Category Archives: lady boners

Mastering the Art of Achieving Relationship Goals


Valentines Day is coming, LOLCats, so you lonely hearts  better get your best Tinder game on this week. Best advice from moi: Start swiping right for godsake! There’s no bone in the ether where you dismiss all the lefties! Me personally, I like to take my swiping moves out in the real life world these days. Like for example I’ve discovered recently that Friday night at my local Loblaws is an unofficial, unspoken singles night. I know this because a) they switch the jam from 80s Brit pop in the day to house music so it feels like a club not a grocery store and b) the produce section feels exactly like a grade 7 school dance. Everyone is like shuffling around with their awkward not-so-hidden agendas, lingering over radishes, wondering what are they for anyway, gazing over the selection of herbs, trying to come to terms over cilantro, and then furtively looking in each other’s baskets for signals. The sexual tension is palpable, particularly in the phallic fruit section. “Why are the bananas always so green here?” I asked a random dude last Friday, demurely swinging my basket of juicy figs and ripe papayas in my left hand. “Go left!” he actually answered, rolling his cart of cucumbers and zucchinis past me toward the plantains. And so it goes.

Speaking of bananas, let me just swing over to another tangent tree for a minute before I get on to the nitty gritty of today’s life lesson. Last weekend, my fam and I  went to see “The Danish Girl” at the world’s most antiquated Cineplex in an uptown business mall that time forgot. This theatre had all that plush red carpeting and seats where the cup holder is on the chair in front of you where your knees  are supposed to be and you have to practically hire a sherpa to get to the washroom which after going through a maze of twists and turns, is up two flights of stairs, holy god, and that particular day, the entire place was heated like a sauna. It wasn’t just hormonally-charged me, trust, everyone was sweating and stripped down to their undershirts.

Conversely, a few weeks ago, I saw “The Revenant” in a theatre where there are reclining leather seats and a butler brings you a pint of craft beer in an actual glass, a platter of charcuterie, a blankie, and a pair of slippers. The sound system and air flow quality was such that I could hear Leonardo di Caprio (yes! I would, shut up) shivering hot breath in my left ear and Tom Hardy’s unintelligible (but kind of hot if you like that sort of thing and I think I might) Southern accent in my right ear as though they were snuggled on the leather chair with me as their centre of gravity! And talk about my hormonally charged brain slapping together a pheromone sandwich. What depraved things I did with my charcuterie platter no one else in the theatre would have noticed because they were tucked away in their own wombs with their own thoughts. Genius design.

Anyway, this old Cineplex was one of those theatre scenarios where the audience was flesh on flesh from elbows to thighs stuck together like a Club Pack of vacu-sealed chicken wings IN A GODDAMN SLOW COOKER. And my anxiety level was high because popcorn is the disgusting scourge of all snack food, chewing noises and the smell of the “butter” topping blends with  the low-note seepage of muffled farts, just gross.  And having to endure the other symphony of the slurping of straws and constant rattling of ice cubes in the shitty plastic drink holders that your knees crash into made me wish I didn’t have to actually sit there and watch the movie and somehow it could just be implanted in my brain and the fam and I could just go to the pub ASAP. Beers, please.

Soooo…when the movie started there was hope for some pretty decent leg sprawl over top of the chairs because we had no one in the seats in front of us but then! 15 minutes in, three ladies sat right in front of us and no joke, they pulled out these electronic caption readers the size of that small iPad and they set them on top of the chairs in front of them. Yes, they were deaf peeps and I have compassion and shit but they came in late and their caption readers were going to be as distracting as any cell phone. If you ever had to suffer some bitch in front of you texting during a movie you know what rage towards strangers feels like.

But! Here’s what. Turns out these ladies and their captions readers were a godsend because Eddie Redmayne is in the Tom Hardy school of acting where if you have no idea what you’re doing, just mumble quietly and make them guess. In case you are living under a rock, “The Danish Girl” is loosely based on a true story about a man about to undergo one of the first sex change operation in the 1920s. In Denmark, obviously although they all had British accents. The captions came in handy for sure. Good movie, but! Eddie Redmayne as a woman, meh, and his chapped pillow lips at the melodramatic deathbed scene made me want to scream to put on some damn lipstick. Not an Oscar-worthy performance for sure and even though I agree that #OscarsSoWhite, I’m still going to watch because Chris Rock is one of my fave comedians AND the actress that played his wife, Alicia Vikander, is luminous in the film. She carries the whole story but she is only nominated for Best SUPPORTING Actress even though she has as much screen time as he does and is infinitely more interesting. So typical, right? Women, in films and real life, are the one who have to support, react, and adapt to situations where the men go through life swinging their balls and pointing their dicks in whatever direction they want, even taking the junk to the dump in this case.

Which brings me swinging back to the first tree, the hashtag relationship goals! Last week, in one of my seminars, ie. wine around the kitchen table, I was talking with some young women and whats up on the Tinder trail and they are all worried about the danger of losing themselves when they get into relationships. Like reading too much into text messages and getting paranoid when they don’t call, flipping out, this, that, and all that goes along with modern mating rituals. Good times. Same stuff I went through in my youth but with a Snapchat stories and electronic evidence.

When I was a teenager, one of my best friends told me that if you ever get boyfriend or want to snag a husband one day, it’s best that he is the one who loves you more than you love him. It was the tao of her crazy mom but I had no reason to dispute it. For the longest time, I kept this thought in the back of my head as I went through my handful of dudes. If they chase after you, then you have the power, is whatI stupidly thought. Be the bunny to the hunter was my modus operandi as I hid under bushes and buried holes in the dirt, reacting with feigned indifference, pretending not to care, but really I was afraid. And then the problem with this game is hunters get bored and want more bunnies. Then as said  hunted bunny, guess what, you are left bewildered, and thinking what does that bunny have that I don’t have? Then before you know it, you’re getting a boob job. I mean, not me personally, of course, but I did go blonde once.

At least the young women are aware of this process and that there is a game that must be played even though no one really knows the rules. Hence the “drama” when someone missteps. What man doesn’t have it on his dating profile that he is “not looking for drama?”  And also I question why does the man have to be the one who loves the most? Don’t men just want and need as their active verbs when they chose a relationship which somehow women translate as love? As in: they WANT blow jobs and they NEED their socks sorted, or visa versa. Do they actually “love” women? In “The Danish Girl,” before he transitions into a woman, Eddie Redmayne has only eyes for his wife as described by the hot ballerina played by Amber Heard…but really only because he WANTS to wear her dresses and NEEDS someone to help him with makeup.  It’s a fucked up situation to have to put your wife through, and yet she is devoted to him until his character’s chapped lip demise. Fierce bitch is a like a bear, fearless in her capacity to love and protect, unlike most of us who would probably be re-activating our Tinder accounts the second we saw some dude wearing our panties the first time. It’s actually inspiring.

So my thoughts are to probably put that game of bunny and hunter to rest. I’m too old and tired to hop around anyway.  I could handle being a monkey instead. Way better lifestyle:  Blithely swinging through trees with another like minded monkey, picking the lint out of each other’s crevasses without judgment. Scratching. Lolling on the fat branches. Netflix and chill while waiting for the bananas from Loblaws to finally ripen. Get a puppy.




