel toe game. So yeah, we haven’t seen each other in 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 years, who knows, as you know, time flies whatever your age is….however long ago it was, she looked amaaaazing. She’s about 5 years younger than me in her mid-to-late forties and her hair was all blown out and her face all smooth and Botoxed. Okay, relax, I’m not being mean, I’m saying this because I know the injectables and my bae Botox just makes you look rested and not like you’re up all night playing on-line Scrabble with an internet troll in a different time zone, drinking vodka, and bouncing off the walls, trying to find a flattering angle for your titties to Snapchat. She looked super fit, like in her prime hotness. AND LIKE SHE’S BEEN GOING TO THE GYM EVERYDAY.  Shit. So this was the conversation:

Me: “Hi!!! How are you?”

She: “Great! How are you? Are you still going to the gym?”

Me: “Yes! Well…. no…actually. Yes, I do go and walk in the door  but since they started moving things around for the renovations, I can’t figure it out, so I just flail around the hallway and then go drink beer.”

She (nodding): “Yeah, that spinning room in the squash court is kind of brutal.”

OBVIOUSLY SHE KNOWS THIS BECAUSE SHE ACTUALLY DOES THE CLASSES. I have only heard about this makeshift spinning room in a squash court but I’m waiting for it to come back when they’re done with this reno. I hate change and I’m too old for bright lights.

Me (upper body collapsing on my glutenous white carb laden grocery cart):  “I just let the menopause hit, I didn’t bother reading that Suzanne Somers book. Estogen Shmestrogen. I don’t care anymore….”

She looked at me incredulously like I was a frog on a highway and she and her pert antioxidant-filled shopping cart scuttled away before we could talk about how our kids were doing. I had a case of the olds and she was not going to catch it. No, she’s going to run from it. And probably train for a Tough Mudder along the way. Ha ha, the joke’s on her, there’s nothing more ageing than doing some archaic strenuous shit squinting in the sun. “You choose the face or the body,” said the grand old bitch Catherine Deneuve, who wisely chose the face, knowing that the thickened middle pudge is practical for holding Netflix on the laptop and trays of snacks and cans of beers or whatever.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE, THE OLDS ARE COMING FOR YOU, TOO! I wanted to warn her but best let her find out for herself. Cue the theme song from Jaws.

So yeah, she will get the olds in due time and there’s not much she can do about it. But like all of life’s curve balls, it’s how you flail your bat at them that counts. I’m not even sure that’t the right metaphor but you know what I mean. At some point she will tire of fighting with her glorious hair and  it will start looking all fantastically witchy when the silvers start winning. She will also finally get that postal feeling of irascible rage over the song “Footloose” and stop spinning all together like I did. Then finally, by the light of the giant harvest moon in 2019 she will burn all her Lululemons in a giant bonfire and she will yell; “I’M OLD AS FUCK AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE!” And we will embrace her in our old-as-fuck community by getting our Botox on because we are never to old for botulism injectables.

It’s all good. Here’s a random list of things I’m too old for, let me know yours:

  • Snapchat
  • Grown ass adults having birthday parties. Unless the booze is free.
  • Having to continuously re-download the annoying Kik app for a D pic because a certain type of Tinder dude is too paranoid about his precious package to send by old-fashioned text message. Having said that, the last one was worth it.
  • Winged eyeliner…reluctantly 😦 but it’s just too much work.
  • Yelling at customer service phone representatives like a toddler as though the world owes me HBO and faster internet for free. I am NOT going to become one of those cantankerous cane-tapping old bats who get their way only because they are about to die on an ice floe unbeknownst to them. Instead I will always use my freakishly girlish phone sex voice in order to get free stuff.
  • Thongs

And like the NY Times article says, just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you can’t embrace new things and make new friends. Also things you shouldn’t have to apologize for because you’re old as fuck, here’s my list:

  • Lipstick, especially those bold colours from the 80s that only Gwen Stefani gets away with. I know the olds come with those vertical lines that can make a mess of things but! Fuck it. Also I have discovered those 8-hour BJ-proof-stay-on formulas like Kat Von D’s Everlasting from Sephora, caveat: You have to paint it on carefully with a super steady hand so get rid of last night’s martini shakes by having good morning Caesar BUT! Once you get it on and let it dry, you can eat a gooey delicious croque madame sandwich and your lips will stay intact. Oh, also: I put this shit on in public because I’m too old to care.
  • Cheetos
  • Long Island iced tea, let’s bring these back in style, mama needs to howl at the moon again.
  • Tinder. Where has this app been all my life? This is the dating app for those who don’t have time or the life skills for meaningful relationships and base their attraction solely on a few photos and a couple of sentences. Me: Boobs, Soft downy wings, Sandwich maker, OCD hair twirler, Boobs…Looking for  a D for my V. How concise is that? The boys in the photos are all flying through the air on bungees, parachutes, and trampolines. Catch me if you can, bitches, they seem to be saying. Swipe left and it’s nope, you can fly off the cliff and die, dude; Swipe right, and yes, we can totally bone if you can hold still for a second. Of course, nothing has come of this for old as fuck moi because everyone on this has severe ADD and they expect you to stop what you’re doing RIGHT NOW and come over PRONTO. I need witty banter for lubrication and Tinder boys can’t take light repartee, unless you’re asking them what their favourite boneage position is, they’re like, “you’re wasting my time, lady” and off into they go into ether on their roller blades or pogo sticks. Whatevs, like I care. Maybe I am too old for this, but I’m waiting patiently to catch the great white whale.  Also I get a cheap little thrill when there is a match which means both of us swiped right! This is destiny at work! Then I plan the mock wedding:
  • Dumb bridal shows, like “Say Yes to the Dress.” This is my Friday night guilty pleasure slash porn. Back cleavage makes me gleeful. I don’t know why.
  • Your dad, please have him call me.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being Fierce (STFU, Steve Harvey)

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I had an epiphany the other day that I think you would groove to but I forgot what it was, so maybe if I babble a bit it will come back. I really should write these things down. In the meantime, this is Rogue. I don’t know shit about X-Men, I have a vagina, but I came upon her by either happenstance or providence, depending on whether or not you believe in fate or just dumb luck. Whatever the case, you know the way the universe surprises you sometimes and sends something your way as a spiritual sherpa? I KNOW, so Oprahesque, like she used to say on her show about how the signs of guidance present themselves, let me paraphrase in my “own” way: At first it comes as a “whisper” of a stomach growl, then a low-noted fart, an SBD perhaps, followed higher pitched one, maybe a bit wet sounding, and if you ignore those then suddenly you might have to change your underwear, AND this is the warning: if you keep going like that you’ll have to get a colostomy bag at some point. Pay attention to the cues. Oprah is talking about important life decisions where you need to bail before the shit storm, like finally dumping that dude who kicks your dog and sells your used panties on eBay so he can buy his other girlfriend breast implants. Yes, I know that’s more of a Dr. Phil challenge but whatevs.

I’m talking about my hair.

It’s gotten kind of long and there are silvers pouring in at the temples. You prolly call them grey but they’re not. They’re blindingly shiny, fyi, grey doesn’t glisten like Swarovski crystals in the winter sun, so fuck you. But still, I’m like, ugh, should I dye my hair or what? Is it such a crime to age? Then last week, a random dude so sweet (and omg so hot, I could just squeeze the cute out of him and bottle all the juice and sell THAT crack on eBay) showed me a picture of Rogue from the X-Men with her silver crown of mojo and I’m like, FIERCE! WHY WOULD I EVER COVER MY SUPERPOWERS?

