Category Archives: lady boners

Brace Yourselves, Spring is Coming

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


How To Turn That Frown Into A Raging Boner

magazine6610fbbd27f123650915b7f2e7101dc4303f9d7bPeople are always telling me that men are simple creatures. As a woman, to keep a man in a holding pattern, all you have to do is know how to crack open a beer, make a kickass sandwich, and put out in a timely manner.  Do it in that order and if you are lucky he will stick around for the weekend and grout your tub.  There’s a rule in the “timely manner” aspect of it all.  Ironically, if you put out too early, he thinks you are a big ho and won’t stick around to do some chores. You have to fool him into thinking your vagina is a precious place, like a lush, secret garden that only he knows, or an out of the way fish market in a remote coastal town where the catch of the day is so fresh, it melts in your mouth and doesn’t have that fishy odour.  If your vagina is busy like Six Flags in the summer time, he might want to ride that roller coaster once, but he’s not going back if there is gum on the seat and the floor is sticky from cotton candy vomit.

This is a hard trick for most women and especially those who have birthed out some babies, such as myself.  If I’m going to make a metaphor out of the state of my cooter, I would have to say it’s like an old comfy couch that has been reupholstered in a brand new sleek fabric and is just waiting for someone to park his tired old ass on it and create his own dented imprint on the cushions, I don’t care how he does it. The waiting is driving me crazy but what can you do? All the fish in the sea are gay or married, and all the streetcars have short turned.  THERE IS NO GRINDR APP FOR COUGAR SLUTS…maybe that is this my million dollar idea?

In the meantime, as I wait, I have decided to become proactive but not on internet dating! No way, Jose, it’s too soul crushing.  Every on-line dude says the same thing:  No game playing and no drama.  What does that even mean?  Everybody plays games, it’s how we evolved as majestical text messaging, Grindr app playing beasts.  Your parents met, played the game of courtship, and you were born.  Your mom had to pretend she wasn’t interested in her super cool crush so he would think she was a challenge and he would ask her to the prom…But she was so good at being aloof, he asked another girl, who was the town trollop and she ended up pregnant with had some other baby, not you.  Your mom got really jealous so she ended up going out with her best guy buddy, Duckie, and although he was friend zone material, a brilliant game was being played and she fell in love with him anyway and they got married.  And yes, that is the way “Pretty in Pink” should have played out but it didn’t because test audiences didn’t like it!  But that’s the way these stories happen in real life for everyone else.  It’s all just a big game.  And the drama is the icing on the cake.  Without the drama, there are no boners, haven’t men figured this out yet?

So I’ve been telling everyone I know to set me up with their local divorced dad-type, I think I need my male counterpart so we can understand each other’s trials and tribz.  The problem is that there are two kinds of divorced dudes:  The first kind has not even let the ink dry on the divorce papers as he has already put the light on his cab and has hooked up with the first passenger that comes along who he is going to spend eternity with and get his vasectomy reversed for, etc.  He will jump through hoops in order to remarry because he can’t handle being alone.  This is not the type guy I would like to have sitting on my brand new reupholstered couch, if I was actually fast enough to catch one, he is too needy….and probably a premature ejaculator…no.

Then there is another kind of divorced dad who is a whole other animal, all full complexities and emotional issues. All the damages come out after the age of forty.  Which I don’t have a problem with as I am all about the fascinating case studies. There is nothing simple about these guys, they are up and down drama kings, all in desperate need of therapy.

Case Study #1:  I have a Facebook friend who is not a contender for my comfy couch because he doesn’t know I exist as he is one of those 5,000 friend hoarder-types. He would never bother reading this blog because he is too busy blathering on about himself…yes, I know I blather about myself BUT I READ ALL YOUR STATUSES AND POSTS, whatevs, let me have my little blog.  This dude SHOULD have a blog because he writes a diary as a status. Most of the time he is pining away for his ex-wife and children, which would be sort of noble except that she is in therapy for the fact that she has 8 kids. She hates him, she was probably in an oxytocin haze for their whole marriage while they had all those kids and now she no doubt prolapses when she sneezes. And all this guy wants is to have her back and plant more seeds in her bomb blasted womb.  He’s like a honey badger, just plowing away wherever he wants, and if she doesn’t take him back, he’s going to find himself a nice girl and make even more babies.  The only thing I will say is that there are not enough gingers on the planet and I do love a ginger so maybe he is doing a good deed for the greater good of diverse world population.