The Tale of Pokey and Lamb Chop


Prelude, hookers:  If this wasn’t currently happening to me, and somebody else told me this story, I would be all supportive and whatnot but then I would soooooo laugh behind their back. What. A. Fucking. Loser.  I am fully aware of what you’ll think of me but I don’t care, I am currently on another planet, so here goes:

He had me at “Buenos Penis.” The very first time he messaged me on OkCupid, I felt a palpable stirring in my inbox. It was August 17, I had been on the site over a month. I had been fielding a vast array of interweb suitors from far and wide, from ages 18-99. Yes, I cast my net wide! They all had my oh-so brief attention but I am like a dick gnat, I will buzz around a few seconds, maybe swoop around the balls then up the shaft and sniff at the head a bit, then drop dead of exhaustion. So. Many. Veins.

Enter Pokey. Or: Enter, Pokey.

In my quest for casual, every day bone, I was also obsessed with the notion of finding my 99% compatibility match. I can talk the talk of a jaded old broad with a drawer full of bobby pins in her night side table (don’t ask) but it’s still an interesting thought that there may be someone out there who completes you and by the way, fuck you, I like that term, it’s romantic to the nth degree. I am all about maths and logic. I think this is where true intuition stems from, the perfection of the absolute. People always say things like “I listen to my heart.” Here’s a newsflash: Your heart says dick all, all it does is pumps blood through your veins if you are lucky, it has no other magical powers than that. It’s your stupid brain that tells you that you are lonely and your neglected vagina might need a rutting and then the confusion between love and sex starts. Your fucking heart doesn’t know shit, it’s along for the ride. It only flutters and skips a beat when you see your crush because your brain is doing you a solid and giving you signals. That fluttering and skipping sensation? That’s your brain telling your heart: Fight or Flight. Pro tip: If you feels that heart-jumping feels, it’s best to flight that one, he is usually a prick.

I found Pokey’s profile in my 99 search. He had no head! Just a profile pic of his torso in a black tshirt with an arm. WTF!? The thumbnail looked like a pencil dick. He is older than me and he lives 853 kilometers away in Illinois. His written profile was short and eloquent and irreverent but it sang a special song to me: I believe in space aliens, yo. I am not fully domesticated. 

As a rule, I don’t message people first, because I am the bunny in the tale of my ridiculously barren love life. But Pokey saw my lurking activity, this is the key to successful OkCupid transactions, make sure people can see you’ve been on their profile otherwise you’re nobody unless you’re a stalker. He messaged me first. He charmed me and wrote me a poem and made me laugh. Hardly anyone makes me actually LOL, sometimes just snort a bit, this is a bonus. I wrote back, he replied. Why he does he have no face on his profile? I know what you’re thinking: Because he is married, you dumb bitch. Yes, this is what I thought also but! He lives in a small town and they don’t need to rifle through his answers to the questions: Do you take masturbation breaks at work? And will the word get out around town that yes, he does sometimes with the door shut. Y’all know I’m a different bird with no filter or common sense but then I don’t have to go to the supreme court and argue in front of judges for a living. We bantered back and forth for three days. Then nothing. A whole entire day went by. I didn’t even know his real name or had seen a picture of his face. I was actually bummed out even though this sort of fast and furious communication happens all the time on the Cupid and then disappears into the ether, and usually by me.

And then he messaged me, he had accidentally blocked me on his phone app! So easy to do, I have done it before! He hadn’t heard from me and he was worried! And I was depressed! But we were back! Obsessively messaging like long lost lunatics! Who use exclamation points! All the time!

I finally asked him what his name was, even though in a way I didn’t want to know anything external about him. What does a 50something lawyer in the midwest of Amurrica look like? All I could think was Greg Kinnear. My lady boner was confused and afraid but I needed to know. So he said, “I’ll give you a clue, look on the wiki page of Middle-of-a-Cornfield, Illinois, and you will find me.”  Ugh, wtf, of course I had already googled that town up days before and read all about the underground railroad and some radiation disaster. So back I went to the “notable people” section. Well he’s too young to have founded the boyscouts or be that actor who played a lawyer on “All My Children,” OR BE MY FAVOURITE FILM DIRECTOR OF ALL TIME (it’s not him), so by default he must be….the dude from the 80s punk band! Okay, I am not going to reveal his name at this point in time but he is so NOT Greg Kinnear, holy shit…he is Hispanic and H*O*T.

I almost died right then and there, I really did, drowning in my own cum puddle, because then I googled him and found a youtube video of what was his band’s last performance in Seattle in 1987 and ding, ding went the bells in my idiot savant brain: I WAS AT THAT MOTHERFUCKING SHOW 26 YEARS AGO! Wut? How could this have been so star crossed? I was in Seattle for a friend’s wedding, and trust, I am never in Seattle EVER, and her brother was in charge of taking care of me because she had pre-nuptual activities, and he took me to that very show. I remember hardly anything else and was oblivious to the fact that the birth of grunge was imminent but that is that. Serendipity, yo. I believes! I don’t care what y’all say, that is a magical worm hole as a random mathematic pattern right there.

So the very next day, Pokey went out and bought an iPhone and changed his phone plan from a laughable 300 minutes to infinity and the ability to text outside of the U.S. of A. I, too, changed my phone plan AND sent him a pair of panties in the mail that I wore over night. The deal has been sealed.

On the phone, Pokey calls me Lamb Chop but he says, in a thick Chicago accent that he doesn’t think he has: LYAMB CHAHP. When I lay on the bed, and he talks to me, my toes curl. I hug my pillow.

We text in each all day in LOLCats dialect: I haz the feels. Pokey, we be like two cats sitting on a window sill in the ghetto with our tails entwined.

Of course, I realize that when Pokey and Lamb Chop finally meet in person in October, it could go tits up, actually yes, that is the basic missionary which is first thing on the agenda…it could turn to shit, is what I mean, I’ve been to the internet rodeo before but allz I know for now, Pokey doesn’t make my heart skip or flutter, he causes this: 2H2(g) + O2(g) → 2H2O(g), and that’s combustion to fuel a rocket, baby.





Mastering the Art of Conjuring Up Bone (OkCupid Edition)


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

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

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

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

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

What are you doing with your life?


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

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

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


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

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

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

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






Mastering the Art of Being a Mistress


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.







What Ever Happened to All Those Van Pattens?


In between angry hot flashes, I had this major mind-blowing IMDb Trivia experience yesterday and I had no one to share it with because my kids grew up on Hannah Montana, so I’m just going to lay it all out here for us all to groove to, or not, but if you care at all about Salami from “The White Shadow” keep scrolling:

It began with John Slattery from “Mad Men” on “The Kelly and Michael Show” promoting his new first-time directorial film, “God’s Pocket” which by the way, has Philip Seymour Hoffman in it as his last completed project…so SAD! Okay, but let’s focus: They bantered on about Mad Men, which you probably don’t watch but I do but I never knew that in REAL LIFE, he is married to his TV ex-wife, Mona, played by TALIA BALSAM (pay attention, the Van Pattens are coming) here they are in civilian garb:


And here they are as Roger and Mona Sterling:


So awesome.

george-clooney-4Why am I just finding this out now? Did you know this? Why didn’t you tell me?

And now comes the Van Patten tangent. I actually brought some post-it notes and created a Van Patten family tree on my laptop. I know, crazy.

