Category Archives: Handy Hints

Mastering the Art of Tantric for the Lonely and Confused

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 art by mike shinoda

Happy autumn daze, my precious kittens, fleeting fuckboys, and annoying mosquitoes! I will miss scratching all of your bites when I’m holed inside hibernating in the winter. Last night was a lovely porch night with the neighbours on the eve of the Blood Moon which is very exciting for those of us whose serotonin levels are lunar activated, definite mojo overload for this old prowling wolfmilf.  I have de-activated the Tinder app from my phone, so I have no immediate tangible outlet for my howling ways, but that’s okay, I can wait. It turns out I AM too old for the pell-mell, willy-nillyness that is modern day hook up culture. I am a woman of substance so I’m sticking old fashioned courtship techniques like social media cyber stalking and prolonged sexting. And sending photos of fragmented body parts using the classic filters from iOS7.

Last night’s porch life activity included the neighbours making me try some vegan cheese. I’m all cool and even sometimes interested with their lifestyle choice of replacing  hunks of juicy deliciousness (meat!)  with dried up flakes of ever-so-slight saltiness (nutritional yeast LOL!) but please don’t call coconut bacon “bacon” when it’s just dehydrated coconut dipped in liquid smoke. That is not simply a misnomer, it’s an insult to pork and no, carnivores do not feel “more comfortable” sitting around a picnic table while you call your processed GMO manipulated-man titty inducing soy product patty imposter a “burger.” Call it what it is: Dust.

Anyhoo, I didn’t really want to try the “cheese” because I knew it would be, at best, meh and these days if I want to fill my holes, what I put in better be more than just good, it better be amazing. But Colleen was all like “Try the cheese, Peterson” and had it spread on a bagel and waved it in my face and so I did, I ate it,  and I was right,  it was “okay,” I declared diplomatically but thinking: What is wrong with their taste palates? “You’ll get used to it!” she said sensing my disdain only because she was masking hers. I think those were the exact words Diana heard when she married Prince Charles. I don’t want to “get used to” anything. I want to be blown away by the beauty and wonder of the world and allow the splendour to flow through me and bestow on me enlightenment beyond my expectations and send me to another stratosphere that gets me closer to that higher place where the fear of death is placated by the divinity of stuffing  fondue or buttermilk brined fried chicken into my pie hole, is that too much to ask?

Last week I ate a triple cream brie ACTUAL fucking cheese made by monks in Burgundy, France.  Their repressed sexual energy is most probably hard-core pumped into everything they make like all that wine and bread and cheese they’re famous for, which is basically my own personal 3 food groups. Try playing the game of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” with wine, bread, and cheese. I just can’t do it. Every time I try, I get confused and I feel bad that if I married wine, I would cheat with beer sometimes, like every day probably, who’s kidding who. I’d probably be okay with killing bread because carbs but still really want to fuck a baguette on most days in a threesome with the cheese, obviously. What a quagmire. Anyway, eating this triple cream brie was like sucking on the teat of a benevolent deity whose multitude of arms coddled me, stroked my forehead, soothed inner child, made everything okay, and even fiddled with my ears (you know I like that)  while whispering “I love you.”  It was, indeed, a splendorous experience. Eating that “vegan cheese” was like eating a bagel that was moistened with something to make it go down easier. Do not call it cheese, it is merely “emotionally distant non-committal white spread for bread.”  But! The moon was almost full so I could forget what I ate and focus on the other holes.

So when the wine ran out and we all went inside to our respective digs, engulfing ourselves with the blue haze of the tv screens for cold comfort. Peeps, I need a new show to obsess over, fire me some suggestions, winter is coming, but don’t say “Game of Thrones” unless you’re willing to come over and pin me down because I get all antsy watching that shit, I’ve tried.

