Category Archives: go girl

03

Apr. ’13

Brace Yourselves, Spring is Coming

magazine2a7f497be9d99f51ac6610b877225a4f63629a8aI’m sure you’re not surprised but Miss Contrary, aka moi, is not even remotely excited for spring. It’s not that I like the cold but I just don’t care for all the brouhaha and chores that go into April. Let’s not forget you have to do your taxes, rake all the garbage from your front lawn, get your winter tires changed, clean your front hallway of tiny Pomeranian turdlets that have petrified into the tiles and created a texture that kind of blends in with the slate so maybe just scratch that…and then the worries!  Worry about your spring wardrobe, worry about your garden hose (fuck, yes, I worry about my garden hose all winter long, I don’t even know why), worry about what happened to your missed period in March (shut up, it’s coming), worry about North Korea, worry about that garter snake your neighbour saw slither into your basement in the fall and if its going to be waking up from its winter orgy slumber with all its snake friends in a big giant pile of snake salad underneath the pile of crap that didn’t sell at the Italian garage sale.  Cannot deal.

Also I have had enough rounds of spring fever to know that where there is hope, there will inevitably be major disappointment.

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Yes, spring is exciting, there is definitely a natural mojo boost from extra sunshine, not just those annoying rogue beams that peak out from sides of your drapes when you take to the bed to watch endless hours of Downton Abbey on your laptop. It’s time to get outside, lazy ho!

The warmer weather brings out the people from HBO hibernation and everybody wants to sit on a patio. The pressure is finding the right patio with the optimum possibilities. The perfect patio has all the best sidewalk traffic, with a parade of motley humanity that will keep you entertained. In my neck of the woods, the Beach, it’s all same old year after year: An endless stream of boring ass couples with their ugly strollers and their purebred dogs who lead the way like majestic protectors of their boring ass masters. Why so loyal, dog? You want to say, break free and chase some squirrels and run to the lake and roll in some dead fish. I used to be one of them, my husband and I, and my custom slip covered Peg Perago double stroller…our Shiba Inus used to get loose and bolt every chance they got which was HILARIOUS!  *sigh* Was that fun or a pain in the ass? Snap out of it…now I am a crusty, single old bat with just one lunatic mutt who dive bombs for every crumb and canine anus that passes by. Definitely not hilarious. I need new hood and a new game plan, that’s for sure.  I have some ideas (which doesn’t include dog training) that I am going to implement this spring and I’m going to share them with you and feel free to comment some pro tips of your own because I love hearing from you:

1.  Last post, we discussed the art of flirting and I got a lot of feedback in my in-box.  I’m going to read a book, the sequel from the classic “Men Are From Mars, etc” and it’s called “Mars and Venus on a Date” and perhaps we shall discuss it in a future blog post (if I actually get around to reading it). Meanwhile, I feel a million dollar idea coming around like we need another take for the disillusioned souls who have had their heart ripped out and shat on, something like Men Are From Uranus (obviously) and Women Are From Pluto (because that’s a planet that doesn’t even exist and you know how we’re supposed be all like difficult and stuff, *eye roll*).  Anyway it’s real time right now and I am back at the same place with Refat, the very same bartender who was ignoring me last post and now even though the place is packed, he came running up to my table which is in the same spot as before.  “Can I help you, Miss?”  The power of cleavage.  “I’d love a pint of Stella Artois, Refat, please!”  I know, I sound like one of the dumb cunts on “Downton Abbey” ordering a footman around but I have been fervently watching the show in marathon sessions and it’s given me some lessons in poise and lady manners.

2.  I need to find a new crush, speaking of Downton Abbey.  One of you wrote me last week and said “I think it’s awful that you would flirt with a married man.  I take offence to that!”  I apologized profusely because I am stupid but the more I think about it, the more indignant I get. I was married once and I let ridiculous bitches flirt with my husband which only gave him a mojo boost and therefore more cache, and it was beneficial for everyone.  So fuck you, I will practise flirting on your husband whoever he is and you will put on your big girl pants and suck it up.  Anyway, it’s just FLIRTING and I’m really not that good at it.  My current crush, who is tits on a bull when it comes to flirting, is of course married, but to some hooker who runs a tight ship, a lady who most probably has her man’s balls in a vice grip. Men love that type of woman for some reason,I know it’s true because there are entire Tumblr blogs devoted to macerated nutsacks.  Anyway, I told my crush I watched an entire season of “Downton Abbey” over the weekend.  And he said: “Downton Abbey is a really good show.” Oh… I know, right?.  And I, incredulous, said:  “But Downton Abbey is a girls’ show.”  And he replied, chest deflating:  “Well I’m not the one who puts it on.”  And then he went about his business with his head down whilst my lady boner wilted to thirty percent of its capacity. I might still carry the tiniest of torches because cute! But! if somehow I find out he is watching “The Bachelor,” which I suspect he is, I will never look at him the same way again. So I need a new crush, one who watches hockey and maybe some reruns of Seinfeld while he is unimpeded to scratch his free wheelin’ balls in front of the lady he loves. Bitch, please, it’s that simple.

3.  Laura and I went out on Friday night to see a bar band. We went to Dora Keough which is a pub-type place full of wretched professional drunkards.  She and her friends go out regularly and they know how to swill the beers and shake their hips.  I am a day person, a vodka drinking hermit, as you know, a reverse vampire who wears pyjamas at 5 pm.  Laura is “taking a break” from men because of their tedious game-playing ways.  But me, I am always zealously on the prowl, I scanned the room:  “Everyone here is a circus freak!”  And before y’all accuse me of being a stuck-up picky bitch, I am hot for Louis CK who is a balding, chubby, ginger hunk of cerebral sexiness.  So don’t bust my balls if I have a certain standard.  Anyway Laura, who is all off the men and not paying attention to anyone but the band, gets asked to dance by a young dude! He is bat-shit crazy but still…we have decided that Laura has some kind of magical powers. a mojo so fierce and fine-tuned that we need to scrape her armpits of her pheromone debris and chemically recreate its essence and we will be rich, I tell ya.  To which I ask this question:  Would you rather be really rich or have Laura’s sizzling hot fucking mojo?  I pick the mojo. The most valuable commodity in the world, in my opinion.

4.  It’s time to buy a new vibrator.  Just saying.

5. It’s also time to exfoliate.  Even though I appear a little bit casual at times (read slovenly), I am massively vain when it comes to skin care.  I think if you are a lady of a certain age, you simply have to buck up and get procedures done.  In my opinion, you don’t have to spend a shitton of money on skin care at home but where you should drop the big ones is at an aesthetician who doubles as a nurse just as a side job.  You need a wand wielding bitch who can shoot out laser beams into those gaping pores and rejuvenate with medical proficiency. Don’t get me wrong, at home I put rotten avocados and honey on my face while I watch my Downton Abbey, but there comes a time for professional restoration.  Save your pennies, get some Fraxel or a Vampire Lift, but until then and before you enter another yoga class, get ye a salt scrub even if its from your kitchen cupboard and rub it all over your ass because scaly skin is gross.

6.  I’ve been taking some #selfies (don’t judge) for recreation and going all around with the iPhone lens and noticed my Hello Kitty tattoo has changed shape 😦 and even disappears at certain important angles. Ugh! This means a fitness goal of some sort which is something even my lazy ass can handle.  For some reason I like the gym (three words: hot tub jets) and if I change my time that I go, I might be able to find a new crush, hence killing two birds with one stone. Snap!