Okay so TALIA BALSAM, born in 1959, is the daughter of the late great MARTIN BALSAM (1919-1996):


Psycho, 12 Angry Men, super-prolific in the 1970s but yet, no epidsodes of ‘The Love Boat!”

and her mother is JOYCE VAN PATTEN (b.1934):

Unknown-1She did a whole whack of 70s tv, no “Love Boat,” but “Love American Style”…oh, how I loved that show…and she is the SISTER of:

Dick_ClassicOh my God, “EIGHT IS ENOUGH” was my 70s jam, love love love! Dick was on a few episodes of “The Love Boat,” fun fact: He was supposed to play “Gopher” but changed his mind for “Eight is Enough” which was smart hockey, fo sho. He is married to Pat Van Patten and hold on to your titties, here comes the good part, THEIR MAN SPAWN! Again, if you watch tv in the 70s, you most probably have a pair of panties you wrecked yourself dedicated to one of these dudes:



I’m getting all retro swoony. Totally hot in the 70s (yes, appeared on “The Love Boat”) and became a pro tennis player! Married soap opera actress Eileen Davidson (blech, tacky ho) and now is on “The World Poker Tour.” I don’t know what to think about that but yes, I would still hit it. If I was playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with the Van Patten boys, this is the one I’d Fuck:



Next up, JIMMY VAN PATTEN (b. 1956):



He was in the original “Freaky Friday” with Jody Foster as a cashier. Hot. 66% of those Van Patten boys seemed to have gotten their start on “The Odd Couple tv show,”  interesting. Lately he has been in the “Saw” horror franchise. Would I still hit it? Why not? I have nothing else going on. Oh, and in the game Fuck, Marry, Kill, I’d Marry this one, he has kind eyes and seemingly zero douche-factor:



And then the first born bro, NELS VAN PATTEN (b. 1955):


I’m not sure I have any feels for this Van Patten but he is a Van Patten, so yes, yes, I’d probably hit it. He’s had an obscure 70s tv career, was also a tennis pro, and here is is now:

2005 TV Land Awards - Arrivals

I don’t know, on second thought maybe I’ll just pass on this one, and sacrifice this Van Patten to the gods of 70s Hotness.  I would Kill him, obviously.

Which brings us to the final Van Patten, TIMOTHY VAN PATTEN (b.1959). He is NOT a Van Patten bro, he is a Van Patten Uncle. Seriously! He and Big Daddy Dick are brothers from another mother. He is my very favourite Van Patten of them all:


SALAMI FROM “THE WHITE SHADOW” OMG OMG OMG! To die for! Nowadays he is a director:  Sex and the City! The Sopranos! Rome! The Pacific! Game of Motherfucking Thrones! Boardwalk Empire! I watch none of these shows, except for SATC of course. Here he is now and he is so cute, I would Fuck, Marry, AND Kill him with my hot-flashing pussy:


You know how I feel about beards. Sweet Jesus.

Love Inevitably


It’s been ten years since the release of that movie you PRETEND TO HATE or CLAIM TO HAVE NEVER SEEN, “Love Actually.” It occurred to me that I have seen this film at least two times during any given Christmas, even 3 because I have watched  that part on the DVD where the director, Richard Curtis, Hugh Grant, and that strange boy blather on over the soundtrack telling you behind-the-scene things you don’t want to know, which means I have seen it probably 25 times or even more. let’s not kid ourselves. I am SUCKER for shmaltzy rom coms even though in my real life I am a curmudgeony old bitch about romance and I truly believe that we, as a modern society, should forego the outdated nuclear family units and live in compounds where we sign up for intimate activities like we did for intramural sports back in high school. Organized orgies, makes total sense, think about it before you pooh-pooh it.

I have been to no less than 6 Christmas parties this season. I went manic this year with festivities and even managed to miss a couple of them because I truly feel like my liver is getting fucked up and I can’t wait til Juiceless January, seriously. I am trying to take it easy but! I am grooving to eggnog, I forgot all about it until I had the PC chocolate one…it tastes like melted Häagen-Dazs® Mayan Chocolate ice cream with dark rum, yo. And I am also enjoying the company of y’all in the actual flesh for a change, not in the usual ectoplasmic interweb reality which is so impersonal.

My social circle is a bit like a stagnant lazy river, it need some waves, I think. My organized orgy idea starts making a lot of sense when I see some of you married types year after year, fighting the same fight. Or worse, not even talking at all. Not all of you, but some of you and I think you know who you are, it might be time to let go, just saying. For example, at last night’s church potluck (yes, I went to a church potluck, for the free flowing booze and door prizes) Mrs. C who gave me a glaring stinkeye for “flirting with her husband all night.” I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FLIRT! You need to know, if I really fancy someone, I am either throwing things at them from afar or hiding in the corner chewing my hair, trust. I was only laughing hysterically at his jokes as a cry for help because he was pressing his holy porker into my hipbone. Why do I get blamed for your husband’s shenanigans? Protip: If you love the dickhead, let him go, if he comes back, more laundry for you, if he doesn’t, then one less egg to fry, you’re welcome. Oh my God, people, stop coupling up and sticking like festering glue, it’s not healthy.

I was so happy to get home from that fucking fruitless church social (did not win any door prizes) and “Love Actually” was on! How comforting! All those misfits find love in the end. Although how long does it last? I think we can all agree that love is transient. In time, it either turns to shit or grows deeper….hahahahaha, just jokes, it aways turns to shit, bah humbug!

Indulge my inner Scrooge and let’s visit the 10 year reunion of “Love Actually,”  and call it “Love Inevitably.” I will recap where we left off, it’s a tightly woven quagmire of fuckery, but I will guide you through, couple by couple, so can all follow along, EVEN IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT. LIAR:

Let’s start with these two, the precious nuclear family:


When we left left Karen and Harry (Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman), they just had a bullshit exchange of Christmas presents where he gave her a fucking Joni Mitchell CD as if she didn’t already have the whole collection. Earlier she had found in his pocket, a fancy pants heart necklace that she thought was for her but then when she opened the shitty CD, realized the fucker was probably having an affair. She confronted him at the kids’ Christmas concert and he admitted to being a big ass fool and she was all like, you made my life foolish. She was super classy and he was dumb dickwad, we can all agree on that. Although, and I will be vilified for saying this, Karen is a bit frumpy and the other woman in question is this one here, Mia (Heike Makatsch). You can’t see it but she is opening her legs (in a skirt!) at the office:


WHERE ARE THEY NOW 10 YEARS LATER? Well, duh, of course Harry ended up boning Mia, it happened even before New Year’s Eve, come on. It lasted some months and Karen knew about it but said nothing as she is a stoic Jackie Kennedy-type. Although she did start taking matters into her own hands, she stopped wearing those hideous long skirts, grew her Lady Di hairdo out, thank gods, worst hairstyle EVAR. Soon enough, when the kids got older, Karen started taking tennis lessons and even had affair with this young buck from Match Point, Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers):


It didn’t last though because he ended up getting married to someone else and working for his father-in-law but it did give her the courage to finally divorce Harry, who ended up a raging, lonely alcoholic after his magazine business went under because internettery mags have taken over the publishing business, yes indeed. Mia ends up with some other dude who I will reveal later on, keep reading.

And right now, 10 years later, Karen is remarried to THIS:
imagesI know, right?  It’s poetically perfect! It’s her tiresome widower friend, Daniel (Liam Neeson). When we left him 10 years ago, he was just FRESHLY WIDOWED, stuck with a stepson, Sam (Thomas Sangster) ..and I still don’t get where the real dad is even after watching this 25 times. He obsessed over supemodel Claudia Schiffer like a dumb dick. The sad part of this story line is how life imitates art and Liam Neeson ends up a widower in real life by my birthday twin, Natasha Richardson, I don’t want to confuse you but it’s just very tragic is all. He meets a mom, Carol, at Sam’s school play, who looks exactly like Claudia Schiffer! Cross eyes, rabbit teeth and everything, total doppleganger (insert eye roll). Did they live happily ever after, you wonder? No, fuck, no. They went on one stupid date, and she bored him to tears. He ended up on-line dating for YEARS and then finally, he and Karen hooked up in 2009 after a drunken evening at a pub quiz and they got married a year later. Good times.