Then I googled up Rogue because if I ever get in to Cosplay (lol, just jokes…I think) I’m going to need to know who she is. I felt so drawn to her, like we are soul sisters. She has auburn hair with silvers, I have auburn hair with silvers. And the boobs, obvi. Her Wikipedia page is more prolix than my brain can handle, I am used to reading rehashed Jezebel articles. But! In essence, She’s a mutant who considers her power a curse. What?! I’m a mutant fo’ sho! And my “power,” and I’m using that term loosely, which is my charming writing style is full of shit, too! The blogarrhea, a blessing and a burden at the same time. This thing gets me in a whole whack of trouble yet for the select few who love to read it, I can’t stop writing it, it’s out of my control, #longhairdontcare. Rogue’s power is too, but hers is poignant. She’s so sensitive that when she touches you with her skin, she will suck all the memory and force out of you. Unwittingly! So she has to cover herself up in that tight titty suit so she doesn’t fuck anything up with her boyfriend, Gambit (is he hot? I don’t know. If I had to hit a superhero, it would be The Silver Surfer. He is a Fantastic Four, do they hang with X-Men? Jesus, am I actually asking this question?) and disempower him, you know, like regular women do when they dress their husbands in Lululemon and take them to farmer’s markets. She could kill you if she touched you long enough with her skin, so I guess blowjobs are out of the question :(. That’s so sad, to have have such limited intimacy,don’t you think?  And yet think of some people whose hands you’d be dying to shake with an ungloved vice grip. What a pleasure it is to meet you, Bieber!

So anyway, I’m going take a page from Rogue’s book and let my silver streak freak flag fly, that settles that dilemma. It is for my wisdom, my wit and my willingness to share my stories so you have something to read for 5 minutes, until something better comes on your newsfeed, that I am a valuable and powerful woman in today’s society. And the boobs, dem cartoon torpedoes, if left to their own free will, might flop around willy nilly and be riddled with crazy blue veins but harnessed in a bra and if you squint a bit, they can make you believe I could probably fly and double tittedly fight off all the evil in the world and possibly lower gas prices or at the very least, if not that, bobble around merrily in a hot tub and give you a bit of a chub even just thinking about them. That is some decent power, I’ll use it, somehow, some day. *chews anxiously on a strand of hair*

OH YES! The epiphany I had! I just remembered. Not really an epiphany but a stolen idea from my daughter’s Facebook page. She’s 21 and a feminist. If you are worried by the state of the future based on what the hashtaggery of duckface selfie cuture, do not fret, there is a whole new generation of young women strutting their way into the world questioning everything, including beauty ideals and gender roles, taking back the slut shaming, et cetera. My body, my rules, is their mantra. And by the way, The Book of Rules and all that shit that spouts out of Steve Harvey’s mouth about how women have to act like lady from the golden age of girdles and put men in a holding pattern of blue ball limbo for a set period of time, is a crockful of bukkake. A man who is waiting 3 months to pet your precious pussy is getting it somewhere else and you congratulations, fool, you have just trained him pee outside. Metaphorically-ish.

Aaaanyway, Evangeline posted a video…okay, it’s a TedTalks, I KNOW, but it’s only 12 minutes and it’s very inspiring, of Erika Lust, a Swedish woman who made a porn movie from a woman’s point of view that doesn’t depict women as inflatable Barbie dolls, objectified only for men’s pleasure. Why not make some badass porn films with some hot plots that appeal to women? I know for menfolk, the plots are superfluous but whatever, I myself like a warmup. Even my sex fantasies have to have a prelude that’s so drawn out, I get slightly bored and antsy, here is a typical one: “Let’s go for a hot chocolate at that place in the Distillery but first I have to pick up a package at Purolator, you wanna wait in the car? It’s probably that Thing I ordered off Amazon.” And then all this activity must go down before we drive to Cherry Beach and bone in the tall grass. Seriously.

So yeah, women-powered porn. Plots. Veins and stretch marks. 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Hozier soundtrack. BBC. Tongue game. THIS IS COULD BE MY CALLING! Let’s do this!

4brW8tf

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Conjuring Up Bone (OkCupid Edition)

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Okay my furry friends and cuddling comrades, I finally got a job last week which I’m not going to tell you about at all EVER. We know what mayhem happens when one blogs about work, I am the social media poster child of What Happens At Work Should Not Be Blogged About Because We At The Dusty Box Have No Sense Of Humour Whatsoever. One week in and I have so many juicy little nuggets that I’m busting to talk about, so stay tuned, they might slip out disguised as fictional characters.