7.  I’m going to make a scotch egg.  Labour intensive, yes, but my lazy ass enjoys a culinary challenge.  Check this out, you will looooove it, it is all about eggs but is sexier than “Game of Thrones.”  I’m in love with Heston, is he gay or just British? The scotch egg is around the 12 minute mark but you are going to want to watch the whole thing and maybe make your own mayonnaise, yo. And THAT is not a euphemism.

8.  I need to finish watching “Downton Abbey.”  I took a break because I was missing something.  I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw “Game of Thrones” and I realized it was it was the soft core gratuitous porn of HBO.  A lady needs a little porn now and again but maybe my brain doesn’t have to be marinating in it.  It’s all about balance. And patience. Speaking of which, once again Refat is completely ignoring me, even though I am stroking my decollete with my fingertips.  What the hell?

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Posted by . Categories: go girl, lady boners, Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , . 4 Comments

21

Mar. ’13

A Hooker’s Guide to Flirting

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I’ve realized my problem and it’s that I need to become more lady-like.  In this post we are going to research and figure out how to flirt with men and maybe consequently “get some.”  One does not simply stroll into a bar with one’s gay nephew as a wingman, order a pint of Flying Monkeys and a round of Jaegermeister and ask the bartender if he will have sex with you (this is not me, it happened to a friend of a friend’s cousin…please don’t judge).  He will FO SHO say: “No I have a girlfriend.” And send you off in a cab. One needs to have more finesse and learn a technique or two, for godsake, there is no need to be a bull in a china shop.  Men these days have to be coddled before you make a hit, they need to be stroked the right way, like a cat, or else they get spooked.

But first, in the past couple of days when I have checked my site stats for what it is that you google in order to find me, I have had a huge spike in traffic from this term:  Lululemon pussy see-thru yoga pants.  And I just wanted to say thanks for dropping by, but there are no see through yoga pants here :(.  But! in any given hot yoga class, you will inevitably see some in their splayed out glory, so maybe that’s what you should be doing instead of trolling on google looking for rogue camel toe.  Just saying.

Also as an aside, yesterday my male platonic boyfriend without any benefits whatsoever (otherwise known as Remainder Man) came over to my house to check out the hole in my kitchen ceiling where it is snowing plaster chips on my stove top as we speak (he will work for beer) said “Let’s go for lunch.” And I, as usual, thought he meant Gabby’s for chicken wings and the company of really old,  glassy-eyed professional beach drunks.  The beach hood is infamous for this particular pack of old dudes who live for the 11 a.m. opening of the beer taps and then do the stroll along Queen Street, starting at Castro’s in the morning and ending at Captain Jacks at midnight.  They spend the whole day not speaking to one another at the bar and then one of them will finally say something and then a fight will break out and somebody gets their nose broken. Lather, rinse, repeat the next day.  I love it so, these are the men that need to be flirted with and I am fully prepared to hone my newly acquired techniques on them.

But no, Remainder Man wanted to go to my gym, where they serve beer and soup.  “I want to eat lighter,” he said.

“No, you just want to see vaginas in yoga pants,”  I said.

Giggity.

So we had lunch at my gym and he as he ogled some yoga-panted MILF-type who trotted by with her screaming toddler.  Some other sweaty gym-regular menfolk with their squash racquets dropped by our table of crass talk, and I came to the realization that I MAY AS WELL GROW A DICK.  I am just one of the boys. What the hell?  I am not even remotely masculine looking, I wear mascara and I have been dutifully reapplying lipstick throughout the day as per my New Year’s resolution, I have projectile boobs and a bunched bum. I rock the latest nail colours, I always carry a purse full of crap, my voice sounds like a little girl (true story, telemarketers always ask me if my mother is home), and I am afraid of snakes.  Not one of these men are ruffled around me, they carry on talking their talk of boring golf shit, completely ignoring me while their eyes wander around the room at the ladies that AREN’T at their table.  It is virtually impossible to practise flirting with them, they are such assholes. They are all bark and no bite.  Even if you flirted with them, they would look at you like you were a frog on the highway and then resume their infantile ignore game.

I left all frustrated, as usual.  My Remainder Man is always kind to me though and doesn’t let those loathsome squash dudes hang around for too long. As we drove back to my place, we passed a girl in yoga pants(!!!!!!!) walking her dog.

“Woof woof,” said Remainder Man.  She can’t hear us, we are in a car, but he does it to bug me.

“Her fucking dog could carry a pizza box through the gap between her legs!”  I’ve told y’all before, when I am jealous, I am one mean hooker.  Look out.  Also I am not even sure why I was jealous…do I carry a torch for Remainder Man?  I feel like we might be in one of those worm holes and we will hook up when we are in a nursing home.

“I know, she is a little too thin, that one up ahead though…HOT!” And she’s an elderly lady with a walker.  And that will be me one day.

“Seriously, what is it men want?”

“They want it all!” Except for me and my phantom dick, obviously.

I must figure this out before I get too old and settle into this mess and become ONE OF THE BOYS in the retirement community on that remote island off the coast of Venezuela I plan on escaping to (you are all coming with me).

I have been googling how to flirt  and I will practise techniques RIGHT NOW, REAL TIME on Refat, the bartender where I am writing this on my laptop plugged in to the far wall but with a direct view of the bar, I will SMILE and begin:

1. Make eye contact.  He is busy right so I’ll just wait.  Bat eyelashes?  Yes I think that is cute.  Maybe too cute?  I don’t know, help me.

2. Take interest in what he has to say.  After I get his attention with this eye contact that is not happening, I am not kidding, there is a woman in YOGA PANTS at the bar and he can’t take his eyes off her, I will ask him about his childhood in Bangladesh.  Goddamnit, it’s been over ten minutes and he’s still talking to her.

3.  When I am talking to him, I will touch myself. NOT IN THAT WAY, dumbhead.  You are supposed to stroke your collarbone or flip your hair, or tickle your own cheek, or something, I read that in Cosmo or some other lady rag.  I do all this shit already because I have OCD.  I am yanking at my bottom lip, and waving my hand, but he is still talking to the bitch in the yoga pants.  Fuck him.

4. Learn from the masters. Since he’s completely ignoring me, I will watch what the hooker in the yoga pants is doing that is so riveting.  Her hair is in a really high pony tail and when she talks, it wags back and forth, like a tail on a Golden Retriever.  She is laughing and he is laughing, this is KEY!  I never laugh.  I am always in a serious panic about something, you know it’s true, I run into various businesses in tears asking for duct tape because my car key fob as fallen off the ring.  A master in yoga pants would be all like, giggling about duct tape and its many uses, she would be using duct tape as nipple clamps and LAUGHING ABOUT IT.  I must learn how to make light of the folly of the day.

5. Watch body language.  Apparently, and according to Cosmo or some other lady rag, most things are said NOT with words but BODY LANGUAGE.  If you fancy a certain dude and you are sitting down, you need to cross your legs and point your upper foot directly toward him.  I think swinging the leg back and forth will help draw his attention to you, it’s almost like you are pulling him in, and bonus, it will also feel good. I had a friend who actually used to masturbate in class this way, no joke, she grew up to be a squirter obviously.  Anyway, I fucking hate Refat right now so I am sitting splay legged with my feet tightly entwined on the chair legs.  He’s still talking to yoga pants, she’s standing up and moving her hips from side to side like she has to go pee.  I am sure he finds that alluring, he probably is into golden showers, maybe even a little scat. Perv.