Oh and the little boy Sam grew up to look like this:


And since this film lacks a decent gay story line, he ends up with the boy, Marcus (Nicholas Hoult) from “About A Boy:”


Works for me. I know you’re saying this is wrong, both films have Hugh Grant, how can they crossover? DEAL WITH IT!

And then there’s this dumb fuck:


Jamie (Colin Firth) finds his girlfriend in bed with his BROTHER, ouch, and goes off to France or somewhere to write his crime novel on a fucking actual typewriter. He FALLS IN LOVE with the housekeeper, Aurelia (Lucia Moniz) even though she only speak Portuguese. I was watching this with some 20 year-old girls last night, and they where all like fawning, this is the cutest coupling in this entire shitty movie. NO! The more I see it, the more I think that this dude has a severe attachment disorder. For one thing when we first see him, he is going to work and saying I love you to his girlfriend 8 million times in a row…red flag, sisters. We are supposed to feel sorry for him when he walks in on her later on with his brother but MAYBE it’s not them, it’s him, a cloistering, soul sucking creep, perhaps. I’m just saying, let’s not judge until we have both side of the story. Boohoo to him because he falls in love in an instant, as soon as Aurelia strips to her panties and tramp stamp to save his wretched novel that blows away into the freezing cold lake because he won’t use a laptop like the rest of us writer-types. Yes, they had laptops 10 years ago. Anyway he learns rudimentary Portuguese and asks her to marry him and she says yes. FLASH FORWARD 10 YEARS LATER, they never actually bothered even getting to third base. She came to London for the weekends, it was a lunchbag letdown of a romance, but she ends up with someone else, keep reading, friends, don’t fret. Shit happens but it’s all good.

But! He did end up with Mia, Harry’s office slut! Fun fact: in the original script the character of Mia was Jamie’s original girlfriend but the director changed it because blahblahblah…(this is amongst the things you don’t want to know when listening to the director talk over a DVD).

Then there is this fucking bitch:


*GASP* She’s so beautiful.

Juliet (Keira Knightley) marries Peter (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and she thinks his best friend, Mark (Andrew Lincoln) hates her because he won’t talk to her but! really he is madly in love with her. She finds this out when she asks to see the wedding video he shot and realizes that all the focus is on her, and she’s all like, I’m so pretty, doing her weird teeth grinding thing watching herself, and then she is like, you really like me. And he is super embarrassed and comes to her house later and does this GRAND ROMANTIC GESTURE:

Oh, my God, I am so in love with this guy, I don’t care what you say.

10 years later, Juliet and Peter are divorced because Juliet, like Narcissus before her, fell into a well of Botox and Juverderm and drowned. Peter ended up with one of the Sirens from Wisconsin (stay scrolling for that). I end up with Mark. It’s plausible. It’s my blog and I can write what I want.

Okay, so then there is THIS STORY LINE:


The Prime Minister (Hugh Grant) and one of his assistants, Natalie (Martine McCutcheon) have a flirtation because the PM is single, like that ever happens, and we are supposed to buy the story that she is a hambeast and too fat for fairy tale love. Just as an aside, this whole fat shaming thing has gone a bit too far, people need to fucking stop. At first I was going to make her into a bulimic and that she turns into a grisled looking Maria Shriver-type but I am not, I’m going to be nice. !0 years later, out of her lush womb, she births 4 babies and she might even be pregnant now, who knows, he is no longer PM and they live on some tropical island…you know, tax shelter, trololololol.

And this clown:


Colin (Kris Marshall) decides to go State Side to get laid so he ends up in Wisconsin and gets more pussy than he bargained for. These are the Sirens. I don’t fucking know their names, it’s a pointess story line EXCEPT there is January Jones, in blue, ACTUALLY SMILING! And I have a girl crush on Elisha Cuthbert. 10 years later, Colin was actually in a coma the whole time IN LONDON and these girls are ACTUALLY his nurses and live in the UK but with American accents, and they are on the loose. Let’s let Peter, Juliet’s ex-husband, have his choice.


laura linney

Sarah (Laura Linney) and Karl (Rodrigo Santaro) work for Harry and have had crushes on each other for a couple of years but did nothing about it until this scene where stupid bitch keeps answering her incessant phone calls from her mentally ill brother. I still fucking yell at the tv when this story comes on because: a) her fucking ringtone is so annoying and b) she keeps calling her brother “babe,” “love,” and “sweetheart.” I hate her so much. Their romance fizzles in the movie and in my sequel, she ends up institutionalized with her brother AND! Hot Brazilian dude, Karl, end up with the Portuguese maid, Aurelia. Bam!

This guy:


Billy Mack (Bill Nighy) ends up with his cute manager, Joe (Gregor Fisher) when we leave him 10 years ago. Not in a gay way but in a bro way. 10 years later, nothing has changed, they are like a twisted version of the Odd Couple and have a spinoff sit com State Side! that consistently wins Emmys and Golden Globes.

These two, John (Martin Freeman) and Just Judy(Joanna Page):


Live happily ever after, obviously because they did it in the right order. Fuck first, fall in love later, hos. And THAT is the moral of the story!

Merry Christmas!


Where Does the Time Go?

8oSxs25Dogs don’t care about time, they just live in the moment.

I haven’t worn a watch since the days of Swatch-mania circa the late 1980s and I stopped wearing them altogether when I had a collection of 10 of them that all needed battery replacements at the same time and would cost as much as a new watch to revive them again. “Fuck that shit,” I said and never looked back. I don’t even need a watch anyway:  a) my cell phone is so connected to me it has amalgamated into my DNA AND it has a handy clock on it and b) I always know what time it is even before I check the time. I have a finely tuned intuition clock that wakes me up 5 minutes before my cell phone alarm goes off because I so fucking hate/fear/dread that noise, I will do anything not to let it permeate my ear drums. My subconscience has my back and will wrap up that dream plot early and jostle my bladder to force me up so I don’t have to hear “Marumba” at 5:30 a.m. However, sometimes my subconscience is a douchebag and wakes me up every 15 goddamn minutes just in case I start dreaming of Idris Elba and his dick actually works this time and doesn’t turn into a lizard and run away. Why do all my sex dreams end with some kind of surreal erectile dysfunction?

Anyway, now that HAVE AN ACTUAL JOB, I am now much more aware of time management. Also I bought a non-Swatch watch because I keep my cell phone in my locker so I’m not tempted to finger fuck it while I’m on the clock. I think that is a major no-no, nobody should pay you to play Bejeweled Blitz, you are your own idiot on your own time.  Anyway Before Job (B.J. as we will call it), I would lovingly milk out my chores, spacing them out so that each task would cover a certain amount of units of time, like in “About A Boy” when slacker Will (Hugh Grant) explains how to while away the day:

Now I motor through my errands like I’m yanking out rogue eyebrow hairs. For example, today being my day off, first thing this morning I drove Evangeline up to her job at her swanky private school day camp, Bayview Glen, then went to the car wash and got “the works” while I filed my toenails on the bench outside (relax, no one was there), then went to Loblaws and twirled the aisles, came home and powered mowed my lawn and the neighbours’ and ALL THIS before my morning poop. Seriously, it was 10 a.m. and I was ready for cocktail hour and was going to sit down with y’all and blog about my childhood friend coming to visit me last weekend when the phone rang and I actually answered it.