But seriously, this is a dude without any self-actualization at all.  This guy will pine away forever until he cures his misogyny.  IT’S 2013, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KEEP A WOMAN BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT ANYMORE.  Grow up, read a self-help book, and get a haircut. And a vasectomy.

Case Study #2:  I have some friends who heard my plea and invited me over to their house recently for drinks on a casual setup with their newly divorced dad friend.  This divorced dad’s ex-wife has a blog (!) and I perused it before I met him.  This was not one of those blogs that make me jealous with its amazing content because it was crappy, boring stories of children and hair.  I’m not even kidding, it was pictures of her kids getting haircuts but for some reason every post had hundreds of comments, seriously really? That pisses me off seeing dumbass blogs with loads of traffic for no good reason. When I met him, I thought he was very handsome and! he wore plaid shirt which is one of my fetishes left over from Grade 9.  But! All he talked about was his ex-wife.  What a bitch she was. Drinky, drinky, drinky:  “Selfish whore.”  More drinkies:  “What a heinous cunt.”  I told him I saw her blog and said it was kind of silly…I thought we were having a bonfire-style bitchfest where we could all throw a log in the fire, but no, he ripped me a new one for being disrespectful of her journalistic integrity, or something to that effect.

Talk about a whacked out attachment disorder.  You just know he stalks her on the Facebook and in her driveway.  There will be no moving on until a certain someone realizes you can’t find happiness in another person.  In order to move on, one needs to strategize a game plan and this guy is just too addicted to his own misery.  Until then, I probably would let him on my couch, if he could get his mind off his ex-wife for twenty minutes or so, something about him protecting her shitty blog got me all hot and bothered, he’s got some spunk in him.   I ❤ spunk.


Timing is Everything According to Cupid

Kristin Peterson blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to be smitten AND scared.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pandemic, Kimye, and the Cable Man

grumpy cat les miserables memeYesterday was Blue Monday!  The abyss of all misery, when all your Christmas bills come in and your winter eczema has spread to places that can’t be scratched. Hopefully it will be uphill from here but I bet there will be more depressing days until spring comes and we pretend to be happy. I don’t have any pro tips for this, just to say that we are all in this together and this, too, shall pass.  I’m a hermit and hermits love misery so I’m not complaining one bit, especially since all the HBO shows have started their new seasons this month.  I am happier than a pig in shit, which is an expression I hate but is relevant to this post.

Last week I had The Flu.  I’m hardly ever sick and if I am, it is self-induced (hangover) or milked out (lady-time cramps).  It took about 3 days for me to fully understand what was happening.  I barfed on a Monday and wondered, am I sick?  It’s probably just that pesky norovirus that is going around and is super-contagious so don’t think scarfing down tubs of probiotic yogurt is going stop your orifices from exploding.  This virus is insidious and is spread through the “faecal dust” (it’s the British spelling!  Doesn’t that sound better shit residue?)  that inevitably ends up on your greasy iPhone whether you wash your hands or not. The flu shot doesn’t work with the norovirus either. And it does not care whether or not you gulp down oil of fucking oregano.  And please stop posting stupid things on Facebook that help “boost your immune system.”  The only thing that keeps you from getting sick is hard liquor, it kills the germs proper.  It’s Juiceless January, and that is why I got sick.

I got a strange headache on Tuesday, and of course I thought I was stroking out. This is my ongoing fear so I know the symptoms: numbness, scattered thoughts, and loss of balance.  Seriously, if it happens you have to run to the emergency room.  But my motor functions were in tact and I could smile evenly and recite the alphabet so I waited it out.  The headache soon turned into sinus congestion.  On Wednesday it got worse.