6.  Touch his arm or tap his leg when you speak to him.  If he ever comes over, you can be sure I will not touch him, scatman poopy germs.  I am NOT a touchy-feely type person.  Although sometimes when I accidentally touch a certain dude, we graze fingers like when he is handing me something or we pass each other and our arms bang together, I get a little electric thrill, and that’s when you know you will hit it off in the boudoir. At least in my imagination. I do not even want to see if this works with Refat.  And he is still talking to that yoga ho!

7.  Make sure he knows you are available.  If you manage to hook a dude with your foot or gaze or hair twirl or whatever and you actually get to talk to him, this is when the word “ex-husband” coming out of your mouth is all magical sounding, not like a disease:  “My ex-husband is taking the kids to Chicago FOR THE WEEKEND!” Maybe the neanderthal will get the hint and throw a ball in your court, or not.  And here’s a pro tip on the other side of the flirting/flailing woman that is me: if you are married or hooked up, it is nice to chat with someone in a flirty way for a brief amount of time, just to give the other person a mojo boost.  There is no need to say “mywife” like it is one word or “WE love the biryani at Lahore Tikka House” within the first 30 seconds of meeting someone.  Just saying.

8.  Close the deal.  If I knew how to do this, I would not be sitting here writing this with such rage in my heart for Refat and by the way, he never showed up at my table:  “It’s the end of my shift,” he said when I finally went up to him at the bar just now.  Light is off the cab.

And that, is the story of my life.

Posted by . Categories: go girl. Tags: , , , . 6 Comments

28

Feb. ’13

One does not simply “accidentally” click on a Japanese porn site, I am going to admit it was my own fault.  Last night, during one of my bouts of insomnia, I took a wrong turn in the internet hay maze and saw a thing or two that were probably best left unseen by my delicate lady sensibilities.  Holy Hello Kitty, Japan! The WTF imagination of it all is limitless which I can appreciate but what is so confoundedly weird to me is that some body parts are blurred and others are not. To pixelate or not pixelate?  If that is your question, I would say you have it all ASS BACKWARDS but who am I to judge? Any time anyone says anything remotely negative about another country or culture, out come the Perpetually Offended Righteous Kony2012 Army (PORKA for short, you will need this later on):  “You can’t say anything bad about the Japanese, that is RACIST!”  So carry on, Japan, you crazy kids, with your creative cinematic endeavours that you can proudly share with the rest of world. I am just going to curl up in a ball now and double up on the underwear and clench my sphincter super tight (just in case).

And so I tossed and turned. I’m so boring, I can’t stand it.  And neither will you, here are my triple thought rotations in the middle night. If I had to suffer through it, I’m going take you with me…spoon with me until I fall asleep:

>Why does everyone get up Lena Dunham’s ass all the time?  I love her so much it hurts. All those haters are all just jealous of her success. (Bear with me, I am obsessed with HBO’s hit tv show “Girls”)

>>I wish they didn’t get those new spin bikes, they are calibrated so hard!  My calves are going to turn into tree trunks.

>>>If I have to rub one out, I’m going to make Colin Farrell my muse.

>Why should Lena Dunham publicly respond to a tweet by Lisa Lampanelli?  So dumb.  It’s those PORKAs at work again, leave Lena alone!

>>Next time I spin, I’m going to just have to keep up the RPM’s and turn down the gears. My fucking calves are so sore, that means the muscle fibres have broken down and are rebuilding themselves up in Hulkian proportions.  I’m not turning that resistance up so high,  I don’t care what he says. I’m not a real woman.  I am a monster.  Hold me.

>>>I don’t get Colin Farrell’s bizarre new hair cut but whatever, I won’t be running my fingers through it in this fantasy…(Let me google that for you if you haven’t seen it yet).

>Ugh, I can’t handle all the righteousness on the internet, no wonder I ended up on Japanese porn.  I have to stop reading the comments on Jezebel and most of all, the stupidly written articles on xoJane. PORKAs are offended by the “n-word” no matter the context, be careful saying “vinegar” because they have sharp ears.  Like it or not, the derived term “nigga” has become an indissoluble part of the popular vernacular of hip hop culture.  You can’t put a stop to the evolution of language just because Oprah said so. It’s going to be an uphill battle trying to fight that one.  Best of luck there and enjoy your new Lil Wayne download.

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>>I think if I keep spinning, I need to add another yoga class.

>>>I bet Colin Farrell would make an awesome husband.  I don’t care what anyone says.  I love that he befriended Elizabeth Taylor in her last days.  Although I wonder what that was all about?  Is he a Cougar-izer?  Was Elizabeth Taylor even a considered a cougar in a wheelchair?  Is there something beyond cougardom?  I hope so.  Sigh.

>Why can David Duchovny say:  “Nigga, please!” on Californication and no one cares?  He’s a whitey, but! he is a man so that gives him some leeway as per the unwritten law according PORKA. That is my theory. Women have a much shorter leash when it comes to saying outrageous things.  If they are allowed to say anything at all.  Without offending anyone.  Fuck that. Being a woman sucks a big giant pulsating cock. Also is it because Lena Dunham is a young woman that she is considered “misguided by privilege?”  I don’t get it.  Aside from owning a gun, isn’t “privilege” part of the American dream, why begrudge her for it?  Her parents are artists. Again, I don’t get it.  Didn’t they do a lovely job nurturing their daughters in the arts? I wiki’d them and her sister goes to Brown and is a poet. We need artist-type people and great shows on HBO. So what if her life experience inspired her to create a show about a struggling young writer in Brooklyn?  OOOOOH hear the PORKAs cry:  I’m just so blinded by the whiteyness of it all! When Edward Burns came on to the scene with his auteur-style films about his life with his equally blinding whitey bros in New York, no one busts his ass about not being racially diverse.  And oh my God, if the characters aren’t too white, then they are too ugly. That thought just makes me sad which makes even madder and I don’t like it when people say bad things about Lena Dunham. Why do I even care?  Because Lena Dunham a trailblazer. She is my hero and she is only going to get better. LENA DUNHAM IS THE CUTEST GIRL EVER.

>>If I add another yoga class, I should probably go back to Bikram but I’m scared. It’s so hard and I’m going to have to look even more inward than I already am, my head is already stuck so far up my ass that I can hear AND see the ocean and catch some fish while I’m there. I wonder how my blogger friend in Kansas City is doing on the 30 DayYoga Challenge? Maybe still snowed in? CALM DOWN, STAY OFF THE INTERNET, YOU WILL FIND OUT TOMORROW.

>>>I wonder if Colin Farrell is a douchebag modelizer like Leonardo diCaprio? Colin Farrell has a son with Angelman Syndrome and he seems like a great dad, and he also has a son from another mother…you know if a woman has children with different fathers, she is considered to be on the totem pole of ho, how high up she is depends on how may different tree branches are involved.  Dude plants his plethora of seeds in more than one orchard and he is like Farmer Awesome.  Let me bake you a pie out of your fine fruit, sir.  I’d like give Colin Farrell a piece of my pie, that is for sure. Sweet Jesus, pie, forget the euphemism.  Ugh, I wish I could make crust like my mother.  So flaky and tender.  I should do something with all those blueberries rotting in the fridge, I knew i shouldn’t have bought so many.  STOP THINKING ABOUT PIE AND GET ON WITH SEXUAL FANTASY ALREADY, GODDAMMIT, OR GO TO SLEEP. Thanks, Japan, all I can think of now are tentacles.