Lately I like to lay in the quiet dark and “meditate” or whatever euphemism makes you vegans comfortable. Carnivores tho, psssst: I’m tenderizing veal cutlets;). So yes, I was in the dark and I got a text from a friend whose meat and cheese would most probably make a mighty fine sandwich and I’m  thinking…long…. and hard about it.  Anyway, his message was non-sensical to moi, something random about “meditating” which was weirdly serendipitous because that is what exactly I was doing, and then he wrote back immediately before I could change hands, “oh sorry that wasn’t for you” and then he explained he was talking to some “friend” about tantric sexual practises. Whoa, what? Is it 1998?  His misfired text got my attention though. What exactly is this tantric practise anyway? I kind of missed the boat on that trend when I was busy breastfeeding babies and wiping toddler butts. I was way too lazy to google it but he said some kind of thing couples did instead of boning without touching each other. I know right? SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING VEGANS WOULD DO TO AVOID GETTING GREASY. I fell asleep just thinking about it.

So this morning I woke up all refreshed and ready to start a new day of same old repressed sexual energy coursing through all my chakras and busting at the seams as per usual, I decided to google this tantric tomfoolery. I got to the wiki page which defines tantra as “an Asian tradition of beliefs and meditation and ritual practices that seeks to channel the divine energy of the macrocosm or godhead into the human microcosm in order to attain siddhis and moksha.” Yeah, okay, so where does Sting and his 7-hour boner come into it?

Well, scrolling further down the pages of Google I found out that  apparently channelling all your sexual energy and letting it simmer and steep rather than explode in the normal 3 minutes or less, let’s not kid ourselves, actually heightens intimacy! Longer is better, yo!  Of course, this is only useful if you have a partner but between you and me, show me a couple practising the tantra and I will show you an exercise in full blown mind numbing boredom. All that staring and breathing and intertwining without penetration is unsustainable. Dollars for donuts one of you is thinking about renovating the kitchen and the other is contemplating murder. You know I’m right.

Anyway, you actually don’t really need a partner to practice tantric energy. It turns out I’ve been doing this all along in every day situations, I just did not know what it was.  I liked this 4 easy steps guide and modified it for every day people who are single or enjoy vegan cheese:

1. Design and “Intimacy Space.” I think this is super important. In my opinion, your whole home should be a place that is a haven from the rest of the world, whether you bone in it or not. Once in a while I will go to a friend’s house with whom  drinking shots out of each other’s belly buttons turned into an invitation for wine and cheese and bread and I walk into their crib and I think: “Who the fuck lives here, your grandma?” And yes, once this guy actually did live with his grandma but what I mean is don’t decorate your house like you think it should be like, all pristine and with a couch that looks like it’s wearing a back brace accessorized with cushions that have decorative beadwork and feathers that you can’t drool on. You should be able to fuck recklessly on every piece of furniture in your space or at least practice twerking on every piece of furniture in your space. Otherwise what is the point of “home?” Or intimacy, especially, if you have a piece of furniture called a hutch or curiosity cabinet filled with Royal Doulton figurines. Boner killer. Tantric panic button.

2. Breathe Each Other’s Breath. What? I don’t want to do this with anybody either. One person breathes out, the other breathes it in? Ugh. No. I breathe really fast and shallow cuz my heart is like hummingbird and I don’t want to know what someone else had for lunch, breakfast, or how many creams in their coffee, this is a mess. I modified this tantric energy exercise though for normal people with boundaries. I like to spin with my one of my best buddies, JHo. We park ourselves on bikes side by side and she’ll all dressed to go, full of piss and Balsamic vinaigrette and ready hit the 20 mark, and I’m like, slow mo, no, Ho,  I don’t go 20 but she is YES, BITCH! Put it on 20! So I put it on 21  just to be the top in our symbiotic energy flow system. I also match my pedal stroke to hers and we to ride stupid songs like “Shut Up and Dance,” we both feel the hatred together which binds us as one sweaty unit. I breathe, and I’m pretty sure she is breathing.  We’re 2 feet apart,with the fan blowing, sucking on each other’s oxygen waste, but not on purpose. Good enough, tantric task master!  Xoxoxoxoxox, JHo!

