Category Archives: LOCAs gone wild

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.

Tales Inside the Locker Room: Cat Fight!

cat fight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lolcat scratching post gif

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I flew by the seat of my pants:

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

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

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

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

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



We Are The Freakies

Do you know what your real age is?  A woman in a yoga class asked me that a few years ago and at the time I said “37!” because I had just turned 36 and wanted a year to ease into the next age so I wouldn’t be traumatized  because what a drag it is getting old…and 36 was a scary age because Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana died then and no way was I getting on that proverbial boat, The Candle in the Wind. As long as I could miss it and die at any other future age, I would be golden.  Golden Brown by the Stranglers!  That’s my funeral song, by the way, don’t wear it out  just yet.

“No, not your chronological  age, the age you are in your mind…for example, I am 39 but I think I am 21 because that is when I was my hottest,” this woman who asked the age question was pretty hot, if she was any hotter she would be fornicating her way down the street so maybe getting old in her case was a good thing.

Oh!  That’s easy, I’m 12.  That is how old I was when I figured out the world.  Currently, as a Lady of a Certain Age, if I were to transport the mind my pre-adolescent self, age 12, into my peri-menopausal vessel, I think I would function the same way, if not better.  I was a sharp 12 year old.  I knew stuff.  I was a keen observer of human behaviour and hid in corners and spied on conversations.  I read a bookshelf full of Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins novels.  I stayed up late and watched the pornography that would come on the community channel after midnight…only in Quebec!

In Grade 6, I turned 12 in May, I was in a class where the teacher thought it would be groovy try a new learning method where the students would complete modules and go at their own pace.  It was the thing to do in the seventies.  We sat in quadrants in the beginning but we could change things around…freely!  Nobody hates change and freedom (I’m a bottom!)  more than me so the whole scenario gave me anxiety.  I was an introvert and really quiet and a head taller than everyone else.  Like a like a cigar store Indian statue, I was just a grim background fixture in the classroom.  But in my seating group in the beginning of the year, the new girl at the school, named Lynn, held court.  She had the kind of personality that was larger than life, that everyone was drawn to and was just the catalyst I needed to break out of my shell.  She was fearlessly funny and really kind to me.  We wrote stories and drew pictures, sang jingles at the top our lungs;  “WE ARE THE FREAKIES, WE ARE THE FREAKIES, AND THIS IS OUR FREAKIES TREE!!!”  Good times.

When we got to Grade 7, we had to smarten up.  It was a new high school because in Quebec it went from Grade 7 to 11 and then CEGEP.  Also we were in French Immersion so we had to concentrate and sit in rows, single file.  The part of the brain where you learn language is made out of a low quality gluten filler in my head so paying attention was a waste of time.  I would make comics and pass them to Lynn after class.  I had this continuing strip about a young woman named “June Thursday” who was making it on her own as a secretary and coping with her roommates but everything always went amok.  It was crudely drawn on looseleaf and completely pornographic and politically incorrect.  Lynn loved it and was my task master, demanding more each class. I think I churned out 2 or three pages a day.  I didn’t know it then, at age 12 she helped me hone my imagination because let’s face it, when you are in high school, the last thing the school system wants to churn out are free thinkers.

She wrote poems, not for school, just for fun.  I still have one about a lonely whale named Finnegan, a freak attraction because he is “The Last Whale” living in a fetid, polluted lake in the fictional town of Omega where tourists come and throw breadcrumbs at him.  In the end he kills himself out of despair and I dare you not to cry if you read it.

When we were 12, we had unbridled creativeness and our whole lives ahead.

Flash forward to last week when my friend, Lynn Crosbie, had a book launch party at The Mascot for her latest book, Life Is About Losing Everything.  Lynn writes the weekly Pop Rocks column for the Globe & Mail on Tuesday and has written several books, described as poetry and prose, including Dorothy L’Amour, Queen Rat, Pearl, Paul’s Case, and Missing Children.  My daughter, who wants to be a writer when she grows up in two minutes, just finished her first year of English at University of Toronto.  One of the books she studied in class was “Missing Children” and she was thrilled to tell her friends, “My mother knew her when she was 12!”  She and I went and it was packed and there was love in the air.  And beer!