>>>>I need a cat.

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3 Comments

23

Feb. ’13

Timing is Everything According to Cupid

Kristin Peterson blog

Well, well, well…this has been a bullshit winter.  Weather-wise, IT’S SO COLD! I’ve been wearing the same thing every day for the last two months.  I find when I’m so cold, I don’t even care anymore…about anything, except for you people, my internet lovers.  And fried chicken.

Valentine’s Day came and went! I don’t care at all about romance and stuff but I always cook up something special on Vagina-Lonely-Day because it takes my mind off my harrowing despair otherwise known as celibacy.  This year, I mastered the art of fried chicken!  It’s all about the brine!  Who knew? I made about 6 batches in total, since the Toronto Star published the recipe of The Stockyards, and fuck, it is HARD.  No joke, it takes 2 days to make, at least.  First you have to soak the pieces in brine in the fridge….and do you even know what brine is?  It’s salty, sugar water. Like the tears of a sad clown. NO, I DID NOT GET SAD ON VALENTINE’S DAY!  I’m so over it.

Anyway, after the chicken is done its 48 hour briny bath, you soak it in buttermilk where it luxuriates with some spices for a few hours while you watch something on Netflix. Do NOT do your nails at this point because what comes next is more tactile than you might want to get with raw chicken. But I have nothing else going on so I got my fingers into it. After the buttermilk soak, you coat the chicken with flour.  It is so messy!  But worth it.  I don’t have a deep fryer, I just use a pot of vegetable oil on the stove and dump the pieces in after you have heated it up for longer than you can stand. Hot oil doesn’t really bubble, it just swirls around all impatient-like. This is where I have gone wrong, putting the pieces in before the oil is hot enough, then the coating comes off. But still, it is fried chicken and you almost can never go wrong no matter how you cook it.  Sigh.

Who am I kidding? I am a bitter old cow who needs a brine bath and a buttermilk soak and then dumped in a deep fryer.  I am jealous of chicken.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine decided to try on-line dating, I told her about Okcupid because if you follow this blog, I got what I wanted last summer.  She is more interested in dating an age appropriate man so I think when she first logged in, neither of us had any real hope.  But off she went, into the deep, dark woods of the interwebz and what do you know?  She went on a coffee date and had an actual good time.  Then came another date.

And then she said:  “KP, I am smitten!”

And I said:  “Smitten????? What the fuck does that mean?”  I don’t even….

She explained that when she sees him, her heart skips a beat.  Is it scary?  Yes, it is scary.  THIS IS CUPID’S ARROW STABBING YOU IN YOUR HEART! It’s an actual thing,  Apparently it is scary because your old, jaded self becomes powerless.  That is so awesome I can’t stand it!  I want that feeling!

I have crushes, minor and fleeting…like the cable man who saved my Peachtree from the digital force crushing out my analog signals, the drama!  It lasted an hour.  I have a kind of crush on a dude I encounter in my daily activities but he is married or something and my heart does not skip a beat when I see him.  My loins get all fired up though, and when I talk to him, I allow the verbal diarrhea to spew out of my mouth which is awesome in its own right, but it is not SMITTEN.  And he probably thinks I’m an idiot.  I realize this heart beat skipping trick has to be MUTUAL in order for it to be scary.

I want to be smitten AND scared.

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That’s Lorelei Gilmore, having an impromptu session with a shrink in the back of a car.  But that is also me, I’m tired and impatient and I have been growing my hair out to no avail.

With that querulous attitude, yesterday I put up a new profile on Okcupid.  Why is it that I can write a 1500 word blog post for you people and be my most happy self doing it but I can’t fill out profile form to save my life?  Ugh, I am the worst, but do the men even read these things?  Don’t they just look at pictures?  Some creepy mofo on Facebook accused me of putting up old photos of myself when I just took one on Tuesday and the previous one was from September and he has never even met me in person.  I am only guilty of Hipstomatic filtering, but who isn’t?  If you want to see pores just use your imagination.  They look like moon craters, dude.

So I put my thing up and waited and then like, nothing.  An hour went by…is this thing even on?  Last summer, I hadn’t even finished writing the profile when the locusts came.  That is not bragging, that is just the law of interwebz nature.  This time around people were perusing me in silence, it shows who checked out your profile but no one actually said anything.  What the hell? I put a link to this blog so they could be dazzled by the polka dotted background at least.  Then someone wrote: “Your blog is really funny, you should right as a living.”  I know, right?  WRITE.  And yes,  I know, I know, I am the Queen of Typos but I couldn’t get passed it.

So I took matters in my own hands and went trolling, trolling, trolling.  I cast my net at AGE APPROPRIATE men folk because I don’t think I could ever get this elusive smitten feeling with a cub, no offence twentysomethings but you don’t know who the original Starsky and Hutch are.

So I wrote to two men, they both had really good profiles.  One was a HERMIT!  I am a hermit!  Surely we could hermit together.  I picked out our wedding china as I wrote him this quick hello:  “I like your profile, it’s very clever and witty…”  I sent it, waited…I could see him checking out my profile (this is like making eye contact at a virtual bar)…and then I waited some more and NOTHING.  He did not respond.  I was sure he would be excited by our mutual love of HBO.  But no, it wasn’t enough to hermit with.  Hermits probably need social butterflies in order to not turn into Unabombers, right?  So maybe it’s not meant to be.

The next guy was really stern looking but he rocked a plaid shirt.  He was an “almost vegetarian” and he sold his cars and now rides a bicycle as his main mode of transportation.  I know, slightly disturbing, cyclists are a weird breed but I was a bike courier in my heyday. His long winded profile read like a novella but I could get behind that, it meant he was probably literate and could read my blog and appreciate my ramblings.  So I sent him a hello note.  Watched him check out my profile, again, just like the other dude did and I waited and AGAIN NOTHING!

What the fuck?  Then I realized: fried chicken.  I wrote something about fried chicken on my opening line which probably offended his “almost vegetarian” sensibilities.  Oh well, whatevs…love me, love my fried chicken.

So I deleted my profile this morning.  Seriously, this pheromone rush I seek is best left in the hands of that lazy ass little Cupid boy to get his act together.  I just might have to wait a little longer, or not….maybe I’ll fry up some more chicken EVEN THOUGH IT TAKES SO FUCKING LONG.

Posted by . Categories: Get out of your comfort zone, go girl, lady boners. Tags: , , . 6 Comments

13

Feb. ’13

Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy

kate-upton-2013-sports-illustrated-swimsuit-cover

I love Kate Upton. She has big boobs and so do I.  Chicks with big boobs are part a secret sisterhood, we like to stick together and brush each other’s hair and whisper things that only we only know about. Kate is only twenty and she is our reigning poster babe! Ave, Hootervus!  I think of her as a sister but more like my daughter from another ovary because I’m so old now.  Ugh, soon I’m going to have to give up flashing my boobs, it’s so inappropriate.  I can’t help it, I’ve been doing it since eight grade when I answered the door topless for the pizza delivery man on a dare.  I dared myself to do it.  True story.