Then on Thursday, things got achey breaky.  AM I SICK? I don’t even know, I had forgotten what it was like. I think I had the flu in 2005, it was when I was living in that fog that lasted 6 years.  Maybe it is all imaginary.  Is this real life or is it Stephen King’s “The Stand” coming into fruition?

But then on Friday, it became clear.  Me so sick! It is “The Stand!” How come other people are still alive? Why are they still talking about the Golden Globes and laughing on the View?  Don’t they know there is a pandemic going on? I have to admit I was in a panic because the kids were at school and I was alone. No one takes care of mama when she is sick. I want soup and ginger ale!  I couldn’t get warm enough, then I got hot, then I had to pee or whatever that urgency was, then I got up and didn’t even make it to the toilet.  Then I had to change, rinse and repeat.  I went through 6 pairs of pyjama bottoms!  Jesus.  By the afternoon, I settled down, let’s just ride this thing like it was a psychedelic trip. Aside from the aches, chills, and having to constantly clench my sphincter super-tight because it just wasn’t trustworthy, I actually had a good time.


All my chakras were a-buzz. That third eye thing (intuitive powers) was tingling constantly, I think it was opening up and letting all the spirits guide me. The blue, green, yellow, and orange areas were burning and churning. In the meantime, my root chakra was wailing louder than usual, like I could do anything about it in my condition, so I put an ice pack on it.  Shut up, Muladhara, just settle down.  The flu is just an out of control chakra party.

By the end of the day my voice was all raspy and when my daughter came home, I could caw out orders:  “I want mac ‘n’ cheese!”  I was so delirious, I called her “Mommy.”

I slept like a bear for 12 hours and had epic dreams that were so entertaining, I didn’t want to wake up.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with the plot but I had a really vivid dream about these two gaping sphincters, Kim and Kanye, both of whom I don’t really give two rear root chakra expulsions about until the dream:


I think it was because while I was laying in bed all day, I was on every gossip website so I know everything Kimye and Taylor Swift (what is her problem? I need to take her under my soft, downy wing and stroke her on top of her Sahasrara and tell her everything will be okay) and of course I practically have a PhD in Lindsay Lohan but that was from before the flu.  Anyway my Kimye dream was really cool and they were my neighbours in my Sunset Boulevard mansion and I loved them. I even kept thinking about them for an entire weekend afterwards and then I had an epiphany that probably had formed originally from my open third eye chakra: These two are actually a really good couple.  Normally I hate human couplings as I find them sad and pathetic like you always know there is one who can’t sort their own socks and they need the other one to do it for them.  If you watch out for body language, the one who looks desperate is always the sock sorter, like these two specimens, dubbed “Leaddie”:

eddie_cibrian_leann_rimesUgh, they are The Worst. She is always desperately glueing her body onto his and he always has that smug smirk on his face while she always looks hysterical.  How do they even see each other with those squinty eyes?  Not only does she sort his socks but she also probably does other hardcore things like trims his nose hairs and squeezes his back zits.  Shudder.

Kimye clearly lovingly sort each other’s socks, proverbially speaking, obviously they have servants to do that sort of thing.  If you google them up, there is not a single bad picture of them together.  So sweet, it warms the cockles of my heart chakra.  I don’t care what y’all say, I hope they get married and have lots of babies, THEY CAN CALL ONE OF THEM KJANGO! The K is silent!

Still a little delirious, obviously.

I felt much better on Saturday but! The thing that has been bugging me all week is that issue of all cable tv turning from analog to digital.  I have those digital converters still in their boxes (for the extra tv’s that don’t have the delux converter) but haven’t installed them yet! There is an ominous banner on the Peachtree station saying that Rogers customers might lose the station on January 21 because it is going digital!  Peachtree is how I placate myself to sleep with double episodes of Seinfeld and Family Guy every night!  I will die without Peachtree…no, seriously, I am a creature of habit and ritual.  I am the one who defines insanity:


That is the stupidest quote ever, by the way.  If you do something over and over again, of course something will inevitably give up, break down, shrink, grow, burn, melt, or prolapse.  So yes, keep doing what you’re doing over and over and change will come, crazy ho.