The book, check it out here, is a memoir that jumps back and forth through time.  She  recounts little anecdotes, descriptions of people that are tragic and hilarious. You don’t really need to know what’s going on at all times, suspend your imagination and relax and enjoy the moment.  I can’t express how good it is, I read it in one sitting on Mother’s Day.  I am featured in a chapter as Silver in Did You Think We Wouldn’t Notice?  I am most honoured!

Through the beast that is Facebook, Lynn and I had caught up on our lives a couple of years ago, and it was like we were 12 again.  Except with booze.  We even made a prank phone call.  And the other day, she took me out for a birthday drink…yes, I got older but trust me, I am 12, I’m still collecting toys in cereal boxes…we talked about getting older and redefining who we are as there has been much man-baggage zapping our precious energy. Existentially, we are becoming liberated as LOCA’s who don’t give a fuck and we have the best years ahead.

We are The Freakies:

Portrait of a Lady Badass

Last week, Pam Grier was in Toronto for Black History Month to talk about her experiences in film and the current state of African American actors’ movie roles.  She’s 62 now and she knows how to age, gracefully and fiercely.  She’s still a goddess.  This is retro 1970s Pam Grier, probably the baddest ass action lady in all of cinematic history.  When you look at a picture like that, you just want to take your bra off and hang yourself with it knowing that no amount of  makeup, Photoshop, Spanx, sweet talk, or self-delusion will make you look half as hot. Even her armpit crack is suggestive, check it out. In the 1970s women didn’t have to apologize for nip-slips, they were part and parcel of the bra-burning era. Pam Grier was a reigning star in those “blaxploitation” and campy Roger Corman women-in-prison films from the 70s. To paraphrase Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard:  They had faces back then…and tits, and they were not afraid to show them.

Pam Grier, who was influenced by Gloria Steinem, was all about woman-power without compromising her femininity.  As Foxy Brown, she was considered a trail blazer, not just for black women but women in general. Nobody was as sexy and strong as her, Jane Fonda looked like Gidget in comparison. Since the 1970s, thanks to the women’s liberation movement, women have come a long way in some aspects like having choices and job opportunities.  But not in film, something seems to have gotten lost in the translation.  Aesthetically, women have to look like a man with boobs.  It’s all about sucking it out and strategically placing parts of it back in: carve out a P90X body, create Pilates abs, stretch out a yoga ass, and insert two Tupperware shaped bowls for breasts.  If anything is out of place, the sloppiness will get you fired. No wonder as she pushes 50, Demi Moore is having a nervous breakdown like Norma Desmond.  Instead of becoming a hermit, poor thing is chasing the dragon posting bikini self-portraits on Twitter. At the same age, Pam Grier, on the other hand, was rockin’ it like a lady in Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown.

There are very few Pam Griers in film today.  Women over 40 are usually just in supporting roles as the long-suffering wives of dynamic heroes, hysterical mothers of boxers/ballet dancers, bat shit crazy neighbours/co-workers, or stern lady judges.  Meryl Streep doing an impression of a historical female character does not count.  There’s really no one for the sex pot LOCA (lady of a certain age) to identify with. Maybe every two or three years, to placate us, they will dust off the cast members of Sex and the City and slap some on lipstick and make a movie that is actually a 90 minute commercial for Heritage Halston.

Speaking of LOCAs, I watched the Superbowl on Sunday, this is basically how it went:

Of course I watched it for the half-time show and ended watching the entire thing, as I have a secret crush on Tom Brady.  I’m only admitting that to you for limited time only.  He’s not really my type, he is too pretty.  Anyway, the half-time show was good, in my opinion, you cannot fault Madonna for showmanship.  A lot of you think she is the ultimate lady bad ass and I respect that. She is not my kind of LOCA though, her sense of style is contrived by imitating other stye icons and she looks like a veiny penis. Her records, at best, are commercial jingles with lyrics that a prepubescent girl would write in her diary and then burn in Grade 8 out of embarrassment.  Her new song is tuneless and the lyrics are just stupid, talk about chasing the dragon…you are not a “girl,” Madge, and methinks the boy toys are just a beards to validate your mojo.  Sorry, sister, he doesn’t count as a boyfriend if he has to sign a confidentiality clause.