Last year when the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit edition came out with Kate wearing a 3 triangles the size of a wedge of Laughing Cow cheese, I posted the cover on this very little blog and thanks to StumbleUpon came so much traffic, little blog’s site states on that day looked just like a big, soaring boner.  It’s Kate’s World, we just swim in it.

So anyway, this is her second cover and I’m going to ride with it, click here for more Sports Illustrated (or less, check out how tacky the body paint is).

And I have a lot to say about big boobs.

1. There are Kate Haters among us.  Any time my girl Kate makes the news, be it with her fapworthy Cat Daddy dance or her Mercedes Benz (Meh-cedes) commercial, there is always some little bitch on any given forum:  “Kate Upton is fat!  That’s the only reason she has big boobs!”  Oh my God, she is such a hambeast!  Put her on a diet now or our retinas will burn because she has meaty bits.  Last year at some adult birthday party (insert eye roll, grown up birthday parties are ridiculous), I had a conversation with some married dude about some new cleanse diet he was on (insert another eye roll, people on cleanse diets: STOP, there’s no pork spackle from 5 years ago glued to your colon wall) and you know how middle-aged men are now the new teenage girls?  They have become all body conscious and they think if they get rid of their love handles, we won’t notice their receding hairlines.  And then they get all ripped and start some kind of hair follicle growing operation on their heads and they think we won’t notice the personality disorder.  Talking to Mid-Life Eating Disorder Guy is the worst, because he is also obsessed with the way his wife looks and he shows me some iPhone photos from his vacation where they are on a beach and his wife had just got a fresh boob job: “Look at my abs,” he says,”They’re an 8 pack, I have to cut out all carbs after 5 pm.” And me (more eye rolling) trying to be nice and thinking this would be a compliment:  “Your wife looks great, too, just like Kate Upton in that white bikini.”

AND THEN HE RESPONDS: “Kate Upton?  She’s a cow! Her waist to hip ratio measurements are way too low.  They call her a supermodel but she could never do runway!”  Oh. My. God.  If I had a husband and a sentence like “She could never do runway” came out of his mouth, I would drive that Brokeback to Woody’s on Church Street and set him free, no judgement, and if he came back it like the butterfly that he is, I would assume it would be to steal my stash of Elizabeth Arden Prevage eye cream.

Yesterday I asked my son, Freddy, age 16 and famed boob-man, if he knew who Kate Upton is.

Freddy:  Kate Upton?  Of course I know who she is. (Duh)

Me:  Do you think she is fat?

Freddy:  Fat?  No! She’s not fat!

Me:  What about her boobs?

Freddy:  MOTHERRRRRRR…..(insert massive eye roll)

Faith in humanity restored.

2. Kate is a supermodel but she could never do runway.  Okay, so let’s just address Brokeback’s statement:  I knew you were coming so I made you a gif of a cow lumbering down a runway.  You’re welcome:

kate upton runway

3. Sometimes boobs cannot be tamed.  This is true, the good folks at Sports Illustrated are always putting Kate in toddler sized bikinis as if to put greater emphasis on this point.  There is much humour in this that only the secret sisterhood of chicks with big boobs can laugh about.  I can stuff my boobs in a bra and walk around and the earth will still rotate on its axis.  I can put them in a Shock Absorber (that’s a sports bra) and I can run and play tennis without creating a spontaneous sink hole. They are tame on dry land. They will sit and stay on command.  But put them in a swim suit and add water, they become rambunctious Labrador Retriever puppies.  They just want to jump out and run in opposite directions and the more you stuff them back, the crazier they become.  They slither out the bottom, pop out the sides, and explode out out the top.  The best beach vacation I ever had was in Miami where most of the women of all sizes and ages didn’t wear their tops at all.  UNLEASH THE HOUNDS.  The best dog park evarrrrr!

4.  Not all big boobs are enchanting.  Some of them are like heavy bags of marbles and they give a lady back pain.  I get it but mine are not like that, it’s all about density.  The insides of mine are soft and mushy and  feel like ricotta cheese with some soft bits of exploded bubble tea.  I flopped one of mine onto a fish scale last summer and it didn’t even come in as a pound, so when I hear someone who gets an breast reduction say they took 3 pounds off each tit, I am like, yeah, go girl. CANADIAN HEALTH CARE PAYS FOR IT.  Cautionary tale: I know of a woman at my gym who was in the double D range like moi and at 5’10 could carry it AND they were spectacular!  Just like a milk maid from a porno movie!  But she wanted them smaller so she could buy “pretty bras!”  Yes, your tax dollars at work so homegirl can shop in all the drawers at Victoria Secret.  She got them reduced and meh, couldn’t even really tell that much but now her hips look so much bigger :(.

5.  Big boobs get the last laugh.   For some reason, people think they can say anything to you when you have big boobs. “You’re going to sag when you older,” said my friend when we were 18.  She was one of those types of girls who walk around naked all the time like Lena Dunham(!).  And back then I thought, kudos to you for not caring that you have a loose hunks of beef shwarma hanging from your crotch but shut up, “That’s just rude,”  I said. “It’s true,” she said, “You’re going to sag and I’m going to be perky forever,” or something to that effect.  You know I can still get worked up over that bitch. And although I don’t actually know what happened to her, I have seen some post-lacto members of the A-cup sisterhood, and if I’m going to go down, I’m going to take your deflated baby socks with me, ho. And two words: Susan Sarandon.  She is our Grand Poobah.

But really in all earnestness, all boobs are good boobs, take care of the ones you’ve got, sisters, and don’t be afraid of the waves!!  Kate has taught us that. I also made you another flashing gif and yes, while she might be little meaty, she is like a big messy slice of pizza after a night of heavy drinking.  Fuck yeah, Kate Upton, you go girl:

kate's meaty bits

Posted by . Categories: go girl. Tags: , , , . 6 Comments

07

Feb. ’13

Tales Inside the Locker Room: Cat Fight!

cat fight

I don’t hate the winter the way most of y’all do as I figured out how to shut up, strip the ego of any kind of fashion sense, and just ride it like a stallion.  I like the hermit lifestyle but sometimes I need to get out so I go to the gym and get on top of those whirlpool jets just to remind myself I am still alive.

The other day in my gym locker bay, these two women were talking and one was saying how she hated that her husband made them go south (Fabulous Turks and Caicos!) in January because when you get back here (Frozen Turds and Caca!) it’s so depressing and you have to go through major adjustment to acclimate back to the shite weather.  I got what she was saying, I have been on a tropical winter holiday or two and know the misery of which she speaks. You might as well just stick it out all winter and go away in April to get a head start on sun damage.  That is what you call smart hockey.

This other woman, however, was not having any of it and she started shrieking how she hated being cold and what an ingrate this other woman was, “I’m always so cold! Even in the summer I’m cold!  You should be happy to be able to go away!  First world problems, must be nice!”  And all the while she’s sashaying around the locker room stark naked, you can tell some kind tension is building up inside her because all two ounces of random flesh on her bony body is shivering in fear as she slaps on some body moisturizer that smells like the bottom an old purse where some hand lotion had leaked and then some spearmint gum got marinated.  And mens, don’t get excited about the visual of a screaming naked woman because the fluorescent lighting in the locker room made this woman look like Gollum with a blond bob.

But the rest of look like Sirens, so keep up the fantasy.