It was a strange number but I was feeling reckless and turned out to be Evangeline calling from the school’s medical office. She was having one of those heart palpitation thingys that I have not told you about but is an actual symptom of anxiety, she is okay now, thanks, but I killed more than 2 units of time picking her up and then popping into the butcher shop for Tamshire bacon. The butcher asked me if I was going to see “Pacific Rim” this weekend because my boyfriend (Idris Elba) is in it.

“I’m an old woman, I don’t have time to watch monsters and robots fight, there’s nothing in there that I can grasp and then take back with me for later use,”  I said. It’s true, since watching that wretched mess, “Inception,” with my beloved Leonardo DiCaprio, I will never waste another second sitting through a summer blockbuster again. I have my warm laptop and I have my hot torrent of “Luther” that will satisfy all my needs. I have no problem watching shows I love over and again and yet I’m reluctant to try new things. I think this is a symptom of becoming a curmudgeony old person. Oh well.

Another 3 whole units of time were frittered away watching “Boogie Nights” this afternoon.

“That was a weird movie,” said Evangeline.

“Don’t you think Dirk Diggler is cute?” I felt bad because she wanted to watch “Breaking Dawn Part 2” (I know, right? Barf-oh-barf, why has she not outgrown this?) and  insisted upon “Boogie Nights” as I hadn’t seen it since it was in the theatre in 1997, holy cow, where does the time go? and I had a fond memory of Mark Wahlberg but I couldn’t quite remember why.

“That was a prosthetic, I’m pretty sure.” That’s what she said.



So now I’m here, better late than never. Last weekend Val, my oldest friend from my childhood, came to town from Boulder to visit for a few days. We grew up in a tiny town in Quebec, Mont St.Hilaire, a unit of time “south” of Montreal. Although, let’s address this first, I’m talking to you, Montreal, this is something that has been bugging since I was literally four years old: Why is your sense of direction so fucked up? Is your compass drunk? Check the map: The “South Shore” is actually east. I don’t want to make a big stink out of it but come on, people please, you have enough problems with your cracked pavement, sinkholes, and collapsing bridges, LOOK AT YOUR MAP, BRO: Boucherville and Longueuil are on an east shore and NDG is south so why do you call it “west?” And when you say Laval is north, it’s actually west. It’s sad really. LOOK AT IT:


And between y’all and me, if you address their whacked due north system it to a Montrealer, they’s be all like “Baaahhhh-waaahhhhyy” then mumbling something incoherent. So there is really no point in arguing. They do make good gravy, though, I will say that.

Anyway we grew up off that map somewhere to the right, let’s not stress out about this again but it really does bug me, we looked at the sunrise and then the sunset when we were young savages trolling the orchards and in through the trees in mountain and knew even then something was off-kilter. We spent all our waking non-school hours together and made up a language that only we could understand. We lived outside in a tent in the summer and an igloo in the winter and terrorized the neighbourhood in bare feet and feral hair with our never-ending pranks that I had completely forgot about until she reminded me. I now am actually embarrassed decades later. Take note: I am embarrassed. I know I am all TMI with my sex dreams and you probably think what could two re-adolescent girls do that was so bad, you are wrong. You’ll have to buy me dinner and maybe I will tell you one of our dark deeds. In the meantime I am asking the gods for forgiveness and ask to absolve me by cutting out wheat and sugar that is not alchohol-based from my diet. That’s how the gods roll, right? Quebec-style. Give some shit up, then you are golden like a pancake smothered in maple syrup. Plus I am killing two birds with one stone. That Wedding is just over a week away and I don’t want to wear Spanks in July!

Anyway, Val moved away in Grade 9 to Toronto during the mass exodus of the late 70s and we only had snail mail and the occasional visit, Then we grew up and older, I moved to Toronto and spawned, she moved to Boulder, had her family and we kind of lost touch until the magic of Facebook, of course. And if you think I am all about talking shit and over-analyzing to death then put the two of us together and we did not sleep hardly at all the first night. THERE WAS NO TIME! Oh, how we trolled the internet, checking out each other’s friends and exes, scrolling on Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and even that big fake titted bull, LinkedIn. We had to control ourselves because some of our crazy pranking instincts were starting to kick in. We are old now and have mellowed out because wine. Too old, too tired, and that’s okay, most people now have call display and they can track down your pubic hairs through DNA testing, so it’ s just as well.

What was interesting was it was like no time had passed between us since we were kids, there was no feeling of being strangers. I am lucky to have someone like her in my life but I wish she lived next door again because I just don’t have the time figure out how to Skype. I know, your grandmother probably does but I am lazy that way.

The Plight of the Remainder Man



So yeah, my birthday came and went and I didn’t dry up as expected. On the eve of the big day, the gods delivered an exploding magnum of sweet menses nectar that I welcomed with a fist pump: “Yesssss!!! Still full of fossil fuel!” Only to be shot down by my friend, Ask Yahoo: “Your period is like a geyser? That’s a sign of menopause, ho!”  Whatevs.

As you may know, if you are on my tail of tales, I turned 50 on May 11.  I was all freaked and couldn’t even say the number, it came out like “fuh” then graduated to “Fuhfff-tuh” but now I am saying it every where I go like I have Tourettes.  On my actual birthday I began to own the whole ragged mess.

“I’m 50!” I blurted out to no one in particular as I sat in the ladies’ washroom stall at The Only Cafe.

“Fuck yeah,” the feet waiting outside in front of me said, “My mother is 50. She looks fab and she can still ride a bike.”

“That’s awesome! And I can still wipe my own bum!” I said, walking out of the stall.  It turned out that the feet in front of me was one of my daughter’s friends, age 19, who was at the bar to see her play a solo show.

“Oh my God,” she gasped (not really, but it’s my blog) and she really, honestly, truly did say: “You don’t look 50, I thought you were about 35.” What a dear, sweet, stupid girl. I thanked her and gave her a hug, smothering her with my expired mom tits and went back to the bar. It was a good birthday, once I started pronouncing “fifty” properly, my friends and family spoiled me rotten, buying me lunch, dinner, beers, a golden skull, good old money, and my beloved Elizabeth Arden’s PREVAGE, holy cow. But I don’t like to milk a birthday. There’s nothing worse than a grown-ass adult who makes a big production of their birthday like they are the second coming of a newfangled Narcissist Jesus. Hear’s the rule, people: Over the age of 10, NO MORE LASER QUEST FOR YOU!

Anyway, this is just a segue to what I really want to hash out, analyze, make pro con list, confer, deliberate, and bore you to the point where you yell at me: JUST MARRY HIM ALREADY, like I have a choice. As I have blathered on about before, I have a “Remainder Man.”  He is that platonic-ish male friend I have mentioned who parks his trailer in my driveway and buys me beer and wings AND who I have known for many, many, many years, who I may or may not be actually in love with, but let’s discuss. Thankfully he doesn’t read this blog so we can yap about him freely, but I’m going to refer to him as R-Man to protect his identity just in case because he has a wide circle.  This is going to be messy and disjointed so I’m just going to do this in list form and you just follow along or close your eyes and think of England or check out Perez or whatever:

1. R-Man did not call me on my birthday, which is fine, he is a man and birthdays are filed in their brains right behind bullshit and boring chore lists. But he did call me the next day which was Mother’s Day which was by far and away a more thoughtful and sweeter gesture, no? He took me out that afternoon as a Hangover Helper and we drank copious sums of cleansing ale.  He told me about how he was at another dude’s 40th birthday party (I know, right? It’s the men that need all the birthday cuddles). At the party, R-Man was talking it up to all the ladies as that is the R-Man’s modus operandi, he flirts like a fucker on fire, and his girlfriend ended up punching him in the mouth. Of course, that is what a crazy jealous bitch will do and I completely get it, been there and used my acrylic finger nails to swat at some dude’s face once, but you cannot change the stripes of a tiger. Just saying. Also she really needs to go. I hate her with a venomous passion.