Gisele Bundchen, on the other hand, is a lady bad ass.  Oh horrors, Gisele has a potty mouth…grow up, people.  If I was Tom Brady’s wife, I’d be yelling out expletives at the press, too. Because she is a supermodel, she should just look pretty and keep quiet. Here’s the link to the clip here, it’s not so shocking.

I’d rather leave you with some Pam Grier in action, watch it and learn:



Tale of a Christmas Ho

I think it’s politically okay to celebrate Christmas in public again.  Remember when we couldn’t even say the word and the kids had “Holiday” pageants and had to sing “Woot Woot Kwanzaa” sung to the tune of he Fifth Dimension’s “Stoned Soul Picnic?”  In class, they made dreidels out of polymer clay with wire hooks so we could hang them on the tree as an ornament, killing the J-bird and the C-bird with one stone. Smart hockey, teacher, keep everyone happy. Just make no mention of the sweet baby Jesus, Virgin Mary, mangers, wise men (they don’t really exist anyway), and from now on Santa has no denomination. But sitting on his lap and giving him your list of wants and desires while he drunkenly calls you a “ho ho ho” has never really gone out of style, thank Gods (plural).

I love Christmas and I will say it loud and proud.  It’s all about the build up:  The lights, the decorations, the shortbread, the Brie wheels, the booze, and best of all the bombardment of made-for-tv movies on the W Network.  There’s a bunch of them, all filmed in Toronto, all starring Hollywood D-list “ageing” actresses with Can-con leading men, that they replay over and over again.  A typical plot:  A woman, once married to an evil rat bastard who leaves her for his sex-atary, becomes homeless.  She gets a job at a diner and starts baking cookies that sell like hotcakes. The man (whose name is always Nick) that runs the diner is a nice but seemingly hapless hunk that she is sexually attracted to but she has no time for because she has to get back on her feet for the sake of her hipster daughter who is away at college and doesn’t yet know she is broke. The story-line arcs when there is a misunderstanding involving false pride (hers) and blue balls (his) and she falls into the depth of despair. But! It turns out he is actually super wealthy. Her cookies become a multi-million dollar industry and she and Nick fall in love just in time for Christmas and her daughter comes home to her happy mom and new daddy and a house full of prezzies. The end.

And speaking of baking cookies, I gave that chore up for Lent 4 years ago and never really got back to it.  I used to get invited to various “cookie exchange” parties…I know, right?  Bake a dozen million cookies, put them in a trunkload of cookie tins and take them to covenant of estrogen-based ho-bags and sit around and drink wine and talk.  That’s not really party *per se,*  Not without bone and mistletoe! Bitch, please. What is with all these grown women wanting to go out on “girls’ night?”  A couple of weeks ago, one of my friends e-mailed me: “We’re going out on a girls’ night, want to come?”  I e-mailed:  “Can I bring my nephew?”  To which the reply:  “Ladies only!”  Ugh, to that!  Seriously, I can’t handle being in a mass of women, or a “snatch of beavers,” plural form. I need man energy to drive me to take the next breath. This is why I don’t mind when my teenage son has a room full of boys sleep over in the tv room.  The sweat and Axe Body Spray all condense in one spot over night so that when you open the door in the early afternoon to see if they are still alive, you are bombarded with a pheromone bomb so potent, you have to wear panty liners for a week.

But I’m looking forward to this cookie party. My friend who invited me has called this the “rebel cookie exchange where anything goes!”  I asked:  “Do you mean there will be man-whores and bourbon?”  “Oh, goodness, no,” she laughed, “You can actually bring squares, before they were sticky about that rule and it was cookies only.  Lindsay is making fudge!”  Fudge!  I love fudge.  And cookies. Nothing says Christmas more than a chunk of extra ass-flab made out of butter.  Ho ho ho!