3. Keep Your Eyes Open.  This means you need to gaze into each other’s eyes and let the energy flow through one another. Again, no. Last time I locked eyes with a dude in an intimate moment, he took it as a signal to put his hands around my throat and throttle away just enough for me to stop that shit and knuckle punch him in his Lumberjerkoff beard. Who knew this was a commonplace hipster sex move? I did not! And! as a consequence I’m still apprehensive about venturing west of the Don Valley. If ever I had a proper dude for staring all soulfully and tantra-like eyes to eyes, I would probably make sure we were both wearing those Bioré pores strips across the bridge of our noses so we wouldn’t get distracted counting each other’s blackheads. Until this happens, I sometimes lay on my back with Betty the dog on my chest and she and I gaze into each other’s souls while I pet her soft furry head. Her big black eyes are so attentive and she looks at me like she thinks I’m pretty, it’s as though we are connected with tantric energy in the purest form. This is what we are thinking:

Me: “Oh, Betty, you are such and exquisite little animal. I love you so much, I want to squeeze you until all the cute comes out, you are so scrumptious, I want to eat you up!”(I am such a carnivore)

Betty: “Cheese, bitch.”

4. Take It Slow.  Tinder fuckboys, take note, this makes sense. Tantric is all about foreplay even if it means grossing each other out and boring each other senseless with the breathing and staring but! there is definitely something to be said about taking your time and letting it all build up when there is mutual attraction. Like going on an actual date for dinner and drinks, then another date some other time where you do something “fun” like indoor rock climbing or mini golf, all devised to check out how the ass moves so you can decide whether or not book a third date, which is the crucial one.  Unless of course, on that first date, you’re both so hot for each other, you lock eyes, growl or snort, and you can barely make it to the bathroom where you mash it out in there. Fuck that tantric bullshit, that’s the stuff that’s makes for real cheese. Just wait for it.

Enjoy the full moon, y’all!

 

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Procrastination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THIS IS HOW TO PROCRASTINATE, BITCHES #GOODTIMES.

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheap and Cheerful Christmas Tips For The Lazy and Gluttonous

It’s so funny to listen to a bunch of ladies talk in the locker room the week before Christmas. Somebody needs to make a Shit Locas Say viral video:

“Are you ready for Christmas?”

“Liam is bringing his girlfriend from Waterloo. We sold his bunk bed on Craigslist…”

“…real eggnog has raw eggs so I get the one Loblaws, they have a low-fat version, but what the heck, it’s only once a year…”

“Rum! Don’t get me started!”

“…I’m allergic to wool. Except cashmere. I can wear it even without a body slimmer.”

“New Year’s in Whistler, although Jeff’s mother is in Boca so we might fly down for a couple of days if Sharon and Mike are at their time-share in St. Barts…”

“Do these black hose make me look like an Italian widow?”

The other day, one of these ladies actually asked me if I was “ready for Christmas.” Aside from stretching out my stomach by eating an entire wreath made out of nuts and caramel and drinking a half a bottle of Gibson’s Finest Sterling Whisky to beef up my alcohol tolerance, I could say I have done Sweet F-All to prepare for the big day. To placate her, I told her I have “organized my thoughts” and she laughed: “Well that’s a good start!”

What the hell is she talking about? Why does everyone get all in a frenzy about Christmas? It’s supposed happy and fun. Don’t get me wrong, shopping is a huge stress especially if you are on a budget but my strategy is to create diversions, aka. cheaper alternatives that will make your Christmas special. I have some ideas that I will share AS MY GIFT TO YOU:

Christmas cards are expensive and so is postage. I have only received two this year, one from Rona (with a 10 percent off gift card on my next purchases for my next installation project over $3,000. Thanks, Rona, for the conditional good wishes), and my accountant’s office which is sweet. They have seen me cry. And so has my divorce lawyer but so far no card yet…if you’re reading this Ms C, let’s go for a holiday drink over orgy week! For the rest of us not drumming up business and who have not had the where-with-all to get the cards, find a pen, find a pen that works, write in the cards, find your address book, write the addresses on the envelopes, shlep to the post office, buy stamps, put the stamps on the cards, and mail them out (and we wonder why we are fatter than ever), why not make a custom e-card? Make your own meme, like the “Bitch,Please” one of Betty above. Click here and get creative. Oh, and I know it’s 2011 and still 80% percent of you don’t know what a meme is…I just can’t explain it without going on about how funny LOL Cats are, click here for the definition.