2. R-Man’s tiger stripes amuse me. Over the years I have learned his checking out other women is like his Tourettes and sometimes he will mutter “vagina” in public when there is a lull in the conversation. This makes me laugh and laugh because I am actually a 12 year-old boy trapped inside a 50 year-old lady meat costume. But maybe this means we are just like bros and we should go huntin’ and fishin’ and pee standing up together.

3. Whenever R-Man walks into a room, I feel so happy that if I had a tail, it would wag vigorously. Now hold on, is this just platonic like dog love or is it romantic? My heart does NOT do that beat skipping thing which might be over-rated. Now that I am old and know better, is that fluttery feeling just a flight or fight reaction to some sociopath that you really need to stay away from? And if my tail wags, is my pussy far behind? I’m just asking, I don’t know.

4. R-Man is 5 years younger than me but that will even out in old age because he has more afflictions than I do. In reality, if I marry him (shut up!!! just thinking out loud), I will most probably still enjoy a few golden years as a widow, rockin’ the seniors’ home with my bubble gum pink hair and neon green stretch pants, drinking kir royale in the lounge. I’m excited for that.

5. Back to R-Man’s girlfriend just because I think it’s bothering you that he has one and that I am big ho for stealing him away WHICH I HAVEN’T DONE YET. First of all, this is not a Brangelina scandal waiting to happen. No one can “steal” anyone who doesn’t want to quit a bitch. Don’t kid yourself, 99.99% of all couples you see walking around in Canadian Tire purchasing garden hoses are fantasizing about using that thing to somehow escape through the water tank and then run like the wind into the sewer. R-Man and his girlfriend live in separate places, and they break up like it is a casual activity. What are they doing tonight? Oh, just staying in, maybe ordering a pizza, watching Homeland, then breaking up. Or maybe instead of pizza, get takeout from that new Indian place except that butter chicken gives him diarrhea.

6. Lots of things give R-Man diarrhea and while I wouldn’t say he is a picky eater, he is particular. For me, that is somewhat of an all around deal breaker, but we can work it out. He wouldn’t do anything as asinine as going on a “Master Cleanse” but he does obsess about his weight. I swear, I have never had a conversation with him where he doesn’t tell me at some point what he weighs and what he weighed before the current weight. It’s really annoying, I don’t want he wants from me because it’s usually just within a range of four pounds and we have just eaten a pound of wings and washed it down with 3 pints, oh my god, girlfriend, who cares? But everybody has things that exasperate the other person, right? Some things you just need to let go but I swear if he brought a scale into my house, I would smash it down from the roof, just watch.

7. R-Man is the most boisterous person you will ever meet. He will walk into to a bar and yell out HEYYYYYY, everybody in the beach knows him and they are all tickled to see him, he’s got the kind of name you want to shout out. Although I have a special nickname for him that I say in a baby voice, that’s kind of cute right?  He is a classic extrovert but with his moon in hermithood. He has some primitive cabin that he escapes to for his alone me-time which only makes good common sense because otherwise he would just be a buffoon all the time. I like a loud man, but even more I like a loud man who knows when it’s time to shut up. I have noticed that quiet dudes are the controlling, sneaky ones that you need to watch out for. There is never a dull conversation with R-Man but!!! BUT! He has a temper on him. And when you think that age might have mellowed him out, something sets him off, and it’s usually road rage, and then The Fury comes out. Road rage is one of my pet peeves. Why do people get all crazy Jekyll and Hyde when they drive? You wouldn’t yell and honk if you were walking in a mall and had to slow down for a lady with a stroller so why get so enraged when someone in front of them takes their time to make a left turn or merge or whatever. Even if some taxi driver pulls a douche move, just settle down, and guess what?  You’ll get from A to B without having to scream expletives. Calm the fuck down. I like it better when I drive. I guess that’s the solution, just don’t let him drive.

8. R-Man and I took a road trip a few years ago to Sudbury to pick Freddy up from camp.  It was the funnest day ever, there was no road rage at all, just a lot singing along to The Smiths (we love the Smiths!!!) at the top of our lungs and then many stops after drinking Red Bull and urinating in the woods together. We both like to go pee outside even if a proper toilet is available. The first time we bonded was on the same day we met in 1998, we played some random softball game (don’t even ask who what where or why because I have no idea) one afternoon and had some beers, then we both peed in the parking lot in back of my mom van, the Mercury Villager aka The Great White Whale. Maybe we have some kind of primal connection that occurs in the animal kingdom when bodily fluids are excreted and a little bit of oxytocin comes out in the pee-pee, and why wouldn’t it? It’s biology, yo!

This is all the rumination I can handle for now, obsessing about a dude only leads to despair. It’s probably best that he remains Remainder Man as dreams have a knack of just not coming true…sigh…and time is against me now.

In the meantime, let’s just dance, omg, these girls are so funny:





Bring It On


It’s May, as if you didn’t already know that, but it’s also my birthday month. Yes, I get a month this year because it is one of those b-days that end in a ZERO. I am not going to lie, I AM FREAKING OUT. I can’t even say the number, it comes out like “fuh-” and then stops. Help me. I need to work through this crippling dread so I can own that number when it actually happens on May 11. So I’m going to write out a pro and con list of what it’s like to turn fuh and feel free to add some of your own in the comments, I need you’ll more than ever.  FUHHHHHHH!!!!!! Please don’t put me out on the ice floe just yet!!!

1. Con: I do not enjoy people conversing about menopause. Yes, surprise, I am the person who will talk bodily functions from head to toe, diarrhea sandwiched by dandruff and toe jam, in all the grossest detail, but I can’t handle the hot flash jokes. For the record, I am not sure if had one yet or just have middle-of-the-night drunk sweats since they seem to happen on mostly weekends. “You would know if you had a hot flash,” I am assured by a locker room buddy, Deb, who by the way, is rocking her mid-fuh’s without trying too hard unlike another woman of similar age I know, a real estate agent, who gets puffy hair extensions and sports the second coming of acid wash(!)  jean suits(!!) that even a twenty year old shouldn’t be wearing…barf, just barf, it depresses me to look at her, hanging on to her fugly heyday that was 1985. But Deb makes me happy to join the fuh club. Menopause happens, you can’t stop the train. But I have a big beef with the term “perimenopausal,” that fancy word used to describe the onset of menopause. Your mama simply called it “going through the change” when she drew the curtains shut on a sunny summer day and laid down on the couch with a wet washcloth over her head. My friend, Flanders,who loves to remind me that she is 6 whole months younger than me, has told me for literally 15 years that every physical thing that is happening is because I am “perimenopausal.” See, I’ve typed it twice and you can’t see it but my spell check cries bullshit and is underlining it in red, so appropriate. You either have a tampon stash or you don’t, it’s that simple. What is this “peri” crap? It’s a made up term for women to feel even more badly about themselves and buy more pharmaceuticals. Fuck that perimenopausal shit, by that logic we are all peri-dead then. Ugh, fuh.