And with that I leave you with some Can-con, my mother’s favourite Christmas carol, Little Drummer Boy, done by Sean Quigley of Winnipeg. This is cool and love his teenage ‘stache:

My Boyfriend’s Back! And I’m Done

Y’all remember that rash I had on my back last winter that spread from the base of my tailbone all the way up to neck?  Maybe I didn’t blog about it but I sure walked around complaining and using everything I could get my hands on as a back scratcher.  Yardsticks, convex corners, forks, barbecue utensils, and finally, an actual “backscratcher” from the dollar store! Also, by the way, this is how I became addicted to T&T Supermarkets daily dim sum, just so I can hoard chopsticks to stick in my back in the privacy of my car.   It was my “stress” rash, I had no idea why else it was there but to divert my attention from the rest of the shit that was going on at the time.

My stress rash became part of my identity for a while.  I talked about it to people I thought could help.  My family doctor, the Botox nurse, and an aesthetician.  They all had stupid solutions that involved some form of expensive cream.  Here’s the deal:  If something is causing a rash on your skin, it’s coming from within, a topical treatment might help the symptom but not cure the ill.  Whatever the problem is, will come out somewhere else.  I might be a crazy, overly sensitive LOCA, but I know slapping some pancake on a zit will never clear a pore.  And no amount of cortisone cream or emu oil is going to calm my fucking nerves.  My skin might clear up but instead  I might end up growing a horn in the middle of my forehead. Or a tail.

So months went by, stuff got resolved; Divorce papers signed, quit the real estate biz, decided to grow hair long but maintain a face framing fringe, and lo and behold, I noticed my rash was completely gone!  Was I right or what?  Removed all the stress and the skin cleared!  I rock!  Or so I thought…

Coinciding with all my personal drama, was the demise of the whirlpool at my gym.  I’m not going to name the place *per se* but!  it’s on the Lakeshore and the building is actually on landfill that used to be a garbage dump.  Every two seconds, the foundation cracks and things go awry.  The floor is so wonky that the entire fitness area is like an Escher sketch where the stationary bikes turn into treadmills and the stairmaster actually sinks into the ground so you don’t really need to plug it in.  The tennis courts have hills.  The upside is that stray balls roll back to you.  People at that gym don’t get tennis elbow nearly as much as they end up with vertigo.  And then, with some of the ladies, the vertigo turns into a severe case of cuntitis but that’s for another day.

My favourite part of the gym is the bath.  The whirlpool in the women’s pleeb class locker room had the best pressure wash in the city.  Trust me, I know from your shitty backyard hot tub the difference between pulsating power and ca-ca stew.  If you didn’t hold on to the edges, you would be blown from one end of the pool to the other.  That south-east jet was my boyfriend. I named him Jet.  And when I say “boyfriend” that’s basically what I mean. He never let me down.  He fixed the crick in my neck and my right hip flexer.  When he shot his force on my glutes and hamstrings, it felt like beating.  I know that sounds bad but sometimes a lady needs a pounding.

Most of the time there are other women in the tub.  Don’t get excited because it is not like Hefner’s Grotto.  It is more like a bunch of grandmas after an aquafit class trying to get warm.  They sit in the circle, back to the jets, and talk about absolute crap.  You just have to hold your horses and break a bunch of blood vessels and wait for them to prune even more than they already are so you can have your alone time.  Some of the young moms with their kids in the daycare have no time for this, so they pretend they are targeting their “quadriceps.”  Oh those brutal lunges from Group Power!  I have a high embarrassment threshold so I can sit with the old bitches face-to-face in the tit soup and arc my back, tilt my pelvic floor facing the jet so that my boyfriend is giving it to me doggy-style.  And that is all that I’m going to say about that EXCEPT that in June, the whirlpool closed down for repairs.