The meme’s slutty sister, the Gif, would also make an awesome e-card. Here is mine:

THERE’S NO PREZZIES UNDER THE TREE!

Moving on: The best part of Christmas is the eating and the drinking. Please ignore any advice you see on tv or the newspaper on how to keep from gaining weight over the holidays. Fuck that. People hate you when you are “dieting” and y’all know it. They don’t put on a spread and sweat over how much booze to buy just so you can twirl around their living room with your belt all buckled in non-stretch jeans while you suck on a celery stalk, you sanctimonious bitch. Just shut up about how fat you might get and eat. Here’s a little tip to if you’re going to be all calorie-phobic: Leave your car at home and walk everywhere. My friend lives across a hilly cemetery and on top of a cliff and I run though (scared of ghosts!) and climb to get there in order to enjoy the delicious meals she makes, and nobody makes a better roast beef feast. Sometimes I feel like vomiting after my trek but I don’t, that would be cheating. Fattening food is part and parcel of the season. You don’t even need a car. Food is fuel, like you know how when you go to people’s homes over the holidays and they serve those balls of Boursin cheese? A few little smears of that on a cracker and you have enough gastric explosives that you get home by using your colon as a rocket pack. Those potent little cheese balls put the arse in arsenal. Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it, North Korea.

Which brings me to this idea: Why not create a culinary diversion this year by making your own cheese? It’s not that hard. I am so into this. And the fact that you made it yourself will make you look like the lovechild of Jesus and Martha Stewart. Here is how:

By poor planning and laziness, I ended up getting a tree way too late. Instead of getting the usual stream-lined Frasier Fir that takes up minimal space, I wound up with a monstrous, furry Scotch Pine that takes up the entire fitness area of the living room. You know what I mean when I say “fitness area,” it’s the only space in the entire house where you can lay down flat on your back with your yoga mat and practise “plow” aka. Queefing Manatee in private. This tree puts Vegas back into Christmas even with those shitty LED lights. It is gorgeous. I am in love with this tree. Although it makes me sneeze like crazy, it adds to its breathtaking and sensory beauty. I’m never going to get a tiny tree again. Talk about a diversion, nobody will notice if there are no presents and that half of your decorations are actually from Halloween. Go big or go home….ACHOOOO (6 times)…is all I have to say about that.

And finally, don’t forget to treat yourself! I had the pleasure of going to a small Christmas party where the husband of the hostess invited a reflexologist to give us all 15 minute foot massages as a gift. It was the first time I’ve had reflexology and I am a fan. I even like it better than massage, you don’t have to get naked and lay face down on a bed and worry if your tits are flying out of your armpits and then have that greasy walk of shame to put your bra back on. No nudity, it’s feet only! I’ve got myself booked for an entire hour!

And I leave you with the second episode of Shit Girls Say and a wish for a very Happy Holiday and an awesome orgy week (call me!):

Martha and Me: Team Scratch

People give Joan Crawford a bad rap. I hate wire hangers just as much as she did, maybe even more. Thankfully, they never come into my house because I never go to the dry cleaner. Once when I was helping a friend sort out her closet, she had wire hangers mixed in with puffy ones. I don’t know which was worse.

“Your puffy hangers are taking up too much room and I can’t even touch these wire ones. You must throw these all away and let’s go to Ikea and get the wooden ones,” I stated.