2. Pro: Age is wisdom. Why am I so afraid to say the number when my forties was the most painful, tumultuous decade of my life? Why would I want to hang on to that number? Going through my forties was like going through a second adolescence only with financial worries. It was a learning curve on a very dark highway. Everything I thought I knew to be true and right was tested by my own misguided self sabotage. Seriously, what a dumb ho I was at 40, walking around like I knew it all. Maybe the next decade will be filled with the wisdom of self acceptance. Bring it on, fuh-fiffffff…. I still don’t want to say it.

3. Con: Getting old sucks a big scaly dick that needs moisturizing. For women though, not so much for the menfolk. Those silver shards of hair that peek out around the temple are cute on a dude but not so much on a lady. Also jowly things forming. Also a beard. Also going blind and slighty deaf. Also attack of the middle pudge. Also what is that new flesh fold in the back there underneath the ass cheek? Fucking fuh.

4. Pro: I am at the tail end of the Baby Boomers, cusping on that lazy, bottom feeding Generation X crowd. The Baby Boomers, because they are so vain and ambitious, are trailblazing the way to eternal youth blasting their Botox needles through the forest of free radicals. God bless them and their  prolific nip/tucks and injections. Yes, some of them are over-done which is a good thing, their weird puffy faces make a little neck waddle look charmingly human. We can learn from their mistakes and apply the rest in moderation: A little squirt o’ Botox to soften the eyebrow scowl (and helps with the migraines, I am not kidding), a little Juvederm to caulk in the those puppet mouth lines that when left to deepen, turn into gutters filled with drool when walking towards the wind. Just a tiny bit here and there and that’s how your face can rock the aging process. Not so bad, fuh!

5. Con: I read a head-line on a tabloid at the grocery store saying “60 is the new 40” with Kris Jenner on the cover…I know, foul…but still, I love when people make proclamations like this and put it up in a bold font. You can almost believe it’s true and continue to surmise that if 60 is the new 40, then fuh must be the new 30. The thirties were my mojo years. By the time I hit 38, I was in my prime. It was good until it got bad. So if 60 is the new 40, then I’ve got another rollercoaster ride ahead of me and I don’t think I can take another decade-long chapter of crippling existential angst fuckery. 60 is 60 and fuh is fuh, and that’s all there is to it…why must we get all caught up in journalistic subterfuge? Just stop.

6. Pro: This woman, no comment necessary:

susan sarandon over 50

7. I don’t know if this is a Pro or a Con but my mojo has come back. I don’t what happened, but I attribute it to this restorative yoga class I take on Tuesdays. Flashback ten years, summer of 2003, when I was FORTY, I fell on the sidewalk trying to get on my bike after consuming shots of tequila. There was a loud crack as I hit the pavement landing on my ass, I had the wherewithal to break the fall with my right hand but I ended up cracking my tailbone and breaking my wrist. I didn’t know it though, and walked around broken for two weeks trying to learn how to drive my new manual transmission Mini Cooper, why does it hurt so much to shift gears? I told you I was a dumb ho when I was 40. I finally went to the hospital and they told me that while I was most certainly a dumb ho for not coming in right away, they could have just set it in a cast then instead of having to operate and reset it with a pin, it was a good thing I was drunk when it happened because drunk people fall better than sober people as they are more “relaxed.” Oh how I laughed but I was too embarrassed to tell them about my tailbone because that was what made the loud cracking sound. ALSO, I had heard the only way to fix a tailbone is for an osteopath to shove a hand up the ass and manoeuvre it from there. Not happening.

After the fall when the cast came off, I started taking yoga which is a Pro, as yoga is so much better for you than running on a treadmill like a ridiculous gerbil going nowhere. I have done Hatha, Ashtanga, and Bikram, but a couple of months ago I tried one called “Restorative” where you hold a pose for 10 minutes. And they are all done on the mat with props and booster pillows. It is like an awesome nap where you don’t feel like much is happening but lots is happening, the chakras are in full flow mode. There is one pose where you sit with your knees splayed out and the soles of your feet hold a block. You fall forward and your forehead rests on the block. After a minute, your lower spine starts to burn and get somewhat uncomfortable and then you imagine it is blocked energy getting released and as you breathe into it, things start to loosen up. I’m serious, my broken tailbone loves this activity, it’s like I sprayed a whole can of WD40 up my ass, and it’s ready to bust some moves! An awakening of mojo has occurred since I started this class and I guess it’s a Pro until it becomes a Con. And it will. If I learned anything from the Journey of the Forties is that nothing ever stays the same. Everything is in constant change. Rolling, rolling, rolling.

In the meantime, this came on my laptop screen:



So I love my butcher because meat, but also because he tells me what tv shows to watch. A couple of weeks ago it was “Hung” which made me want to be a lady pimp (jokes…not really, still holding auditions). This week’s viewing suggestion was “Luther” a BBC series about a crime detective…ugh, barf, I hate crime shows, I can never follow the plot, even “Charlie’s Angels” was too complicated. But what the hell, that particular butcher has that sort of power over me so I downloaded it even though I thought bleccchh, “the new James Bond’ my eye. I am now Queen of Torrents which I probably should keep to myself, and I love to watch stuff on my laptop…it is so intimate. My screen is all dotted in sneeze spittle but I don’t care, it’s my portal into the wild world of interwebz and how I communicate with you.

So yeah…LUTHER IS AWESOME AND IDRIS ELBA IS TO DIE FOR! And this is the funny thing, I have seen Idris Elba in “The Office” and “The C Word” (no, I have never seen “The Wire”), and I didn’t bat an eye or put my hands down my pants even just to scratch. But watching ‘Luther?” I took to the bed after watching the first episode on the now tainted family couch…that’s me in the cover photo with ma boo sitting on my lap…and I watched the rest of them with my wagging tailbone under the covers. Oh my god, those little white beard hairs! I love him so much it hurts. In a good way. PRO!

So yeah. Fifty …Five Zero #YOLO. Bring it on.


A Hooker’s Guide to Riding the Waves


I wish this was a real magazine, “The Art of Modern Living” …like Oprah’s “O” only with actual practical advice that you can really use such as how to hashtag your Instagram photos for maximum likeage, I fancy myself the nouveau poor-but-grew-up-without-incest-and-poverty version of Oprah.  I might not be able to give you a brand new Volkwagen Beetle but at least you won’t get a pair of sequin Uggs from me either. Ok, I know you would like a pair of sequin Uggs and so would I for my elegant dog walks with Betty who may or may not be just a ferret on steroids.  Who am I kidding? Oprah is the awesomest and the stuff she gives away is all the best shit, but in my magazine, I can only share with you what I’ve learned from my first world trials and tribulations (the hashtag would be #trialsandtribz). It would be way more entertaining than “O.”

I had an epiphany this week. Oprah would call it an “Aha moment” but since your with me, it was more like a WTFLOL moment.  And it’s not a complete and tangible realization but more like something that has been slowly gestating and is starting to spew forth from my brain to this blog. Please, bear with me!  Or if you can’t bear with me, beer with me…go crack one open, I’ll wait….It is about a spiritual journey, and I have been working through it for the past ten years ever so slowly, one step forward and then a nap, then drunken wino weekend, then a nap, then another step forward, then watching the entire three seasons of Downton Abbey, a Jays game, and another step forward…in other words, my little rudimentary “spiritual journey” is more on a par with an errand in to the corner store for some emergency Liquid Plumbr than an epic pilgrimage to the three corners of the Earth like that smug chick in “Eat, Pray, Love” JUST TO GET SOME JAVIER BARDEM BONE. I’m SO jelly.