The whole summer went by, no Jet for mama. You can do all the yoga you want, but lady will get stiff bones for a lack of stiff bone, if you know what I mean.  The whirlpool promised to be open in September, and because of the severity of the repair, it got pushed back to November.  I got used to it being boarded up and the sign with the apologies on the glass door, just above the table with the bowl of “free” apples.  No joke, that’s how they tried to placate us.  The only apple that was ever worth its salt was the one that Eve gave Adam.  It should have been a bowl full of batteries and maybe then we would think they actually cared.

A couple of days ago, the whirlpool was open after 6 months!  My boyfriend’s back!  I screamed inside my head.  I have learned to shut my pie hole in the locker room.  Ladies overhear things, misconstrue, and before you know it, you are no longer part of a cookie exchange, book club, round robin, Tupperware party, and whatever else group requires a vagina.  I had a short workout, and by “short” I mean I got undressed and high-tailed it over to the tub to see my long-lost boyfriend.  I didn’t care for the new iridescent blue tiles.  Don’t try to dazzle me, I just want my jet.  I swoomed (a cross between swim and zoom) over to my spot and plunked down to get reacquainted.  Well, you can just guess what.  Jet was not the same.  Jet had less water pressure than icicle melting on a sunny day in February.  I tried the other ones, and same thing.  They all needed Cialis. No power, no mojo, just a bunch pretty tiles in a tub of water full of stray pubes.

Sadly, I got out and dried myself off.  Almost immediately I was itchy.  And sure enough, when I turned around to look in the mirror, my back was a red and not from a beating.  So much for my rash theory, it turns out the water in the tub that causes the problem.  So that settles that, no more whirlpool.  And so much for my rash theory.  Still I’m sad because I really did love Jet.

And speaking of water damage, I have a special request to ask of all of you.  My friend, Trish, who owns a Toronto local roofing company called Fixer on the Roof, is a finalist in the American Express Small Business Contest.  Amex is giving away $10,000 to help a small company, check her out here and please vote for her, click on the link below, go to “Vote” and her profile comes up, it’s easy!  Thanks for your help, she really deserves it!  You know my gym on the Lakeshore actually uses duct tape to repair the leaks in the roof, she would NEVER stand for that.  Contest runs until November 28, so vote daily, and when it’s done, as a reward, I’m going to publish a tour of Hugh Hefner’s Grotto on this post, so keep coming back!

Vote for Fixer on the Roof here.

The Good Cougar

The other day I pulled out of my DVD collection the  movie “Alfie,” the 2004 version with Jude Law and Susan Sarandon.  This is one of my new classic Christmas-time movies but I had just seen, on natural television, the other Susan Sarandon cougar movie, “White Palace” with a young, fresh James Spader as her cub.  I know a lot of women take offense to the term “cougar” but I do not.  A cougar, by my specific definition is a Lady of a Certain Age who seeks the company of a man who she could have given birth to even if  she was in Grade 7.  The basic math is her age minus his age should be equal to or greater than the age of her first visit from Aunt Flo.  Both these movies are kind of tragic but I am inspired by my elder cougar mentors.  They blaze through the mountains, with their high heels and Chanel lipstick, and I follow along, eagerly, in my Birkenstocks, smacking my lips with Cherry Chapstick (STILL!).