Anyway, I need Peachtree to fall asleep, which is the result I am looking for, so those converter boxes better get put on those supplementary tv’s this weekend or someone might have a nervous breakdown.  So on Saturday, Evangeline set up the boxes as she is the family technician.

Of course nothing goes smoothly in this flailing first world household.  First of all, it is a dumb little box taking up space that you have to put on your tv and it only works with a dumb extra little wand that you now have to worry about slipping couch cushions.

The converter in the upstairs living room tv actually works to change the channels but when you turn it off with the new remote, the tv turns itself on again a few seconds later.  You have to manually turn the tv off, who can live with that?

The remote in my bedroom doesn’t work at all.  I only get Channel 3!  Peachtree is on 47!

The one in Freddy’s room has made the entire tv screen turn to snow.

So I call Rogers.  My entire shameless first world happiness is bundled in the hands of one overlord:  Cell phone, internet, home phone, and beloved cable.  Normally I am nice to service people but I have so many issues with Rogers, I have to channel my most beeyutchiest of personas because otherwise I will start to cry and I’ve already beaten that dead horse tactic to ground.  But I need a service man to hook these things up, not to be guided over the phone like a dolt to plug and unplug everything, because we have already done that OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITH THE SAME RESULT, so I got all huffy and indignant until they finally caved: “We will send out a service man on Sunday between 2 and 5.” Yes!  Help is on the way!

My entire house is rigged with dollar store cable cords from when I first moved in and the house was a triplex and I wanted to unify all the cable instead of paying 3 times the amount for each outlet.  When I have had issues in the past, the service men that came pretended not to notice, and I know this because they have said: “I’m going to pretend I don’t see this amateur wiring job with pirate cables” and they fix whatever it is and go on their grumpy way.  What if this time I get busted and they discover I actually have that 5th cable outlet on the third floor? And I’m totally not even going to mention the 6th one that my tenant has on the first floor.  What if they charge me more money?  I will totally lose my shit and get a satellite dish and live miserably and HBO-less.

At 4:30, the service man arrived and oh, my, God, was he ever cute!  First he put on plastic bag booties on his giant boots so he wouldn’t track any more faecal dust than necessary…so sweet!  He came upstairs and was unfazed by Betty’s asshole incessant barking and calmly went about his business.  The first tv was an easy fix, the wand just needed to be reprogrammed manually because the brand/model of tv didn’t quite match the one in the guide.

The ones in my bedroom and Freddy’s room were more perplexing.  While he was working, he explained all about cable, analog versus digital, and how one bad tv could affect an entire neighbourhood’s cable flow.  I’m not sure if he was getting at anything as in my tv is the local cable cock block or he was just telling cable lore, I was too busy falling in love.  He kept having to go back into the car to get things, and I followed him around.  I swear if he brought in his laundry, I would have happily sorted his socks.  Ugh, yes, he had a wedding ring on.

As it turned out, those pirate wires were not fit for fussy digital tv signals, so he re-wired everything with proper cable, “Analog signals will go through anything,” he explained, “And I’m going to change these connectors because they’re not good either.”  I am soaking wet watching this happen.

It took him over an hour to fix everything, I didn’t want to him to leave! We had a little sparkly connection, he laughed at my jokes! That hardly ever happens! Take off your plastic booties and stay, Cable Man, I wanted to say out loud but didn’t, don’t worry. When he did finally pack up, it was one of those prolonged goodbyes where it was “Goodbye, thank you, you’re the best,” “You’re welcome, no, you’re the best,” “No, you are the best,” “No, you” it went on, ad nauseam, if you were the fly on the wall, you would have barfed. Sigh.

At least I have Peachtree.