Meow.  That’s me, getting my hackles up.  Mostly I try and practise my Buddhist-ish dogma of modern living which is to let things go, don’t get attached, blah blah, but I am only a human with surging natural lady hormones that make me bitch with the best of them.

First world problems? I’m getting really tired of people not being able to voice their complaints about how they hate the interior colour of their Lexus without having their heads blown off by the mighty gale of farting whitey righteousness.  When was the last time you bought a goat over the internet for a village in Africa?  Shut up and do it here and let the rest of us use all the discontinued pennies to tile our powder rooms in copper splendour.

Mostly I don’t have time for that certain type of skinny bitch that is constantly complaining in a little girl voice: “I’m so cold!”  Because she wants you to say,”You’re so skinnaaaaay, girlfriend! Eat something!” To which she will respond: “Oh, I eat so much!  I just have a really high metabolism!”  Oh right. If her metabolism was so high, she would be hot, not cold. Hypothermic Hanna is that type of woman we all know, when it is the middle of July and it is one of those nights where you can’t sit inside and everyone in the neighbourhood is out on their porch steps drinking beer out of cans, she is huddled on an uphostered lawn chair drinking a glass of Chardonnay wearing some fat woman’s fat husband’s hoodie that she borrowed and she is just “swimming in it!” It is just “so huge!”  Tee hee!

And the menfolk lap this sort of behaviour up, quivering Chihuahua women make them feel mighty and masculine.  And it’s our own fault because we are constantly pointing out so-called fat asses on normal women. We made the skinny ideal happen, not them. We started buying fat reducing cream from a snake oil salesman who disguised himself as a doctor and coined the term “cellulite.”  There’s no such thing, cellulite is just textured fat that you can see on the skin! It’s got a fancy name because the guy was a Frenchman and they have to put an ostentatious spin on everything. They eat snails and other garden garbage.

If we didn’t become so obsessed about we’d save ourselves a lot of money and grief. If cellulite wasn’t a thing we had to point out to men to sabotage other women, they would never have noticed! If we had kept quiet, they’d be all like getting their dicks into the Rubenesque folds of fat flesh like they did back in the olden times and we all could have had our cake AND wieners. Science has proven men like a fatty!

The good news is that men can be brainwashed into believing anything is hot, it’s all about implementing an elaborate reward system involving basic culinary skills and all kinds ego stroking.  And blow jobs.  The bad news is that it’s probably going to more work than it’s worth to train an entire society of men so it might be just easier just to let Victoria’s Secret rule the world.  Sometimes we women are own worst enemies and my awareness of this does not stop me from having an irrational hate-on for the locker bitch who is just a victim of the vicious cycle that has evolved into modern Photoshop society.

Anyway, I don’t even know this woman’s name but I have seen her around for years.  She *bugs* me.  I have seen her a) wear one of those Canada Goose parkas in May b) run on the treadmill for a solid hour every day for past two years c) order a salad and a Perrier on half price wing night at one of those Firkin places downtown last fall.  It was one those random sightings of someone you know from the gym but they might not recognize you because you are usually naked with a towel turban on your head.  Of course she didn’t acknowledge me because her complete attention was on her salad, she was busy picking out walnuts and hiding the goat cheese under the napkin.  Meanwhile her husband, who was eating wings AND sweet potato fries while washing it all down with a pint like a normal person, was ignoring her because he was too busy texting on his Blackberry. Probably with some other woman who has visible cellulite, the forbidden fruit! Yes, that’s the spin we need to put on it!  Sexy, fleshy lumps, and bumps, rock it!

Back to the situation in the locker room, the Turks and Caicos woman was taken aback and started apologizing, “Oh didn’t mean to sound like a Real Housewife, just saying how tough it is to get back to this weather.”  I don’t know this woman personally either, but I know that she has three young kids, one of them she adopted from Mexico! She is saint! And she also drives a hybrid.

Hypothermic Hanna hissed something inaudible, Turks hissed back, and before you knew it:  CAT FIGHT!  Well that seemed to escalate quickly, there must have been a more interesting background story with these two but I didn’t know what it was, I was just grateful (and beyond thrilled! me likey the drama, it’s like real-life HBO) to be a witness and not a participant.  And no, they didn’t actually physically brawl but there were some harsh words and some locker door slamming.  One of those plastic puffy balls for exfoliating was thrown and hit Turks in the face and that’s about when it came to an end.  In the end, Turks held her own with much dignity, but surprisingly, I had a newfound respect for Hypothermic Hanna and her spectacular unbridled meltdown.  You know, you never know what path a person has been on, maybe she is crazy for a good reason.

So after I got dressed (really quickly, I was still wet in fact), Turks had taken off, I turned to Hypothermic Hanna who was slumped on a stool, still naked and rubbing herself with cream (Gollum! Stick with the proper visual, I am still a bitch after all), “I love the smell of your moisturizer, what is it?”

And she looked up actually seemed to be surprised that I was even there.

“Oh, it’s Aveda, it’s essential oils, it’s supposed to be calming.  I’m so sorry for that outburst.  She’s my sister, she makes me crazy. Her fucking perfect life, with her fucking perfect husband, and her fucking perfect kids in their fucking perfect house.”

Oh!  Well that all makes sense now!  Heavy emphasis on the f-bombs, bitter and beaten down, she is obviously the Fredo of the family!  The light was cast, and that was when I took her under my soft downy wing and after she got dressed, we went upstairs and had a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio (yes, the gym has a bar, why have you not joined?) and she told me all about her childhood and how her sister stole all the thunder and got all the good Barbies and she just had a one Midge whose hair she cut off in a rage.  Surprise.

It turns out her name is Kathleen, but when they were little, her sister couldn’t pronounce it so they called her Kat and it stuck. LOL.

lolcat scratching post gif

Posted by . Categories: go girl, LOCAs gone wild, Uncategorized. Tags: , . 1 Comment

02

Feb. ’13

The Plight of the Mesomorph and the Oxytocin Haze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

britney spears before and after

I think we can all agree I was right.

HA!

YZHYb

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

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

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

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

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

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

chris brown/ pepper pinhead

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

Posted by . Categories: an inconvenient truth, go girl. Tags: , , , , , , , , . 2 Comments

19

Aug. ’12

Up and Down The Italian Shaft

“Go to Italy,” they said. “Italian men there are not like the Guidos here,”  they said. “They will pinch your ass,” they said. “You will get Italian bone,” they said.  Like I have to travel across the Atlantic to go on penis patrol.

So I just got back from 9 days in Rome, more or less intact but with mysterious bruises and some kind fluid-filled goiter growing from my right heel to the inside of my ankle.  Nothing like jet lag to cure insomnia…I have been sleeping like an angel since I got back!  Also it was good to get away from my usual anxiety-filled thoughts here at home and to entertain some fresh travel OCD.  It turns out I am a “checker,”  digging in the bowels of my bag to take inventory of my stuff every ten minutes:  Passport!  MasterCard! Map! Euros! Cell Phone! Hotel Key!

I took a few day trips by train but I have no idea where I was and the sun setting to the west never seemed to provide any clues because everything in Italy is all askew.  And maps don’t help!

“Italy is shaped like a boot,” they said, “just think of Rome as the middle of the shin.”