Without a doubt, Susan Sarandon is the reigning Cougar Queen of Hollywood.   She is a predator though, and while I admire her, I don’t emulate her.  She is a cougar by design but I am a cougar by default.  I would like to date in my age range, but available men in my demographic don’t want to play in my sand box.  Don’t feel sorry for me because I don’t really care.  If a man is single in his forties, he is usually some other woman’s spent piece and he comes with not just baggage but a garage load of odds and sods resembling broken down farm equipment.  The stuff in his “baggage” is moth-eaten, is mismatched and has skid marks.  This is proverbial talk of course.  Like I care about a skid mark.  With the right man, I would find a skid mark down right charming, a little accent of humanity in an otherwise overbleached, Lysoled world.  People are always trying to cover up their smells.  Anyway, those lost dudes end up cleaning themselves real fine and they buy a fancy car and “move on” seeking the company of a younger ho or being a part of the modern and rapidly more ubiquitous coupling:  White guy, Asian gal. This is not something that needs to be fought.  It’s like math sequencing that you learned in elementary school:  40, 20, 50, 25, 60, 30, 70,35, 80…..can you guess the next number?  It’s 40!  Which means, by the force of nature,  I need to date an octagarian!  Or find a niche market and go with it.  Do you know what turns my head?  A Sikh man in some kind of uniform.  My neighbourhood UPS man is a vision of smoldering brown hotness from turban to toe.  And the cop directing traffic this morning on Woodbine had an OPP turban on that matched his uniform nearly made me crash my car.  That stupid movie, The English Patient, started me on this.  It’s all the mystery of the forbidden fruit of conflicting cultures.  But in realty, they have the same skid marks as your balding husband in his Jockeys underneath his Dockers.  And again, just like my dolty douchebag demographic, I wave at them, but they never wave back.

So I have learned a lady has to go where the bone is.  There is no point in fighting City Hall.  Go with the flow.  As it turns out, the only men that ever paid me any mind in the last 6 years, I could have definitely given birth to and had their little brothers, too.  It borders on creepy, for sure.  Like that dude on a skateboard I met on the street a couple of months ago who liked my Velvet Underground tshirt, he turned out to be in high school.  Don’t judge me, I didn’t start it.   6 years ago, when I separated from my same-age ex-husband and moved into this house, I needed a handyman to assemble some Ikea furniture.  Of course I could have done it myself, but there are two types of people:  those who read instructions and those who won’t.  I am the latter.  So I went outside and I flagged the first person I saw walking on the street.  Serendipity.  He was a university student, age 19, and because it was during a July heatwave, he wasn’t wearing a shirt and he all ripped and ready.  He accepted my offer of fifty bucks to assemble 2 dressers for my bedroom.  I know you’re probably thinking I am making this up and have watched one too many Vivid feature films on Friday night Showcase.  But no, it wasn’t intended like that, he assembled the drawers, I gave him money and a beer, and he gave me his number in case I needed him again, for anything, any time.  I put him in my phone as “Handy Luke” so I would remember what he did.  “Handy” being the operative word.  That summer he came by my house a few times, on his own, and always without a shirt.  We sat on my porch and had beers and who would tell me about his girlfriend, who was also 19.  She was really nice and pretty but she wouldn’t do things that he wanted.  According to him, she was worried about how she looked, so she kept her bra on and wrapped up in a sheet.  The paradox of youth, when you have it, you hide it and then you wish you had it back when you are old but by then it’s too late.  Lucky for me, I was never like that.  I will go naked any where, any time.  It’s my claim to fame.

After the summer of  Handy Luke, he went back to school, out of town, and soon out of mind.  Strangely enough, I thought about him last week when I caught of whiff of someone’s soap in a crowded elevator.  He had a definite odour and when I smelled it from a random stranger, I got a wave nostalgia.  Where is he now?  Has he shagged his way to proper manhood?  He’d be 25 now.  He was really handsome.  Sigh.  Cougar purr.  And then yesterday, when I was waiting in line at the butcher, my phone made that nerve jangling glass-ping sound, alerting me to a text message.  Now you’d think I would be a texting-type person but I am not.  That sound fills me with dread.  I’d sooner communicate by Morse code than a text message, it’s just so passsive aggresive.  Anyway, much to my complete surprise, it was a message from Handy Luke.  Isn’t that weird how that always seems to happen?  You think of someone randomly and then they show up out of the blue.  Anyway, as I’m waiting for my chicken to be chopped up in a million pieces, this is how the exchange went:

HANDY LUKE:  How are you?

ME:  I’m good!  This is so weird, I was just thinking of you the other day, how are you?

HANDY LUKE:  I forget what your boobs look like. 

(and then seconds later):  I hope you’re not mad.  lol.

ME:  As if.  They’re still hanging in there.

HANDY LUKE:  Can you shoot me a pic?