Also I am on Week 3 of my adventures on OkCupid. I am still completely obsessed, my hermit lifestyle is in peril. Last post, for the new arrivals take note: if you want to  scroll down further, we went over some tips on how the menfolk should woo a lady on-line. I am very so pleased at how many Cupid dudes took the time to read my blog, even though they had another option. They have all been so very nice and gentlemanly. I love them all! Their ethereal boners and their solid dick pics mean a lot to me. And especially the poetry.

Lately, however,  most of my Cupid time is spent scrolling through the other women’s profiles. It’s smart marketing to check the competition, am I right?

There’s zillions of them and their pictures are all so promising, there are a Costco-load hot of MILFs out there, but! what is up with their written profiles?  AM I THE ONLY ONE AROUND HERE INTERESTED HAVING SEX? Aren’t every single one of these women suffering from a post-divorce, post-cougar-rampage dry spell? Their profiles are so boring, how do they expect some dude on his laptop in his underwear, scratching his balls, to respond? Even the chick with the whip lists her “loving family and her great friends” as her things she cannot live without. Maybe she ties them up? That is what your audience is hoping for, just so you know, they do not give a fuck about your Friday night yoga class or that you read some fucking book, I cannot even be bother to think of a title, it’s so boring.

Most of these women are doomed to be future cat ladies. It’s true. Seriously, tell me what you would think of someone who answered the following question:

What are you doing with your life?

 I AM LOVING MY LIFE AND LIVING IT TO ITS FULLEST!

What the ever loving fuck does that even mean? 9 out of 10 women have that response in their profile AND YET somewhere else if you scroll down, they will inevitably say they enjoy “jazz, cooking, and really good wine”….REALLY GOOD WINE…really, sister? I am so on to you. Admit you have a box of L’ Ambiance white plonk in your fridge, and by cooking you mean you put a brie wheel in the oven and the only jazz you are listening to is the riff in the opening credits of Sex and the City that your watching on your laptop in your stained yoga pants.

The real tragedy is that the wine guzzling househag you really are would be way more fun to date than the pretentious twat you portray yourself in your  profile. If you said, for example, that on your typical Friday you are consuming an entire brie wheel to yourself, do you know how many men would be lining up in your in-box , scratching to get in? They will come in droves. Men love cheese, and ladies, let’s stand together and forget all these man vegans who actually righteously fill that in on their profile eating habits. Digressing a bit, can you imagine actually boning a man who is a strict vegan? I feel like his peenie would like a little sprite sprig that would take way too much effort to spew out a tiny shot of bitter green fluid, barf. Swipe these dudes to the left, move them along. No sister, you want the pussy-eating cheese loving A-team in your box.

Oh wait, let’s scroll down your profile, you actually don’t want that. No hook-ups. You and your vagine are far too precious for casual bone, you know that’s a penis in a polo shirt. No “casual” sex for you. You are looking for a “long-term relationship.” On the internet, no less, and yet you have the colossal nerve to dismiss a perfectly good dude based on your criteria which is:

HE IS NOT TALL ENOUGH!

I hate women like this, and I know so very many who are barely over 5 feet and yet they insist on going out with men who over 6 feet. Tall men love diminutive chicks because they make them manlier. THINK OF THE BLOOD FLOW THO!  It takes a long time for the Mississippi to go from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. This is why short men are better, they have blood gushing every which way, it’s instant boner erectus, even if you just tap their shoulder for a half a second. You know there will be a time, after your ridiculous 3 month dating rule, when you will finally have to put out for your giant internet trophy to stick his dick in you, and you will be all like, what the fuck? when he can’t get it up and it’s because he’s stuck in Tennessee, his navel had a hernia waiting for you, and that’s all because you gave him blue balls with your ridiculous rules. This may have been the worst metaphor I’ve ever made but my point is maybe stop with your strict criteria. Short men are as hot, if not hotter, they often have that arrogant personality that is really important when you are a submissive (me). Just saying.