Here is Italy:

I don’t get this “boot shape.”  Where do you put your foot?  Do you cut it off and put it in Sicily?  Call Freud, but I see a downward facing mangled penis.  Rome is in the middle of the shaft, Milan is in the left testicle and Venice is in the right, Sicily is the disembodied head, LOL, and Sardinia is some random scat.  And it’s not my fault I see what I see…the entire country is a festival of phalli. Everywhere you turn, there is a statue of some naked guy with his marble junk sack right at eye level.  Look at dude up there, he showed up for work  and remembered his cloak but not his pants as he stands casually next to his horse.

Rome, it’s my kind of town.  Having said that, nobody pinched my ass.  I think that was a twentieth century phenomenon when everything was la dolce vita.  If they did that now and you turned around, you just know they would thrust their palm in your face and demand 5 euros.  Romans demand 5 euros for everything they do, they give directions and hold the door open but it’s not without a price. It gets tiresome after a while so you need to know when to bolt before they stick their hand out.

Here are some of the highlights:

1. THE WAX  MUSEUM:

The only museum in Rome with no line ups is Museo delle Cere.  Scary as fuck! Add to the creepy factor is that no one is in there!  Go upstairs and poke into the rooms where there are various body parts and random heads.  Remarkably, Museo delle Cere is a penis-free zone.  If I had seen one, I would have popped it in my purse as a macabre souvenir because nobody was guarding the joint.

2. THE BEACH:

Of course Rome does not have any beaches because it is not on the coast, but just an hour train ride up the shaft, there is a cute little coastal town called Santa Marinella.  I discovered it on a blog, Young in Rome.  The smartest thing I did was bring my lap top even though “Wifi” in my hotel in Rome meant 5 euros for 3 days of stop-go internet flow that only worked in the lobby. Mid-August in Rome can get pretty oppressive in the heat and  everyone is on vacay at the beach.  It was crowded but worth it. Really nice sand and clear water,there were a few chunks of mystery sea salad but that is part and parcel of beach romping. It’s the Mediterranean so the salt water helped clear all my stress zits. Apparently you have to rent an umbrella and chairs but I squatted in one on the first day . I got busted because I picked a primo spot by the water that some dude was renting for 3 months(!) but the ones in the back were daily rentals.  I slipped under one and no one said anything but I lived in fear so the next day I bit the bullet and rented a single chair and umbrella:  20 euros! But I had peace of mind.  Italians are loud fuckers and when they have a conversation, it sounds like they are fighting.  But soon, their constant nattering became beautiful white noise and I actually had the best nap ever!  Oh, and Italian men wear Speedo-type suits so their Spandex-encased penises were ubiquitous and diverse:  Big and small, young and old, righties and lefties.

3. POMPEII:

So after two days of beach loafing, I needed a cultural day trip.  Evangeline texted me and said:  “Go to Pompeii, there are mummies of people who died in a volcano!”   Yay! Dead people, I thought, might take my mind off penises.  Again, thank the Roman god, Interneto, for the trickle of free unlocked Wifi I got in my room that night and was able to find a cool and easy trip with Enjoy Rome.  For 60 euros, they offered a shuttle bus to and from Pompeii on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  It was Monday night at 10 pm but I decided to take a chance and catch the bus at 7:30 a.m near the Termini train station and hope that it wasn’t booked up.  They did have room but as per usual, I need to forewarn any traveler:  Nothing costs what they say it costs on the website and in person 60 euros was really 68 euros, cash only…okay, pocket that, Sergio, it was still cheaper and easier than taking a train/bus combo.

Anyway, two and a half hours down the shaft near Naples is the Pompeii site.  I befriended two lovely Irish ladies from the bus in the line up to get in and they invited me to tag along with them.  We decided to take one of those makeshift group tours for 10 euros (plus 11 euros to get in), which I would totally recommend.

Pompeii, who knew?  Ruins and porn…forget trying to forget penises, they were carved into the buildings, on frescos and statues every where you turned.

Quick summary:  Pompeii was a vacation town during the heyday of the Roman empire and on 79 A.D. a volcano erupted from Mount Vesuvius and while many people escaped, around 2,000 souls and the entire city were buried underneath the volcanic ash until the excavations began in the 1700s.

Back in the day, the people of Pompeii knew how to live la vita edonistica. Whore houses were the nail salons of their day, on every street corner.  Sex workers rented rooms from family homes.  Bath houses were bath houses, same as now (John Travolta-style), but your dad and the mayor would be there every day. The frescos said it all.  I’ll just leave these here and say no more:

Ah, Rome…I love you and I hate you at the same time, just like my own town, Toronto.

I love how you Romans are free to drink Peroni on the street and laws are just unenforced suggestions but have you heard of any food item that isn’t based upon a white carb?  And why not inject your sardine-based gene pool with some herrings from Scandinavia?  I don’t know how to say it any kinder but y’all are a generation away from becoming mountain people, if you know what I mean.  And dudes, *if* you pinched my ass, I would giggle and totally give you 5 euros AND a tip. And that goes for you, too, Toronto, I’m really not that hard to get.

Next time down the shaft to the Amalfi coast!  Ci vediamo, Italia!

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01

Aug. ’12

Yard Sale Olympics

This: and That:

Awkward Adam Driver from HBO’s “Girls” and Olympic Gold Lurch Michael Phelps…they are brothers from another mother and father, separated at birth!

And I’d hit them both!  They both fall under the “ugly-sexy” category which means sometimes off-beat looks are actually hot.  Especially if you are a tortured artist or a freak of nature with out-of-whack ability-enhancing proportions that allow you to be a glorious god-like male specimen sponsored by Kelloggs!

I have to admit, I’ve been watching very little Olympic coverage. But I have been watching my HBO channel and finally got around to catching all the episodes of “Girls” which I am obsessing over. It’s the twenty-something version of Sex and the City but more “real.” Boyfriend Adam (played by Adam Driver) is my summer crush.  He had me at the Golden Shower, I am not kidding, if a man peed on me I would take it as a sign of true primal devotion.  The show is genius, and the creator, Lena Dunham, is who I want to be when I grow up. You probably don’t need HBO to watch it, that’s just me, I’m still an old-fashioned pay-for-cable gal…No doubt you have the wherewithal to stream it off the internets from some magical website that doesn’t require a credit card.  I hate you.

I’ve also been training for my own summer games which is drinking on the porch.  And I have to be in tip-top form for next week’s trip to Italy.  Will definitely be doing Olympic caliber drinking.  Wine is cheaper than water!  And I am on a budget!

I had a yard sale on Saturday to fund my sport where I sold whatever I could take from my parents’ house and my high-heeled hooker shoes and handbags.  And jewelry!  Which an elderly lady bought in lump form before I had barely set things up.

“I will take it all, dear,” she said, her gnarly hands grasping through the nest of beads and baubles.

“Are you a reseller like on eBay?”  I asked.  I actually don’t care if someone profits off my stuff, I just need wine money. Fast.

“Good Lord, no, dear.  I keep it all myself,” She kept stuffing the jewelry box and her eyes had that manic look like Betty’s when there is a pizza delivery man on the street.

“You mean you’re a hoarder?”

“Yes!  Yes, I am!  Do you have any perfume?”  She grabbed a beaded evening bag that I had just pulled out. I had many of my beloved handbags still under the table and I moved myself in front of them so she wouldn’t have access, essentially cockblocking her from doing more damage.  If they could only talk, those purses would have stories!  There is a L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani that took me through the phase 2 real estate courses and made me feel like a professional moneymaker.  There’s a black studded one with a shiny silver lining that was my trademark during the epoch of my mojo.  It carried many different shades of red lipstick and a lucky tampon which is till in the inside pocket.  They need good homes and to be taken out on the town like a lady, not stuffed behind the toilet on top of a litter box.