Mine started like this:

I went to a Blue Jays Game.  Lorraine had an extra ticket to see the Jays play the Indians and asked me to come along with her family.  I was like, yes! I don’t know shit about baseball but who cares? A stadium full of testosterone is just what the doctor ordered and BEER ME! I can’t eat hotdogs, so I pre-ate beforehand, slapped on a Tena-pad because I am no dummy, and hopped on the streetcar to meet her.  The Queen streetcar, as much as I hate that slow-moving bitch in my motor vehicle (I am still doing the Downton Abbey accent), is a really soothing ride, kind of meditative if the other passengers aren’t sniffing glue and speaking in tongues. It put me in a good mood for the game. At the Rogers Centre, we had great seats and not only did Lorraine know ALL the words to the national anthem, she also knows everything about baseball and all its subtleties. I learned a thing or two that I have since forgotten but at least I know all the words to “Seven Nation Army.” In the 9th inning, because “we” were tied, the excitement of the crowd escalated to fever pitch and a wave ensued. “Whee!!!” squealed me, jumping up ( 5 sections too soon). Nobody loves a packed stadium wave more than me. I got the rhythm of it by the next round, don’t worry.

I am not always a crowd yahoo. A few years ago, when I was a real estate agent, my brokerage manager convinced to take a 3-day Mike Ferry seminar at the Convention Centre to learn better business practises in order to achieve SUCCESS! (Success is always in capital letters in real estate publications).  It took place in an auditorium of over a thousand other real estate agents with their hair and their outfits and their coffee and muffins, all talking shop amongst each other.  I sat in the very back with my hair and my outfit and my coffee and muffin, all alone and paralyzed with dread and fear. When Mike Ferry came prancing onto the stage with his Gwen Stefani headset, Jumbotron backdrop, the disco lights went on and out blasted “Y’all Ready For This?”  Everybody, and I mean every single person, bolted out of their seats and started dancing and clapping with the oh-so groovy beat.  I was mor-ti-fied. Cannot deal with forced jubilance. I got up alright…and bolted to the bathroom.  This ritual happened every morning and after every break. Fucking horrifying.

What’s the difference between me giddily hopping up performing a wave and singing The White Stripes at the top of my lungs at a baseball game or me cowering in a toilet stall to avoid a crowd of dancing realtors? One word: Mojo…or MOJO in capital letters. Sergio Santos, I would so hit that. Dude in a white shirt tucked into a pair of dress pants eating a muffin with a Blackberry in a belt holster, noooo. Not even drunk.

But the question is, does it take an entire stadium to get my MOJO`to flow? And the answer is no, I can do it all by myself. Here’s how:

I went to a guided meditation group at the library.  Sounds like a good time, right?  My daughter, Evangeline, who is 19 has had anxiety attacks for a few years. She gets into a state when she starts thinking about her own mortality in relation to the rest of the unknown universe. She fears her own death, and maybe Betty’s but not so much other people’s. For a few months she has been going to group meditation in order to control her emotions and cope with anxiety. I, too, have a simmering stir fry of anxiety triggers:  money, death, jobs, getting old, drying up, the future, loneliness, etc. They make pills for this sort of thing, I know, but I would rather learn to cope by myself. With a lot of people, anxiety and depression are a barf-awful couple like Brangelina but thankfully my anxiety is like moi, a lone wolf who might occasionally send out a sexy text message with a random body part attached. I can get the sadz alright but it only lasts a day. My anxiety needs to be on a short leash that’s for sure, otherwise fuck knows what disorder it might want to pick up for some good times.

The group meets on Monday and it’s free!  ‘Not everything you have to pay for, Mom,”  Righteous Teenage Daughter knows how to buck the system. Her boyfriend, Tamas, has also been going which is not surprising, he is a fascinating neo-hippie-type and I feel like he is a whole blog post on his own.  I thought it would be just three of us and the guide because bitch, please, meditation?…isn’t that seventies thing? But there were over twenty people in the room. And I’m not going to lie, the first thing I did was a scan of “who would I bone in a pinch?” It’s a game I play wherever I go and so do you, admit it. Why would you ever have to bone someone in a pinch?  In case the bomb dropped and you were the only survivors and had to propagate the species, duh. There were mostly women of various ages, a couple of young dudes like Tamas, but there was this one middle age man in a suit who stood out because demographically speaking, he was the one I would HAVE to bone in a pinch.  I kept my eye on him, just because he made me worried, he looked so incredibly sad. Or meh, I couldn’t tell which.

I learned a thing or two that I have been retaining because we got some handouts that I actually read and then googled. Our guide was a thirtysomething dude who had just been to INDIA on a spiritual pilgrimage, of course. He smiled a lot and had those kind of twinkly eyes that make you feel like surly, sarcastic drag-ass and that maybe you should lighten up a bit.

He told us this story of seeing an entire family: Father, kid,and mother holding a baby, all perched on a motor scooter, weaving through the traffic. Imagine all the tickets they would get if they were riding along Queen Street. We all laughed like what a bunch of crazy mofos in India, but then he explained that it was a culture of “collective fearlessness.” That is how they roll in India.  In our culture, he said, we are excellent communicators, what with all our cellphone texting. Isn’t that cute? I’m serious, sometimes you have to get tired of all these cellphone shaming memes you see on the Facebook, but he puts a positive spin on it. So tap, tap, tap, away, kittens, we are part of a collective power of excellent communicators!  Huzzah!

Then he guided us through a meditation exercise where we were sitting in a chair, both feet to the ground, we had to do some swirling around with our hands from our laps to the top of our heads, then tie a pretend bow, and then make a rainbow over our bodies. WTF for you ask? To bring awareness and create energy flow, don’t be so skeptical. The energy is Kundalini, which is Sanskrit fancy-pants for MOJO, hookers. And MOJO isn’t just about boner power, pervs, it’s the energy that guides the whole spirit. This energy flows through the seven chakras centres through the body, called the subtle system.  Is it Science? No, but not everything has to be “science” all the live long day, I’m looking at you Neil Degrasse Tyson. By the way, this energy flowing ritual is not unlike thousands of people performing a wave at a baseball game. Yes, it is.

Once you get your energy flowing though your chakras, which is not unlike UNCLOGGING A TOILET, you can close your eyes and achieve the state meditation. And what is that?  It’s like an emptiness, where you are calm and void of all emotions. Anxiety is emotional blockage and if you can calm yourself, by yourself SANS Ativan, you should be signing autographs in my opinion. Our guide says sometimes this state of meditation only lasts a moment and when you get good at it, you can go for an hour or more.  It takes awhile to achieve this so I’m gonna try if it kills me. At this point, I can’t really tell if I had any actual meditative moments or I am just thinking of a very boring thought. Also, the girl beside me and I were having duelling banjoes of stomach growling. Distracting! How can you ignore outside noise? This little grasshopper has much to learn! But even just being in a group with all the positive-style energy flowing, a packed stadium or a room in a library, is a powerful MOJO stimulant. I peaked a few times to check up on the man I would have to bone in a pinch and he still seemed to have the sadz or the mehs but maybe that was his default expression. Who knows what goes on inside a person?  Also worthy of note, is that during our meditation silence, one woman started to cry in big, greasy sobs and then on a dime, it turned into laughter! THAT is one messed up set of chakras I would think.

My little epiphany? Don’t be such a goddamn hermit and find comfort in the collective energy of those who inspire you to NOT hide in a bathroom stall. Don’t be afraid to ride the waves!  Go, little elephant, go!

elephant in the waves