And so I hightailed out of the shop with my bag of dismembered chicken parts, a spicy salami, and a new lease on life.  When I got home, I went to my bedroom and and whipped the bra off and assumed position on the bed.  Now I am no stranger to this sort of photography and pretty much by trial and error, I know the right angles and propping to make the boobs seem appetizing.  I snapped a shot from my phone then checked the image.  Oh dear.  The flash had gone off so my rack looked like an all-terrain surreal landscape.  The left boob slipped mostly out of frame except for the squiggly blue vein on the top, it looked like a raging river plunging into a valley of patchy dirt.  THIS IS WHY WE MUST USE SPF99 ON OUR DECOLLETE!  On the base of the second mountain, aka. the right boob, is a giant spider bite that looks like a volcano ready to erupt.  Further on up, another messy waterway of veins and to the top, a jaggedy pink rock that looks could fall over any minute.  That is the nipple with the scar, the one that got bit by a certain 3 year old who shall remain nameless but wanted to try again because her baby brother seemed to like it so much.  I deleted this photo, so don’t you be asking me for it.  Instead I texted him back:

ME:  Where are you now?

HANDY LUKE:  I’m in the hospital

ME:  What happened???

HANDY LUKE:  My girlfriend just got a boob job!  I’m in the waiting room while they take the bandages off. I wanted to see what real ones looked like 😉

ME:  Just close your eyes and think of two Dairy Queen soft serve cones, melting in the sun. 

HANDY LUKE:  LOL!  I’m glad you’re still a funny lady. 

And there you go.  A cougar tale.  And another happy cub with a fond memory.  I just may sit on the porch and wait for another one to come by.  Yawn.

See Me, Feel Me, Beer Me

This girl has it going on.  Kate and Pippa could take a style lesson from her.  Did I not say that the fascinator would be big this summer?  I made one out of an old bike pump but it’s not nearly as chic as this Steam Whistle one.  I ran into her last night at The Beer Festival at the CNE, which goes on August 5, 6, and 7th, click here for the details.  If you can’t make it this weekend, then mark it on your calendar for next year because this was probably the funnest night I have had since I have been old enough to drink beer.  Which is younger than some of you because I grew up in Quebec where the legal drinking age is a state of mind that doesn’t require a birth certificate, just a pair of tight jeans and an attitude.  And between you and me, I have always loved beer, even as a little kid I would beg for a sip from my dad’s glass.  My mother thought (and still does)  that it’s trashy to drink beer straight from the bottle or can and I can get behind that because it’s easier to keep inventory what you left.  And  have you ever been to a party and picked what you thought was your beer bottle when in fact, it was the communal ashtray?  Gross!!!

No chance of that at the Beer Festival.  Upon admittance you are given a clear plastic 8 ounce cup that is yours for the night and if you lose it, you have to buy another one for 20 bucks or share.  I am sure people are more likely to lose their cell phones than their plastic cups.  Lorraine and I got to the grounds around 6, I was like a kid on Christmas Day waiting to open presents and Lorraine was dying to unwind after a stressful work.  We had a special passes thanks to her ex-husband Lido and got in lickity split but the shock and the horror set in when we saw the line up for beer tokens.  Every 4 ounces of beer was worth a dollar token.  I had enough time to wait in line to figure out 40 dollars would be worth around 5 pints in a standard Toronto pub.  Or so I thought.  I don’t even know how many ounces in a pint and am unsure if they are on the same measuring system, is one imperial and the other metric?  Are their enough toilets in this place for all this beer to go at some point?  As I inched my way toward the front of the line, I smiled smugly to myself knowing that my Tena pad would save the day in case the answer to the last question was no.