Mostly Missionary


I can’t stop thinking about Jamie Foxx.  I went to see “Django Unchained” last week.  He and Christoph Waltz are the baddest badass bounty hunters in the history of cinema. This isn’t a film review so don’t get bored with me yet! I just wanted to say that I understand a lot of folks are in a brouhaha about this movie even if they haven’t seen it.  Who does Quentin Tarantino think he is?  An honorary black man?  White people aren’t allowed to use the N-word unless they have special designation.  High horseman Spike Lee thinks it goes against the law of the universe to mix film genres, he twatted: “American slavery was not a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western. It was a holocaust. My ancestors are slaves. Stolen from Africa. I will honor them.”  And what have you done lately, Spike Lee?  Jealous much?

If I’m going to sum it up in a sentence, it would be:  Django is a bro film/love story set in pre-Civil War south with horses and an awesome soundtrack. The only thing “spaghetti” about it is the name “Django.”  By the way, I wonder if 9 months from now that is going to be a popular baby name?  I’d do it.

Django is Jamie Foxx, a freed slave/bounty hunter, in search of his slave wife Broomhilda von Shaft (!) whose name sake, Brunnhilde, is the story from Wagner’s four operas which is like a twisted version of the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty. Django and Dr. Schultz go through a good chunk of celluloid trying to rescue her. This is why women would love this movie:  Bitches love saviours.

But that’s not why I’m obsessing over Jamie Foxx as Django.  It’s just one scene and a bit of a SPOILER ALERT in the next sentence if you don’t want to know:  Django hanging upside down, buck naked, his pendulous junk in peril.  Major lady boner.

Before you get all like, what is wrong with you, Peterson, so politically incorrect, what kind of sadist gets off on human misery and degradation, let me explain.

When I was a budding adolescent, I watched the miniseries, “Roots,” with fascination, shock, and awe.  I knew about American slavery of course, but not about how it happened or progressed through the generations.  The series was filmed in the seventies so it was really disturbing to see actors who played Goodnight Daddy Walton, Mr. Brady, Ben Cartwright, and Lou Grant being scary whip wielding assholes, I think it added to the shock value and made a stronger statement to privileged White America, who maybe learned a thing or two about history.

There was one scene that stuck out and shook my emotional core and it’s this one where Kunta Kinte is “taught” the hard way that his new name is Toby:

“Your master gave you a name.  It’s Toby.  WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

“Kunta Kinte,”  he answers, defiantly.  Then he gets flogged.  It goes back and forth for 3 minutes. As a young teen, I watched it through my fingers.  Each time the whip struck, I yelled at the tv:  “JUST SAY TOBY!”  What the hell?  What I also remember was feeling strangely excited in my budding lady parts.  How confused was I.  Is this perverted and wrong?  I didn’t know but I couldn’t get it out of my head.

I obsessed over that scene for most of high school.  Sometimes when I was getting dressed I would blurt out:  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” in a Scottish accent (it’s how I finally learned to trill my r’s) and whip my belt around. Or sometimes when I walked the dog in the woods, while he was chasing squirrels, I would flog a maple tree with his leash and shout:  “YOUR NAME IS TOBY!” I can’t imagine what it looked like to the couples that made out in back of the sugar shack who were witness to my odd behaviour.  Crazy town.  Don’t judge me just yet.

Flash forward a few years later when I was a twenty-year-old fresh maiden, I had started “dating” this dude who was doing his PhD in psychololgy at McGill.  He was a bit older and ever so slightly wiser, a preppie who wore polo shirts, chinos, and Topsiders…totally not my type, if I ever have an actual “type” they usually don’t order from an L.L. Bean catalogue.  As cute as he was (a gingerish Jew, he looked like Starsky from Starsky and Hutch, the original tv show not that weasel Ben Stiller), he was really sweet and quiet and kind of boring to talk to but! we had that sexual chemistry that as it turns out, only happens once in a Haley’s Comet and had I have known that then, I would have kept him locked in my basement forever.

By dating, I really mean going over to his apartment and banging our brains out.  Every day was a throw down, we were like crazed humping jack rabbits when we were together.  It didn’t take long for his kink to come out.  There were some wild times.  He like to spank, pull hair, bite and scratch but all in a nice way. “I’m so sorry,” he would say sweetly when I showed up with fresh bruise cluster on any given body part. His mother bought him a bunch of ties from a Ralph Lauren outlet store and when he was showing them to me he said:  “Let’s use these to tie you up on the bed!”  And me, “Certainly, sir,” as Cannot Say No is my middle name.