She was sweet though, and the beaded purse suited her.  I found her a bottle of half drained Kate Moss eau de skank and some really foul patchouli from Lush and she put it all in her shopping cart and headed off to another yard sale. The one down the street was heavy on drugstore paperbacks.  #Winning, hoarder-style.

I got rid of a lot of stuff but still have enough left over for another yard sale this Saturday.  When I told all my customers that I was funding a grip to Italy , they got very excited and bought more and even threw in some extra future euros in my change jar.  Some even came back and for once I am thrilled to have size 10 shoes because the cross-dresser down the street had a field day.  Sashay away, Bruce!  I’m hauling out some boots this weekend, so come on down!

I hope everyone is having a great summer, next week I’ll try and post from Italy if I am not too jet-lagged, but in the meantime, here’s my latest obsession:  The MELONA Bar…they are out of this world but I inhale them, not like this kitty:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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25

Jun. ’12

The Tale (With a Happy Ending) of the Mudflap Angel

Last week when my insomnia reached fever pitch, I was forced to go out and look for street opiates.  My doctor doesn’t prescribe anything stronger than sleepy time tea and the usual home methods don’t work.  Vodka:  it makes you pass out but then wake up at 2:00 and go for a ride on the tedious thought merry-go-round.  Weed:  similar to vodka except you are up all night making origami animals out of the sheets.

I’m a firm believer if you go out and make your needs be known, somebody somewhere will come up with a solution.

“You don’t need opiates, you need to get laid,” suggested the helpful butcher.  Oh great, he just woke the big sleeping bear.  If the dudes in that shop only knew of how long a run my dry spell has been, they would mercifully tie me up and lock me in a box in their basement and make me their gimp, Pulp Fiction style. Yes, please, I will have the bone-in pork sword special.

I’ve become such a social misfit during the last five years, and I simply won’t call on boys.  You never know if they’re married or not.  And I am insanely shy when it comes to mating rituals.  A couple of years ago, there was dude at the gym I kind of fancied, he was “age appropriate” and he had no ring, so I decided fuck it, he’s not all that, I will smile at him and say hi.  He smiled back and said hi, and it went on like that for a couple of weeks and then we started having friendly banter at the water cooler.  That’s the thing about me, if I can’t make ’em hard, I can make ’em laugh.  The gym has a bar (!) and one day he bought me a beer.  It’s a super casual type place where you can have a drink by yourself and not feel like a trolling weirdo like in Starbucks, where the desperation in the air is as thick as homogenized foam and everyone in there is frantically searching for their soul mate.  Anyway, I took this free pint of Stella as some progress and he was really growing on me.  Even his facial tick was starting not to bother me.

A few days later, I ran into him at Loblaws, with his wife and baby!  We caught each other’s eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he didn’t know me.    Hmmmfffff, you’d think at some point he would have mentioned he had a family, but no, dude was out prowling on collector lane while his wife was at home, changing diapers, lactating, and whatnot.

Maybe there is an iPhone app for my problem.  In gay world, there is one called Grindr that uses GPS as gaydar to let you know when there is a gay in the general area.  You can check out their profile and if you want to meet, you can message them.  Brilliant!  Is there an app similar for straight people?  I wondered.  Yes, there is, said my gay pal, it is called “Look Outside.”  Very funny.

I found one in the app store called OkCupid, but it’s more or less a dating website, not a boner tracker, but I decided to sign up.  Pro Tip:  If you are thinking about joining one of these sites, think about how you are going to write up your profile beforehand as there is nothing more morose and tedious than filling out these things.

I flew by the seat of my pants:

Create a user name:  I did this once before on some other site  6 years ago (for about a day) and called myself “Girl Afraid” and the only one who got it was “Frankly Mr. Shankley” who was a gay and messaged me just to find out if I had heard the new Morrissey album.  I decided on “Mudflapangel” which is the moniker I use when commenting on other blogs and probably best describes my nice and dirty personality.

Make up an opening about yourself:  “I am an insomniac.  I like a joke and a stiff cocktail.  If you pull my toes, I will make you a sandwich.  I like a dude with calloused hands who smells of WD-40 and can swing his dick around like a floppy eel.”

What are you good at:  “I can estimate the correct size of rubber maid container that will fit leftovers without too much extra room or excess spillage.”

What are you doing with your life:  “I write a blog, in fact read it:  mytorontoeh.com” (*I figured at least the blog can get some hits even if I can’t)

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

I gave my real age too, which is old as fuck but I figured these dudes can just take me as I am or go home.  Then I had to answer 800 inane multiple choice questions that started filling me with rage because you had to qualify with “how important it was.”  Like: How do you feel about kittens?  I like them very, very, much and I don’t give a crap if you like them or not, what does any of this have to do with getting some bone? I had answered but a few when I noticed I was already starting to get some messages in my in-box.

“Do you want to meet for coffee?” Was the first one.  No, dude, I have insomnia, the caffeine will keep me up.  Are you not reading what I’m writing down here?

The messages came in chunks of dozens throughout the rest of the day and there were too many to reply to but it is good to know there are men out there with floppy eels in their pants.  One thing that stood out:  There are no single men my own age, they are all married! Surprise! Calling all LOCAs:  You need to know that your husband is on-line trying to pick up chicks like me.

Only one message was by far and away the shining star in the batch and it was from a 25 (!) year old who made me laugh and blush at the same time. I messaged him back, then we started texting, or sexting, then we talked on the phone.  For me, a voice is more important than a penis.  If I don’t like how you sound, I can’t get a lady boner, and I’m looking right at you, David Beckham.  Luckily “Boss” had a voice I could splay for, he also talked really fast like a Gilmore Girl.  Men who talk fast make me think of 1930’s screwball comedies and I am tickled and smitten.

So we arranged a meet up.  This is unorthodox and I know breaks all common sense rules but I have to do things in my comfort zone or I will have diarrhea and barf at the same time.  He has to have drinks on my porch and meet my entire family and neighbours…I know, right?  Crazy.  But it’s okay, I can sense if he is a serial killer if I meet him at Point A and then if I like him, he goes to the second location, Point B, the porch.  The neighbours are all down with this, although one of them thinks I’m a lunatic, and the kids are home with a bunch of friends, all poised for some mass slaughter.  “Mother, he is 25!  You could have given birth to him!”  But I didn’t so shut up.

So in the early evening I went to meet him.  First impression: Brown and muscly, zero body fat, compact, pheromone bomb swaggering  toward me…no serial killer vibe at all, phew.  He is shorter than me but I don’t care, I think tall men are way over-rated.  Do you ever notice how they usually only date really short women? It’s as though to swing a stump around their cocks makes them look mightier.  Short men try harder and have that alpha male compensation thing going on which I think is pure bone power.

We went to the porch.  He brought vodka.  He assimilated like a boss.  The dog loved him and he loved the dog.  We had a couple of drinks, laughed a lot and then what happened next is that although I don’t squirt and tell, I will  let it be known that the sky opened up, and the universe finally got off its lazy ass and threw me a bone.  And it was good.  And I slept, but just a little bit, it was a long night.

 

 

Posted by . Categories: go girl, LOCAs gone wild, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , . 5 Comments