Once we got our tokens, I have to say, the rest was a blur.  A super fun blur, I might add.  It was like a giant frat party.  Everyone was young and really drunk.  There were bands, interesting beers to choose from (my favourite was called “Dead Elephant”), and really great food including Edo’s 7 dollar Kobe hotdog that I had at The Ex last year and raved about, Oyster Boys shucked by girl shuckers, AND the beacon, the star of my summer, the object of my affections:  The Caplansky Truck.  I don’t really know how many ounces of beers we drank, I do know that I have a bunch of leftover tokens so my math is not so good.  And then I realized when do I actually drink 5 pints of beer?  Never!  Or hardly ever! Lol!  More ridiculous math and geometry:  A 26-year-old guy asked for my phone number and I gave it to him in the correct order because why not? Cougars rule!  I think the perfect weather and the crescent-shaped moon put everyone in a great mood.   A few more fun things happened but I can`t say because my mother reads this but at least I still have my plastic cup.  All I have to say is there is something about copious amounts of beer that  gives you license to lose your dignity and not feel bad about it the next day.  It`s the Canadian way!



Keep Safe, Carry On

“The first rule of Cheat Club is wear a condom. I’m looking at you, Arnold.”

 Bitchwalla via Twitter

I’m not even going to bother judging this whole Arnold Schwarzenegger secret lovechild “scandal.”  It’s a little too late now.  But I will look at it as a cautionary tale.  When you are a married man, who thinks to have condoms in your back pocket when your wife probably has some hormone pumping patch or ring taking care of the situation?  Your mistress isn’t on the pill because she says it makes her fat and besides, her natural cycle of ovulation fruitiness makes her more desirable than your spent old cranky wife.  She may have a condom or two in her goodie drawer but you are not in her bed, you are in the back of the Escalade.  So a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do:  Pull out.  But who remembers to do that?  And so a baby is born some 9 months later and that is that.  The 10 year secret is the sad part and the kid will have to live with that.  I think you are only sick as your secrets and secrets cause cancer (Don’t worry, JHo, I will whisper the word “cancer” when I read this out to my therapy group).
Every once in a Haley’s Comet, a dude will ask me:  “Do you have a condom?”  To which I will reply:  “No, do you have a tampon?  Because I need one right now!”  Nip that in the bud!  Why should I provide the covering for a man’s junk?  Do you know how much I have spent on my own birth control in my lifetime?  Okay, not that much, I still fit into that diaphragm from high school (JOKES, please, I threw that out a long time ago #notreally).  Still, I did my due diligence, taking the pill which made me a lunatic, then going off it that made me pregnant and fat.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Now that I am a single lady, birth control is a dry spell. I am a LOCA (lady of a certain age) but don’t kid yourself, I could still have a rotten egg baby.  Which is something I fear more than a hairy scrotum.  I don’t need another mouth to feed from the strained outlet of a stained nursing bra.  Yuck!  Now my kids are the perfect age that they still need me to sign their report cards but they can make their own Ramen noodles. 
Anyway, now that my mojo is back, I am rethinking my “Field of Dreams” strategy.  If you build it he will come:  If you’re packing, he will come quicker.  So I decided to actually get some condoms to have on hand (just in case).  So off to the drugstore I went.  Oddly enough, my Shoppers Drugmart has them situated in between the canes and the non-prescription reading glasses.  There a million kinds of condoms to choose from:  Ribbed, thin, “large” (haha), fire and ice, flavoured, et cetera.  Luckily, there was a young man also parusing the the shelves.  So I struck up a conversation.  He looked harmless enough.
Me:  Do you have a favourite kind?
He:   Wulllll, these kind here I usually get…(He grabs the back box with what looks like a gun that says “LARGE” on it)
Me:  (pointing to a Tiffany Blue box with “Ladies Choice” on them) Really?  But these have sensational lubricant on them.  And they are thin!
He:  Yeah, wull…my girlfriend likes those…Yeah, like, she says they’re the Cadillac of condoms..
Me:  Well, why don’t you get them, then?
He:  Cuz I’m a Ferrari!!! LOL!! (snort)
I’m fairly certain he didn’t actually have a girlfirend and if he did, she’d sooner have intimate relations with a tailpipe.  And I did choose the Tiffany blue box of 12.  I put 2 in purse, 2 in my glove compartment, and the rest in my goodie drawer.  Because I am a lady.