“But my mother made these ones,” she protested, holding up one of the puffy hangers. It was then I realized they were just wire hangers dressed up in a peach satin outfit. They even had bows that only a mad housewife would think to put on as a finishing touch. I remember my best friend had a “teddy bear” her grandma made that was basically a wine bottle with crocheted cosy for a body and a pom-pom for a head. She called it Cuddles. The head could come off, and another bottle could be put inside. Form and function. This is my kind of craft. Get with the program, ladies.

I didn’t hit her over the head with those fug-assed wire peach puffs or anything like that, but I did convince her that a full closet with all the same kind of wooden hangers would be a good thing. And she lit up a blunt and concurred.

Speaking of a “good thing,” Martha Stewart’s daughter just put out a “Mommie Dearest” style book about her. Now one thing you might not know about me is that I worship Martha Stewart. I think we are both misunderstood in many ways. Some think Martha is a heinous Type A beeyutch-slash-criminal but I find her inspiring. She is all about labour intensive domestic chores because it is the journey not the destination that makes the story. Time consuming chores keep the fingers nimble. I, too, dabble in domestic artistry. Sometimes this shocks people who know me. I remember running into a colleague at Loblaws and he had that WTF look on his face like he just saw a frog on the highway.

“I wouldn’t think to see you here, Peterson, I thought you would have someone to do this sort of thing for you,” he said with geniune surprise. Yes, I cook. I also have the crafting gene. I can knit, sew, and weave bacon. I have followed my mentor and made pumpkin pie, not from a can, but from the gourd placenta that I roasted in the oven and then mashed it up with my bare hands. I made Christmas twig balls, Valentine”s cards, and mayonnaise. Doing laundry is my porn. I am more systematic about it than you are when you troll all the NSFW sites on your laptop at Starbucks. My washing machine is my bitch. I use the cold setting, boost with Borax, and hang dry everything on a rack in my bedroom. This is what keeps my skin moist by the way. I have not used a dryer in years. I am sure that Martha would be proud and bestow upon me a gold star made out of shortbread from Amish butter for a job well done.

I was happy to hear that Martha’s take on her daughter’s book was that it was all in fun and “irreverent” with really great pictures. The “bad things” include: Martha pees with the door open. I pee on the porch when I open the door! Same, same! Every thing must be from scratch. I must scratch everything! She likes to dig in the dirt. I like to dig for dirt! We are sistahs! Except for one thing. Halloween. I love Halloween, it is the High Holy Day in my family. I decorate the house and make costumes. Then I sit on the porch, turn on the smoke machine, drink cheap wine, and give out candy to all the kids Apparently Martha and her daughter thought it was great fun to turn off the lights and pretend not to be home. Perhaps this is where she went too far with her control freakery. There is no way she would buy a pre-packaged Oh Henry bar when she can make her own nougat, peanut and caramel dipped in chocolate creation with a possible razor blade embedded inside. This is the one time you cannot do scratch. Stupid media propaganda. I bet there was never a razor blade in any candy. It was just something Nestle made up so that you had to buy their product.

Which is why she probably sits it out. Or so I’m telling myself. Either that or she hates children. But I’m not crazy for them either. Wait scratch that, it’s not children I hate, it’s those parents who talk loudly in the third person so everyone can hear their stellar parenting: “Now Piper, Mommy wants you to get in the Lexus so we can go to Kumon to pick up your twin brothers, Finn and Cooper. Later on we can go to the park and then when Daddy gets home he can braid your hair.” Modern daddies do all the crappy crafting nowadays, they are pussy whipped by their feckless wives who think it’s cute that they can’t even make toast. You know the type. I’m not sure what their MO is but I think they just want to keep their husbands extra-busy so they don’t have time to fuck around with their extracurricular activities. Bitches!