So he tied my arms and legs to the bed posts so I was completely splayed out.  And when he was done tying his expert knots, he looked down at me and said, “Whoops, I forgot to take off your underwear first.”  And me:  “Do NOT rip them, they are Calvin Klein, 12 dollars a pair.”  Fifty Shades of Grey hashtag failure.

He was always very considerate and polite.  In the shower he asked, “Would you mind if peed on you just a little bit?”  This was before the internet where every quirk and folly is somebody’s Tumblr blog, I didn’t know “Golden Shower” was an actual thing but in the context of our relationship, it seemed like a good idea.  “Go ahead,”  I said, because being peed on is going to make a great story someday.  That is how I think.

“Starsky,” we’ll call him, had a thing for Natassja Kinski, and in the 80’s it was that iconic Avedon photo of her laying naked entwined with a giant snake that had every man’s dick hard.  Not him though.  It was her wearing a bear suit in the movie “Hotel New Hampshire” that got him excited. Here:


I don’t know where he got it, but one day there was a bear suit laying on his bed.

“Will you please put it on?”  he asked.  What do you think I did?  Of course I put on, paraded around his apartment while making some token growling sounds.  It was June and super hot out so he asked, “Do you want to go out for some ice cream?”  In the bear costume.  The rest of that day was blur, I think I might have passed out at some point and it turned out thankfully, the costume was a rental and he only had it for the weekend because if that was going to be a regular thing, I wouldn’t have been so compliant.  Just saying, I have boundaries.

One day he asked me:  “What do you like?”

Me, squirming: “What do you mean?”  Believe or not, even to this day any kind of sex talk embarrasses me.  That is why text messaging was invented.

Starsky:  “You know, what would you like to do?  What is it that you like?”

Me:  “Um, I don’t know….Mostly missionary?”

Starsky:  “Mostly missionary?!  That’s so boring!  Come on, let me do what you want to do!  What about some role playing?”

So I thought about it and it didn’t take me long to come up with “What’s Your Name?.”  He hadn’t even seen “Roots” so I explained it to him:  LeVar Burton won’t say his slave name out loud so he gets whipped by Vic Morrow.  We can use his Ralph Lauren neck ties to hang on the hook in closet and maybe one of his canvas Eddie Bauer belts for the whip.

So he says: “So which one of us is LeVar Burton and who gets to be Vic Morrow?”

Me: “Ummm, well, I’m Vic Morrow, I can do the Scottish accent. (I rolled an r till I ran out of breath) You’re LeVar Burton.”

Starsky: “I don’t think so.  You should be Toby.”

Me: “HIS NAME IS KUNTA KINTE!  Oh, for Godsake, forget it!”

We never acted it out, of course, because it was my idea and he couldn’t stand not being in control. Always a top and never a bottom. Typical psychology student.  We broke up soon after.  It turned out he had another girlfriend all that time, who was going to a school out of town, a tiny redheaded girl who looked like a younger version of his mother.  He ended up marrying her. Analyze that.

Flash forward again, a year later, my Stanley Kubrick film class was showing “Spartacus” with Kirk Douglas. It was kind of boring and one of those films you can nap during and not really miss anything. Kirk Douglas is so over-the-top, always clenching his jaw with his cavernous chin dimple that a small kitten could perish in, but in one scene Spartacus is getting his ass whipped.  Familiar lady boner occurs and I perk up.  In the cage with Jean Simmons, he says, “I am not an animal!”  I realize then that it’s not a slave degradation fetish I have, it’s the stoic response to the torture that gets me hot and bothered.  I’m not a pervert after all!

By the way, if I did have a fetish Tumblr blog, it might be called “Starsky and Me” (I’m such a Hutch)…look how happy they are together! *sigh*

Starsky and Hutch tv show

starsky and hutch gif