I just don’t get what is wrong with casting a wide net when you are looking for dudes on-line. Why not check the “casual sex” box on your profile? I know every dumb ass stupid man thinks this means you are a hooker doing pro bono work on a Tuesday night, as if. Direct them to  Craigslist then. I learned this one the hard way, I thought the guy was joking when he said COME OVER at 7 a.m on a weekday morning. So I entertained him as I got ready for work. By the way, I’m one of those people that has to allow leisure time in the morning rather than sleeping until the last minute, that’s just me, I am a big proponent of the morning wood project. Note to self: I should mention this in my profile along with my prowess at logrolling. Anyway that dude actually thought I was coming over for a nooner (I take the blame entirely for that because I thought why not? as I was trying to put on that wretched winged eyeliner I still have yet to master, so frustrating!)…so when I didn’t actually show up, he was seriously mad! Apparently I wasted his time as an unemployed self-employed person. Yes, fap fap fap, sorry you skipped a fap, there’s always the afternoon fap you can make up for, fap fap fap. Too bad, he was kind of a cute weirdo, with a soft furry head like puppy. Sigh.

What is casual sex anyway? It’s the sex you have on the couch while watching tv. That’s my definition anyway. It means you may or may not put out after the first date, possibly the second, maybe the third, likely the fourth, pretty much a sure thing after the fifth but without some weird idea that we are exclusive and heading for some boneheaded delusion of long-term hit-my-head-with-a-frying-pan commitment. And I want to go on dates with different dudes. Why am I the only female animal who wants to be in the dinghy beside the proverbial Noah’s Ark? Catching the rogue lions and bears who fall off the boat, no giraffes for me though, they’re just too goddamn tall.

You know where my in-box is, call me.

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being a Mistress

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I’m so bored this summer I could totally bone your husband but RELAX I won’t, I’m also way too lazy to put in the work. I’m living vicariously through a friend who is newly single and is finding her mojo everywhere her usual daily grind takes her: She sends me photos from dudes and chicks on the street she finds hot: PANTY CREAMER ALERT! A cop on a horse! A MILF-type in the park with wind in her hair! SHE IS ON FIRE WITH LUST IN HER LOINS and I am drowning in my own morning wasted panty sludge. If I stick close to her, I can get some of her contact mojo, maybe.

She’s having some great epic sexting with a married man. I’ve had a few of those myself, whatevs, usually ends with some lunchbag letdown Skype session where all I can do is obsess about finding my good angle when scrunching my bra down. I AM THE WORST SEXTER EVER, a real boner killer, trust. But my friend has it all going on and it’s like they are both writing Harold Robbins revival novel. I still love my Harold Robbins and learned every trick I need to know from The Lonely Lady and The Carpet Baggers. I might be bad at sexting but I’m good at holding my breath with water in my mouth and you’d have to take me a porterhouse steak dinner to find out what that’s all about. Call me.

I feel like I could teach a course at the Learning Annex: How to Be the Post-Modern Madame Pompadour and Live Your Dreams. Even though I am a failure at love and all relationships in general, I have observed y’all doing the mating rituals like zoo animals with no regard of any superfluous and confining nuptial agreements. I have many case studies even though I have no clue whatsoever how the male mind works, I know the ladies and I have seen your mistakes aplenty. Take notes:

1. The first and most important hard and fast rule when embarking on this mistress lifestyle is: DO NOT GET ATTACHED TO THE OUTCOME. In fact this is the most important rule of life, it’s the Buddhist credo. It goes for playing a game of tennis to buying a house to the mastering the art of mistressing. You more or less just have to live in the now and not get hung up on the fact that at some point, somebody is going to get hurt real bad. Spoiler alert: It won’t be him.