Martha and I have no time to enslave our men, we are too busy folding sheets:

Searching For Mr. Tenant

If somebody in Toronto spots this man, tweet me pronto.  Not for me, perv, for my daughter.  I might be in my cougar years but I’m not on the prowl for young prey.  Please.  But daughter is a big fan of his work.  Although we would both love to get a real-life glimpse of the enigmatic (and by enigmatic, I mean: What’s the story, morning-glory? Is he gay or straight?) Robert Pattinson, the sparkly star of that heinous Twilight franchise.  He’s in town RIGHT NOW filming “Cosmopolis.”  He wasn’t at the Pride Parade on Sunday, but then again all those oily young bucks looked alike in blazing sun.  He doesn’t seem to sleep or eat anywhere, so he could possibly really be a vampire.   So yeah, if you spot a Cosmopolis film truck, call me, and we will put our slap on, change our shoes, and Scionate on over to the locale and pretend we are part of the makeup crew.  Hilarity would ensue, it would be like a hybrid episode of Gilmore Girls meets I Love Lucy. It would make our whole summer.

And speaking of slippery young men, last week my tenant gave me notice that he was leaving.  And by “notice,’ I mean a text on July 1;  “Just a head’s up, Kristin, I’m looking for a cheaper place.”  Me:  “You mean September 1?”  He: “Well, like, kind of like August 1, I’ll let you know.”  WHAT DO YOU MEAN “LET ME KNOW?”  You’re leaving or you’re not, and you’re only giving me 30 days notice, JESUS MO-FU!   I didn’t say that to him, instead I remained calm and told him I would have to advertise it right away, blah blah, but inside I was seething with the usual fear-based rage I have become so accustomed in the past year.  As much as I love my tenant, and by “love,”  I mean from afar, from very afar, because he spends most of his time in Woodbridge.  And for me, there is no better tenant than the absent kind.  But he was having problems with rent, so, maybe it was really for the best.

So onto to Craigslist I went.  It’s a scary place, that’s for sure.  Last year I put 8 harp-backed dining room chairs for sale.  Those are those ubiquitous chairs that every East York gramma has but I put the clever spin on it in the ad:  “As seen on Sex and the City.”  It is true, when you own these harp-backed chairs, you can spot them a mile away anywhere.  So I noticed in the episode where Charlotte wants to convert to Judaism and she barges in on the Rabbi’s Seder, she is offered a seat on a harp-back when they say their prayer.  Funnily enough, the person that answered the Craigslist ad, was a woman named Esther, who came to see them one evening with her husband.  They were a young Jewish couple from Bathurst and Lawrence and they drove all the way to the beach late at night   She was wearing a long black wig ass-length wig that made her look like pole dancer in a witness protection program.  She was  painfully thin and covered up in a button down shirt and one of those long, ankle length corduroy skirts that Ralph Lauren still puts out for that particular demographic.   He was all conservative, also,  wearing a yarmulke and suit and was non-stop finger fucking his Blackberry the moment he stepped out of the mini-van.  I took them to see the chairs which were in the empty dining room of the apartment that I hadn’t yet rented out to the current dingle-douche. It was way past my bed-time and one of those sweltering hot Tennessee Williams-style July nights that make sensitive souls such as myself want to ruminate in the dark with a wet washcloth and sweating glass of icy vodka-laced lemonade bed-side.  It took these two wretched characters the better part of an hour for them to fight over whether to buy the chairs or not.

He:  These chairs are UGLY!

She:  I like them, I want them.

He:  You just like them because you want to buy them.  You`ll hate them when you bring them home.  You do this all the time.

She:  No I don’t, I haven’t done any decorating in that apartment!   I really like them.

He: You don`t like them,  you just like buying things.

She:  They’ll fit perfectly with the table.

He:  WHY?  They are UGLY and they are too small!  We have fat relatives! (and he turns to me and says) I’m sorry, lady, but I know my wife and she just likes to buy things even if they are ugly.

Me:  But she likes them…..But you are right, she married you and you are ugly (haha, I don’t actually say that part)

He:  SHE DOESN”T LIKE THEM!  YOU’RE NOT HEARING ME!  I KNOW MY WIFE!