2. Rationalize that his wife is a murdering shrew and you are saving him from a life of disparaging henpecking and of course, celibacy because they haven’t had sex in months or years. This is probably actually true by the way. I will never forget how last month I was at St. Louis Bar and Grill and I watched a husband and wife having wings and beers and he was blithely chowing down and she was staring at him, not eating, just staring with hatred of a raccoon stuck in an empty garbage bin, you could actually see a cartoon thought bubble appear over her head and in capital Comic Sans: I HATE THE WAY YOU CHEW! I SWEAR TO GOD I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON THAT DRUMSTICK AND I WILL MAKE GODDAMN SURE I WILL FAKE A HEIMLICH ON YOU, SO DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!  

It was palpable. And you really had to feel sorry for the dude and at one point, he and I locked eyes for the last second, his gaze pleaded “Help Me.” And after when they finished and he walked by my table, I made the finger in the hole hand gesture which he probably mistook for me mocking him which I guess I was because fuck him and his chewing chicken wings with his mouth open and licking his fingers, ugh. Anyway, you can have him, he’s probably ripe for Mistress 101.

3. Prepare yourself for loads of free time. Once this mistressing thing starts to happen, even during the sexting foreplay phase, these married dudes have a habit of disappearing for days at a time. One minute you’re sending hot sexy messages (whilst you are watching Netflix of course) and the next minute, nothing. It’s like your phone has died but it hasn’t because later you get a message from your best friend who is having a crisis and you ignore her because sexting comes first. But you end up watching two episodes of Hannibal and he still hasn’t responded so that was a waste. GET USED TO THIS SPOOKED HORSE, SISTER, AND DON’T EVER IGNORE YOUR FRIEND BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED HER TO GLUE YOUR DUMB ASS HEART BACK TOGETHER BECAUSE YOU FORGOT RULE NUMBER ONE.

4. Have you ever watched Roger Federer play tennis when he was at the top of his game and even at this year’s Wimbledon match? No? Well dude is in control, it’s like he loses the first few games on purpose to make his opponent think he is the one dominating. And then, after his rival is too tired to be all cocky, he knows how to place that ball so his opponent will have to scamper across the court to return it like a passed out drunkard. Take a page from Roger’s book, this is what you have to do as a Master of Mistressing. Make him feel like a boss in the beginning so he can maintain reasonable boner erectus AND THEN hit him cross court with some wack-a-doodle drop shot that makes him remember not to chew with his mouth full.

5. You have to compliment him on his penis. I KNOW! They are all the same to me, too. You have to make his seem special and they all are, yes indeed. To have a penis is like having a puppy around all the time. I wish I had one. A puppy, I mean.

6. Time management is tricky with some of these men. What is up with a grown middle age man who claims to have only a window of time or has to wait for his wife for whatever? Dudes: Why can’t just say “I’m going to Banana Republic to check the sales” and then take your sweet time about it? And then HOURS later come home and say they didn’t have any 34 Long in those stupid Dawson fit that makes your ass look boxy? Mistress, you are going to have to teach him to lie without his pants actually setting fire. And make switch him over to slim fit Aidens because you can. You have the power.

7. Ignore your friend when she tells you at the nail salon: “They never leave their wives you know.” You yell back: “YOU SAY THAT LIKE IT’S A BAD THING. I DON’T WANT A HUSBAND, LET  HIS WIFE WASH HIS SOCKS.” And then when you are home alone drinking a 1.5 litre bottle of wine to yourself because he is incommunicado with some family function, don’t get all caught up in that laundry fantasy you have where you sort his socks from light to dark and fan them out in his top drawer. Are you crazy?

8. Assume everything he says is a lie.

9. Know when it’s over. Seriously, sister, that could even be before it ever begins. But if you stretch it out for months and even years, you will know when it’s time and when it comes, you will walk away with all  the dignity you can muster because that is what Madame Pompadour would do. And then she got her hair did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Girls in Bikinis and Boys Doin’ the Twist

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

*pulls grey sweat pants out of the laundry*

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

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

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

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

Soon.

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

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

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

GIRLS IN BIKINIS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SIGH

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

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Inside a Snatch of Beavers

Shannon Szabados

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

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

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

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

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

A gaggle of girls.

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

A conniving of cunts.

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

A hag of hens.

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

A racket of  cooch.

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

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

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