And so it went.  I shut up and just watched this post modern, twisted version of “Fiddler on the Roof” play out until she finally complied right around the time his Blackberry ran out of battery.  Off they went, chairless, into the sultry hot night.  When they got home, they probably had negotiated sex:  “I’ll buy you an ottoman,” he said,  After he planted his seed into her bony loins, he rolled over and said, “If you have a baby, it better be a boy,” as he plugged his Blackberry back in the charger.  Stupid Craigslist, creepy people, dumb chairs.  A week later, the good folks at Frontier Sales ended up taking them off my hands.  “These chairs are a dime a dozen,” Frontierman said, ” But I will give 50 bucks.”  Sweet!  Deal!

That was a year ago.  So when I reluctantly put the apartment up on Craigslist this week, I was delighted with 8 responses in one day, and 6 people came.  It turned out I had my choice!   Everyone was so nice!  There were ladies and couples but I ended up choosing the single, mid- 20s male, once again, to replace the old one.  The house is top-heavy with both fresh, ripe, and spayed estrogen (poor 15-year-old Freddy, even the dog is a girl)  that the virile testosterone of a young buck can be the only remedy to make the house feng shui balanced.  That is my story and I’m sticking to it.

Apocalypse Raincheck

 

It’s the May 24 (Vic- CHORE-ia Day) weekend here in Canada, also known as Rapture according to some folks, obviously hungry for a diversion.  Saturday the world was supposed to end, but it didn’t.  Surprise. I spent the day outside because it was nice out for once and everyone else had mowed their lawn.  So I cut my grass for the first time this year using my broken gas-powered lawn mower.  There were big puffs of blue smoke coming out of the motor, but I didn’t care, I inhaled deeply and carried on.  The end is nigh and I am high!!!   Then I went to Canadian Tire and got some potting soil and annuals to plant in all my flower vessels.  I had to dump the old earth out first though so I picked up one of the pots and underneath there was a giant earthworm the size of boa constrictor writhing around like a sexy beast on the prowl.  It had eyes and looked up at me and smiled.  I screamed and dropped the pot and ran in the house.  I hate snakes!  Didn’t Jesus and Jim Morrison both poetically see a snake as an omen before they both died tragically, one as a martyr and the other as a drunken pig?   I know it was a worm, but still.  Freddy came out, and picked it up and threw it into the back of the garden and I finished planting.  I’m not much of a gardener but it looks pretty good.  Each planter has a thrill, a fill, and a spill, meaning something popping out high in the center, and something filling in the rest , and then something spilling out the sides.  In the days of yore, we would just plant a bunch of crappy marigolds in an old barrel and be done with it but now everyone is Martha Stewart.  I took pride in my finished product and went inside to wash my hands and reward myself with clean fingers.

But the chores didn’t end there.  When I got inside, Righteous Teenage Daughter had ripped apart my office/pantry/laundry room and filled a couple garbage bags and boxes  with junk .  “I feel like I am on episode of Hoarders and I am saving the day!”  She was delirious with glee.  “Here!” she barked, “Start hauling these outside!”  So we threw out bags of half eaten tapanades, Rubbermaid containers with missing lids, papers and more paper, including bank statements (yes, identity thieves:  Take mine, please!  You can be a slightly neurotic single lady of a certain age whose credit card doesn’t work in a parking meter, I’ll just go and join the circus instead.  Good times.).  Anyway, we filled, hauled, and dumped, and I have to say it was the best fun ever.  And before we knew it, the Rapture time came and went and we were still in tact.  Same old, same old.  I’m not sure if the Faux-pocalypse taught us to LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST  because that level of existential awareness would get tedious pretty quickly.  You can only eat so many bacon bombs and bungee jump so many times before you prolapse.  But maybe just appreciate what you have, remind yourself that unopened mail holds no power, delight in the surprises like smiling worms, and if you can’t find the lid to something, for God’s sakes, throw out the container!  And life should have the occasional thrill, a bunch of fill (please no marigolds), and some spill.  And with that, I leave you Blondie: