Category Archives: This Charming Man

Mastering the Art of Facing Your Fears

Isn’t that just best worst picture ever? It came up on my Facebook newsfeed a few weeks ago (thanks, T! Luv u!) and I saved it to my computer, I don’t what for, but occasionally I stare at it and feel things. It came from the National Geographic website, it’s a king cobra and a reticulated python in a skirmish of survival. The python squeezes the cobra to death as the cobra chomps into the python a lethal injection of its venom. Well done, nature. If that’s not a metaphor for the political climate on your Facebook newsfeed and its battle of wits in any given comment section, I don’t know what is. Anyway, at first after I got over the initial horror of this spectacle, I then became disgusted the all the litter on the pathway. Humans are the foulest beasts and we should be very afraid of each other.

On that note, I’m back on the blog! I’ve accumulated a sufficient amount of anxiety to fuel the fire that drives me to spread my thoughts out on the internet. How would you measure anxiety? On a Richter scale? Mine is hovering around 3.0 -3.9 where shaking of indoor objects may be visible. I would like something to take ending in “pam” but I just might need to go back to yoga. Haha, don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. For many years, I went to Bikram yoga and sweated and near barfed in a room full of almost naked people forced to look at themselves in the mirror while doing the same fucking series of poses in complete unison and utter silence. Keep your toes in line. Do not breathe through your mouth. You know what, Choudhury?  There’s more than one way to swing a cat. But no, there isn’t apparently, it had to be just so. If I heard them say “squeeze like you’re a Japanese Ham Sandwich” one more time, I was going to implode all my hidden rage, disguised under a thin veil of faux serenity, and scream NAMASTE? NAMA-FUCKING-OUTA-HERE BITCHES. So after 6 years I stopped going and never looked back. I’m looking up on google what is a Japanese ham sandwich and urban dictionary has a whole other meaning for it and it doesn’t involve lettuce and tomato, but may or may not involve mayo.  I really hate yoga, it’s soooooo boring, Meditation shmeditation, like what for? I’m alone with my thoughts all day, I know my inside dialogue so well, it doesn’t scare me anymore and it’s certainly no longer interesting. I need interaction. Even though other people scare me.

So I went back to my gym. Baby steps, my friends. I rolled on a ball for 10 minutes, almost getting hit in the head by a big dude swinging a kettle bell, then I trotted over to the inversion machine and hung like a bat for another two minutes. I’ve been a member for 21 years and joined for the fitness but stayed for the beer. What kind of gym has beer, you ask. Well it’s not just a gym, it’s a racquet club. Oooh, you fancy lady, you say. Not really. It’s a basic facility in the feral section of town where the highway ends in the east end of Toronto. You have to have a four wheel drive to make it through into the parking lot. The people are a motley bunch of old and not so old people. The latest is an influx of families with toddler types. There must have been nothing on tv in 2014-15. Let me tell you, helicopter parenting is alive and well in these parts. The best part of the gym, aside from the beer taps, is the hot tub in the ladies’ change room. Its jets are majestic. Fingers and peen in fluid form. Problems include sometimes it’s out of order, and other times it’s filled with toddlers LEARNING TO SWIM IN IT, and a hovering mom standing in front of the knob that turns the jets on. There’s an actual pool for that sort of thing but no, it’s “too cold.” I used to wait for their precious still water sessions to be over but now I just barge in, flick the switch, fling my towel over the rail, and step in all nekky, swinging tiddies and whatnot. Children don’t scare me as long as they keep their comments to themselves.

When I first joined the gym, I was big into group fitness and coming every day because there was a daycare there for my own toddler situation and I got the Me Time that was scarce back then. Also I always had a gym crush. Gym crushes are healthy in the way in that they get you to the gym and putting forth your best Lululemon camel toe. The golden rule of a gym crush is never EVER talk to a gym crush. You must admire from afar even though your first instinct is to find out his name, what car he drives, where he lives, and zodiac sign. My first gym crush was a dude I aptly named Sweaty Man. He always wore a grey tshirt and blue shorts and he would go on the never ending staircase for a full 45 minutes and I would hang back on some reclining leg machine thingy and watch his tshirt get soaked in sweat. It was like watching paint dry but in reverse and instead of a wall, it was a burly dude who looked kind of like Channing Tatum. By the end of his sesh, he would make a giant puddle on the floor that he would bend over and clean it up with a towel. This was the best part of my day. After he would leave for the iron room, I would go to his machine and climb in his balmy after-aura. I could only last about 10 minutes on that machine but that’s equivalent to climbing 25 flights which more than I would do otherwise. I found out at one point he was a cop, not a beat cop but a special Spiderman type cop who had to scale buildings and things, which was kind of hot, right? The girl at the front desk looked up his membership and found out also he was a Taurus like me. Total deal breaker, two sets of horns makes for an awkward tango. Also he left the gym after a few months, I prolly scared the shit out of him.

Other gym crushes were less pheromonal but they still got me motivated to go and try new things. I even did tennis for a while. The outfits were also super fun but in reality, I hated tennis. I used to play round robins with these horrible wretched women who would hate playing with me because I was a novice. “Can she even see?” I overheard one say in the locker room. Yes, bitch, I can see your old as fuck tits are fake and they’ve hardened into two petrified spherules pointing down to your mid-century C-section scar. I am the venomous snake of animal kingdom. As it turns out, when I went to the optometrist, she told me I have difficulty judging distance which would definitely make me a bad tennis player. So there, cunty tennis ladies. But! I didn’t have a tennis crush per se, I had special Friday afternoon one -on-one stroke tutorials, if you will, with the tennis pro. This lasted some months and then I found out he was dating one of the swimming instructors who was like, half my age, which was cool but awkward. But! That whole experience unleashed the cougar in me and I haven’t looked back. Scroll back to 2015 blog posts if you dare, those were the days, my friend. *sighs, rips open a bag of Cheetos*

So! Have been lately thinking it might be time to settle down. Maybe? I’m not sure how things work. Can a person take this into their own hands or do they have to wait for lightening to strike? I’m looking through my ol’ trusty OkCupid dating site and all the age appropriate menfolk I find interesting live far away. Most of them have those types of profiles where they list in the negative, like the ubiquitous: NO DRAMA. Okay, here’s the thing: if you are trying to sell yourself and write stuff like “no drama” that means you have experienced so much drama that you must include it in your profile. And why have you experienced so much drama? RED FLAG! BECAUSE YOU ARE A MOTHERFUCKING GASLIGHTER! That means in all your relationships, you, sir, have been the one who pokes the sweet baby angel bear and manipulate the situation so she seems like the crazy one. I’ve seen that episode of Grey’s Anatomy with the dude from Glee on it. Swipe left, ladies. My daughter thinks I should make a more serious profile but I’m not even going to bother making it normal because what for? I’m a mermaid and they are the same pool of fish. One guy wrote on his list of wants was “hygiene”, wut?  Like what sewage system have you been deep sea diving in, sir? The internet is one scary place. Also I’ve been listening to a lot of serial killer podcasts and now every middle aged dude’s profile picture looks like Ed Gein’s mug shot. Sinister as fuck.

So that brings me back to the gym. One of my single g-friends thinks the gym is not the place to meet men which I vehemently disagree. Take those buds out of your ears, m’lady. Get out of that weird work out zone that has you staring into a monitor while you glide on the elliptical machine. Get off that useless pony and hit the mats and sit on one of those giant ass balls, bounce them titties and swivel your hips. Look around. Make eye contact. Smell the air. Pheromones are out there.  As I write this,  I’m here right now and for the past couple of hours I’ve been looking around and while there is currently one cute dude, seemingly NOT a brow-beaten father of a toddler, I have terrible gaydar. Let me describe him: He has one of those trim beards and fade hair cuts like from Hastings Barbershop (could be straight or gay) and is wearing a tight top with nipple protrusion and sleek pants with high water booty (gay and gay), I know he drives a Mazda hatchback thingy (straight?) what do you think? Never mind, he’s too young anyway, I have to get over that. Probably. Can’t lie. Don’t really want to though. But probably should. I will. No more young uns. Unless a full moon. Then I can haz 2.

Yesterday I saw a dude, who I had never seen before, he was maybe even older than me with slightly disheveled hair, and beard with silvers in it (ooof!  *does a Kiegel*). He had a crumpled, wizened but pleasant face, the kind that doesn’t knock you out at first but grows on you. Maybe his celebrity lookalike is an older Shia LaBeouf if you can imagine. You probably think gross, he’s a dirtball. I like that. MORE FOR ME. Hygiene or lack thereof is not my concern. Definite pheromones. No ring by the way, not that means anything but it’s more promising than if he had a ring on, right?  Key here is not to  elevate him into the status of a god-like gym crush otherwise I’ll be collecting DNA samples and licking them. So!  Game plan: Must be pro-active and approach with caution. Hopefully he is not a Taurus. He could very well be a reticulated python to my king cobra and then what? That would be so hot. Right?

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Mastering the Art of Labor Day Anxiety

 

I’m a 54 year old woman who had a dream last night whereby I forgot I was enrolled in a class and had to read Madame Bovary* and write some paper about it and it was due last Friday and not only did I forget I was in the class, I hadn’t read the book and I fucking woke up in a meat sweat panic and it took me a bout 15 minutes to figure out that I haven’t been in school since 1985. Holy Patron Saint of Labor* Day Telethon RIP Jerry Lewis, when will this end? I STILL FEEL THE SCHOOLS!

(*Madame Bovary, I know right? What does THAT mean?)

(*American spelling, so sue me)

Anyway, it’s only Freddy in the household who still goes school and I spent the entire morning on Saturday getting his shit together whilst he slept off his hangover. This is fine, he’s my baby, his summer job was the night shift and I move better when I’m alone. He goes to Ottawa U but he’s in his third year so he just needs to replenish his food pantry. So I went to No Frills thinking I could get deals because I’d be doing a big stock up shop and people always tell me what a goddamn fool I am to shop at Loblaws. Big lesson learned that day, you cheap bitches:  By the time it took me to unlock a fucking cart with a stupid quarter and wrangling its wide rattling ass into the goddamn store, I could have watched an episode of something/anything on Netflix, which I’m sure you’ll agree is time better wasted. Also No Frills has nothing. Fuck-Doodle nada. It’s like going into that dream I had where I forgot I was enrolled in that class. Where is the Ibuprofen? Why is there no White Cheddar Mac n Cheese? Cavernous holes in every shelf. If you ever worked in retail, those holes are the portal to hell. Face them up bitches,, it’s not that hard. And where are even the toilets? I have to take a slash mid-shop no matter where I am. Also nobody is good looking there, just a bunch of bargain hunting fug butts and their snot gobbling spawn in grotesque lighting who don’t know the rules of the road apply to the aisles of a groshop unless you are in the UK where you can slide up any which way.  If you could go to my Loblaws on any given Friday night, you would think you were in Rio De Janeiro. Like on the beach when Antonio Carolos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes were inspired to write “The Girl from Ipanema.” My Loblaws is THAT magical.

When I got home I was so crabby, I didn’t even know myself. Did you get salami? Was all he asked before I took his head off. Not really, but even a little snap will put a damper on the final days and I said WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT SALAMI YOU KNEW I WAS SHOPPING HOLY GOD I’M NOT A MIND READER. Okay, so it was a big snap but still, I’m not a mind reader. Also I know that was one of those disengaging tactics one goes through when someone is leaving. I’ve just watched it on “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” when dude left. Don’t ask me which dude or when, they are playing them in random order as a marathon. It’s hilarious, I watch it ironically but I’m really learning so much about human behaviour. Not really, yes really. It’s super weird watching the old episodes when Bruce was Bruce and they had no clue. His eyebrows were so on point, how could they miss it?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I cried when Freddy left today and I’m also feeling weird anxiety. I also adopted another dog over the summer. It wasn’t really an impulsive thing to adopt another dog as I work with dogs, have other dogs occasionally in my house besides Betty, enjoy a two dog dynamic, even three dogs is fun, but this dog kind of came quickly, like a Tinder swipe. Woosh, bang. I was perusing the ole Internet, as I am wont to do, and came across a dog from a rescue site that I thought was cute. His name was Pancake and he he was from Mexico and had ears like tortilla chips, so cute!!! Freddy thought he was adorable also so I applied to adopt. Waited and whatnot. Days went by and no response.  Meanwhile, found another little Chihuahua pooch named Louie, who Evangeline took a shine to, and applied. Heard from the Louie people first and filled out an application longer than it would take to adopt a child from China and then got approved for a “primary” interview to visit him out in Kitchener. So we drove out there thinking: Jesus Christ, are we just driving there only to go all the way back? What the hell? When we adopted Betty from a rescue lady in Mississauga, she couldn’t wait to get rid of her. TAKE HER GODDAM ASS, we won’t cash the cheque for two week because everyone keeps bringing her back tho, like I’m going to go all the way back to return her in Mississauga, how much of an asshole can she be? Turns out a HUGE asshole and also turns out I’m really lazy. Kept her ass and haven’t looked back 12 years later.

Well I guess the new adoption process is maximum due diligence these days and it’s admirable. First impression: Louie looks like a squirrel/bat/wretched P0meranian that fell through a chimney, he’s kind of black but black coated, not black from the root but like a white haired Hispanic lady who died her hair with boxed Clairol and let it go for a few months because she went on a bender. He literally does not look like a dog. He’s a being, of an animal variety, but possibly mythical. He’s enchanting though, cute in the face, but mangled up in the body. Limps likes he has been carrying a back pack filled with nuts and roadkill for his forest friends (apparently he was a stray from Ohio). SHY AS FUCK. HIDES UNDER A TABLE. We said yes though. But only because we were in Kitchener and wanted to leave because a total Dorothy in Kansas storm was brewing and we were starving so we left but without real thought because I’m sure if we had real thought, we wouldn’t haven’t even been on the internet swiping right to rescue dogs in the first place.

Anyway, Louie’s rescue had another step and that was a home interview which we were sure, phewwww, we would totally fail because Betty is such a bitch and the home visit would entail a visit from another rescue dog who lived close by. I don’t why I feel relieved by the onset of rejection but I do…. HOWEVER! We passed our home visit with flying colours and Betty was adorable to this random Black Lab who she will never see again (she obviously takes after to her mother). So Freddy and Evangeline went off to Kitchener to pick up Louie whilst I was at work, which you would think would be a good way for him to bond with them so I wouldn’t have to so much. I’ve bonded with so many dogs in the last few months I feel to chill in the bottom of the pack for a bit, yet I’m still obsessed with dogs so that’s where I’m at with my mindset. But it was as though he knew I was the one who cut the cheque for his adoption fee because I am the only one he stares at, wants, loves. He looks at me like he thinks I’m pretty, so I’m cool with it.

So Louie has a flaw or two, according to the rescue: He’s afraid of a leash (who isn’t?) but most importantly he hates men apparently. His previous adoptees, a couple, sent him back because the dude claimed he chased him around the house barking his high pitched bark, which I rarely hear, scaring him to death. It’s pretty standard issue where rescue dogs hate men and have been traumatized by them in some way. Chill, Bill, grow a pair. But! There goes my Tinder game. Sigh, however! If he’s a cock block, then I will deal and be relieved if he scares them away. Fuck the men folk anyway, I am kind of put out by them these days, that last dude I thought was cool turned out to be a gaslighter, long story, I’d love to go into it but I won’t now because I’m saving it for my Ted Talks/screen play/other blog where I really tell my secrets. So if this furry little dude is guarding the gateway to ma pussy, then coolio, woof woof, enter at your own risk. CAVE CANEM, motherfuckers.

When Louie first came to the house he hid under a table for the first couple of hours. My fear was that he was one of those timid dogs that end up living under the bed who you forget about just like that dream where you forget about that class but this time there is a life on the line and you forget to feed him and he dies you end up with a bad smell that you nonchalantly attribute to peri-post-menopausal fartaciousness but it’s only when you vacuum a million years later that your Miele swivel head gets caught on a ploof of floof with skeleton attached that you realize holy god, it’s that freakish Louie dog I forgot I adopted!  Worst nightmare ever! BUT! Then we started watching Jeopardy and as soon as he heard the beginning theme song, he ran up to the couch and curled up on a pillow and basically called it his spot. His other spot in on my boobs. I can literally walk around with free hands while he clings to my upper tittage area like a 1950s mink stole. He’s fucking awesome and I am his glamourous lady.

We changed his name from Louie to Pablo though because I read somewhere that you should change a rescue dog’s name so they don’t associate it with their shitty past life. Makes sense. Pablo seems to have a good life now. Feeding him raw food like the wolf that he is. He sleeps on my bed by my head, smartest spot in the house. He also comes with me to work and hangs out with the coolest dogs in town.

Betty is jealous and is acting like a toddler dog but I just think she needs to chill. I don’t believe in cow towing to anybody else’s emotional issues, even the house pets. We can all learn to get along. Pablo makes me nervous also, as I have taken on a new responsibility when the kids are about the fly the coop and Betty is old and cranky as fuck but I guess that is what change is about, adaptation and giving your own ego a kick in the ass.

In he meantime, the first dog, Pancake with tortilla ears is still up for adoption, they just took a long time to get back to me! Go here, get a pupper! Don’t be scared:  http://saveourscruff.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Dating Foot Fetishist or How I Learned to Wrangle an Eel Between My Toes

Sweet Kittens, it’s been a long winter for us all and the Netflix is now on the actual chill mode, if you know what I mean. Ugh, I hate it too, I’m such a lazy ass bear but! I do not want to miss out on what could be the next great adventure. Life is short and yet soooo long so let’s make it messy now and clean it up later.

First things first, protip: It’s time to exfoliate all the skin and fluff up the hairs, trim only the nose ones because all the other hairs are hot (says me). Hoes, real talk, let’s go on a Groupon spa weekend in Muskoka and get steamed up and whipped with Venik branches from Russia, we deserve it. I have been perusing all the sites for some such deals for us all to go on but so far everything looks kind of dodgy. This could be all DIY stuff with a loofah at home but I think getting out of the comfort zone is a good thing. Other people doing weird stuff to you when you’re buck naked is where it’s at. You know I’m right.

Winter has been quiet for me on the dating front. Phew, says some of you, clutching your pearls, and boo, says another lot, hands down your pants. Whatevs, I live for myself at this point. I spend all the live long day outside all out in the elements with the dogs and I love them so much that they are enough emotionally, physically, and philosophically to keep me satisfied as a whole person BUT! I still have the love of bone. I am a dog person after all.

One of my old Tinder fuckboys had been messaging me a lot recently. I am sure he also missed “Cuffing Season.”  What is that internet lingo, you ask, and is it available on Amazon Prime? No, it is not .  Here’s the thing: During the winter months people tend to create false relationships because it’s cold outside and they don’t even want walk out the door to crawl into an Uber to get to a booty call so they strategize. Some people are more ambitious than others and they actually hook up with someone they met on New Year’s Eve (I’m looking at you, Bob) and others just deflate and give up and wear sweatpants (I’m looking in the mirror now). Peeps, I’m NEVER going to have a relationship so I’m basically like a snake that wakes up in the spring and doesn’t know quite what to do but goes with the flow of the other snakes and slithers into to the Shoppers Drug Mart mid-March for Magnums “just in case.”

So my old Tinder fuckboy, let’s call him TFB for short, is a young gentleman I hooked up with in early January after last year’s gluttony of bone that ended with a couple of weird encounters, with one that I STILL need therapy over but neither here nor there, I’m a grown up, I will own it, et cetera, but seriously what the fuck is my problem. Question mark. Help. Exclamation mark.

But TFB is a lovely man. Very sweet, good-looking, suave, skilled, we had a fun time and I was super comfortable with him but hibernation calls and it’s January and I am a bear so I shut him down for a while. At one point he texted me that he does a kind of self-imposed Lent-like thing before his birthday where he doesn’t have sex for an entire month (I know right? Times that by 100 million and welcome to an entire decade of my forties) but apparently he has a Foot Fetish I was not aware of in our first encounter. Can I send a pic?

OF MY FEET… Lol what?  Anyone who has dared touched my phone knows it’s a landmine of Listeria, bacteria, tits, and now doggie fecal matter so yes, my sweet TFB, I will send not only a pic of my feet but a video of them rubbing together. How much fun is this? So much! Next time we get together it will be about my feet! I’m so down with it!

So I send him a video of my raw, just pulled my socks off feet rubbing together and I’m like all grooving but at the same time disappointed with how dry and diabeetuz they look and no polish yet on the toes but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m not picky,” he says, “Thank you, I’m dying here.” Oh yeah, apparently he doesn’t even jack off during his personal lent so I’m not sure if he’s just trolling me or what but who cares, life is short and long at the same time, might as well fill it with weird shit. Right? I’ve never had a dude who cared about my feet before. One guy once looked down at them and said: “Wow, how weird that your feet are veiny and anorexic but the rest of you is not.” Of course he had male pattern balding and hair on his back but I held my tongue but haha, it’s all seeping out now.

A couple of weeks pass.  TFB has his birthday, he sends me a pic of him slamming back a bottle of Hennessy (of course). He’s 27. Hoo hah. Meet up soon? And I’m very cool with that, it’s been awhile and he’s nice and I’ll get a foot massage on top of it all. We set a date and he wants me to come to his house. I hate that, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate that…going to another location for this type of thing EXCEPT that he says he has a Pomeranian. He spells it “Palmeranian” and its his roommate’s but it’s still a floofy dog I want to meet. How weird is it that I work with dogs all day and am dying to drive across town to meet a “Palmeranian” in a dodgy neighbourhood? And obviously because I am driving, I am sober as a judge when I get there. Which makes some of you say, are you ever really sober as a judge, Kristin? What kind of old fucking lady drives across town to a Tinder fuckboy’s house to see his dog and get a foot rub?

A lady that loves to live and then tell the stories, bruh. You’re welcome. I do these things so you don’t have to.

So. I get to his house and it turns out he lives in one of those shared accommodation type scenarios which I did when I very first moved to Toronto. Mine was a hilarious group of strangers  and 30 years later, I’m still friends with one of my housemates. His house was similar, probably, but the people were all holed up in their rooms. Where’s the dog? I asked. And he’s like oh, prolly out for a walk. And I’m super disappointed but also extra nervous because the main floor of this house looks like a hoarding situation. But he calls the dog’s name: “GOLIATH!” and lo and behold, a tiny little ploof of floof comes running out from under some stack of income tax papers and goes woof woof and I pet his soft furry head and I’m okay with it all. Goliath wiggles around a bit then goes back in the portal of domestic disorganization which he came from and I kick off my shoes in the door way and go upstairs to the dude’s room.

His boudoir is on the third floor. Hot with radiant electric heat. Only old women would get this, I tear off my clothing down to my undies because it’s like a like a tropical jungle. and I just want to get it all done before my parking situation expires. But he’s all coolio and says “I got wine” and pours me a cup of pale pink juice. I guess rosé? It’s sweet and he’s so sweet. Also he has his Netflix on pause on the tv that takes up the whole wall beside his bed. I’m like “Cool, what are we watching?” and he says “Dave Chappelle” because of course. I’ve actually never seen any Dave Chappelle but I am aware of who he is and that he has a comeback and so I’m down with drinking some pink juice and watching some Netflix but I’m an impatient woman with this type of dating so make things happen, dude, or I’m going to fly in ten minutes. I’m a Nervous Nellie, kind of like the Palmeranian downstairs under the hoarding cave.

Well. Turns out there are two Dave Chappelle specials. I certainly didn’t have to fly during the first one, nor did I even get to finish half of my pink juice. My feet were rubbed and tugged and toes licked…I am not doing this back, by the way, dude kept his socks on the whole time, and other regular stuff happened and I’m all good and satisfied and ready to go home BUT! There is another yet hour of Dave Chappelle and he says, don’t go! Aren’t you ready for Round Two? Oh! Okay, it’s Friday. I love stand up comedy on Netflix more than anything and Dave Chappelle is funny as fuck. So. Another cup of pink juice. Second episode and he says: “Do you want to give me a foot job?” I’m not sure what a “foot job”is but kind of guessing what that entails (entoes lololol) and I’m so down with it. I can lay back, starfish, watch the actual tv with my face and breathe through my nose. Yes, I will give you a foot job, my dude. So he brings out the baby oil. Hello, when was the last time you saw a bottle of baby oil? For me, like the 197os when certain people used to use it as tanning oil, I didn’t even put baby oil on my babies. Baby oil, people, the answer to dry diabeetuz feet, I have since been applying it nightly. Then he instructs me of what to do. At first it’s good, I’m concentrating a bit, making sure the balls of my feet are tight together whilst his greasy long ass member slides through in and out. It goes on a while, am I bored? No Dave Chappelle is my new comedy hero. Things are slithering around and I look at my situation and it literally looks like I’m wrestling with an eel in between my feet.

“Use one to anchor it and get it in between your toes!” he says, pouring more baby oil on down. Twenty minutes, my thighs are burning, no joke, my upper thighs are shaking like that time I gave birth for 14 plus hours.  It’s then I realize that a dude with a foot fetish is not a 60-year-old British gentleman named Alistair whose only desire is  to paint your toenails a subtle shade like “Pink in the Afternoon.” A true foot fetishist isn’t about what he can do for your feet, it’s more about what your feet can do for his dick. Jesus Christ. If I wasn’t all about cross-training and shaking up the work-outs I would have stopped at the 10 minute mark but instead I forged through and serendipitously during Dave Chappelle’s stand up he talks about his foot fetish, I’m just going to leave this here and say good night, sweet dreams:

 

Mastering the Art of Catching a Catfish

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This is why I need a man in my life: To recognize famous hockey players’ mugs on Tinder to protect my stupid ass from being catfished. But then of course if I had a man in my life, I wouldn’t be on Tinder. Or would I?

Hahaha, of course I would. This is a cautionary tale, but a funny one with a happy ending so don’t worry about me, not like you ever would. A few weeks ago I swiped right on a very handsome blond Tinder dude who normally I would have casually flicked over to left field because he was too much BUT! I started to think I was being too reliant on a type. Clone dating is so close minded. If you gathered the crops of my summer of bone salad in a waiting room you’d probably think it was a casting call for some Jesus Christ Superstar revival, all those soulful dark eyes and luscious black beards, oh my God. Even that Jersey Boy clean shaven one, not like the others, was only one long weekend camping trip away from his brothers’ aesthetic. Swarthy, hairy dark young motherfuckers. Oof, me likey sooooo much. Not a blond or a ginger in sight.

But isn’t this a fun thought for us all to mull over? All the bone, the one nighters, the casual dating, the exes, all gathered in one room at one time. Something to ruminate about in the middle of the night instead of  the usual minutiae like that dental appointment tomorrow, ugh, and when are you gonna finally make banana bread out of all those rotting bananas, like never, and how many heaping utility bills are gathering in the mailbox, help. Instead of that thinking about that shit, my fantasy is to gather a group of random lovers in a room like a focus group with me behind the glass wall and see how long it takes them to come up with the common denominator, if ever. I’ve actually thought about this scenario for years even before my insomnia phase. University boys would take two seconds to figure it out because people actually knew each other by actual name back then, not by gaming avatars. Even with the few rogue barflies tossed in, they’d all be from the same town and seated in the round table looking at each other’s white boy faces, guffawing about Reagan’s Star Wars defence plan . Then one of them would have said something about Star Trek the original tv show which would inevitably been the missing piece to figure out their common bone hole. People were smart like that back then.

That last focus group though, would be sitting in silence, sweating their sweet pheromones, too scared to talk, stroking their beards and their cell phones, probably thinking they got stuck in a room because they’ve been put on a on a no fly list, so paranoid from all the weed they smoke. The lack of locker room talk would be so disappointing, I’d be yelling behind the soundproof wall: “Talk about facials, you dumbasses!”

Anyway, thinking about that I probably should to shake things up and expand my palate and see what the fairer boys are up to these days. I tried to go for the ginger beards early on but now I am thinking they really are all tricksters and trolls, they bark and text their junk out there but don’t bite because it hurts their pale sensitive skin too much. I am so drawn into their world but I need to stop for the sake of self-preservation. As I write this, I’m currently distracted by a certain rojo caliente with a flaming red beard and hair that looks like it’s on fire. SO HOT. So Medieval. I’m flirting with him on Tinder text and wouldn’t you know it, he unmatched me mid-conversat-

Can you believe that? I was forming a cute taco joke and suddenly my screen shook and poof! he disappeared. Like he was bored? I don’t see how. I’m the best sexter you’ll ever want to send an eggplant emoticon to. I’ll probably keep on trying rojo wrangling just for the sake of the bucket list but sweet mother of God, they are a slippery bunch.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I swiped on this blond dude, and matcharoo. Very pretty. Chin bum. I don’t know what is the evolutionary point of a chin bum but it seems handy. Something t0 stick your thumb into when you’re fidgety and shouldn’t put it in your mouth because your teeth are too perfect. Eyelashes too, maybe it’s Maybelline. One eye looked green and the other blue. I LOOKED AT THE COLOUR OF HIS EYES. I never do that to anyone. Couldn’t tell you what colour my kids’ eyes are even. Not even sure of my own. He’s also holding a poofy red Pomeranian in one of his pics. I am charmed as fuck.

Profile said he was 6’3. Height is nice but not a thing for moi. I like short and stocky maybe the best only because I like to look down when vertical.  Dom tendency maybe that I have yet to explore. Damn, I have so much to do in that bucket, I may need a mop.

So blond dude, we’ll call him Franck because that was his name on the Tinder. Franck was born in Sweden! Makes sense the wonky spelling.  Works in “sales and marketing.” Whatevs. Likes to golf, as though that makes a lady wet, not. But! he surfs so what was up with that? Turns out he went to Hawaii last year and his dad lives in Florida. Where is his mom? He doesn’t respond.  I am his mom. Franck loves older women. This does not surprise me the way it does other people. It’s the very skilled dudes that are into this MILF business. Hot dudes of Franck’s ilk are not usually skilled however because THEY DON’T HAVE TO BE. But he could be a unicorn of sorts and who am I to judge someone on their looks? Hahaha.

I showed his picture to my daughter. Her face did that disapproval thing. “Mother, he looks like a douche.” Not like a Trump son (shudder)  but like a Abercrombie poster boy type. Meh, I’m okay with that. Pretty boys are people too and maybe he’s lonely because he’s soooooo good looking. Like people assume the hot girl has a date to the prom but she doesn’t because everyone is too afraid to ask her out.

We banter a bit and decide to switch out conversation over to another medium. Kik, the one where the phone number is concealed, smart hockey, but you can send photos. RED FLAG ALERT THO. Franck gives me his kik nom de plume and it’s not his name. It’s Jordan with an underscore and a random number, prolly the number of beanie babies sitting on his pillow when he made his account,  I get the fear when I look at his avatar, it’s a 12 year old boy.

I say back on Tinder: What the fuck, I just sent a message to a child, is that you? And why is your name Jordan?

He lol’d and said Jordan was his middle name (!) and I missed the DOUBLE underscore but the random number was the same. Logged back on and lo and ho! There was another account but with a blank picture. So many stalkers, he explained, that he had no avatar. Of course! Whenever Franck entered the Internet, the lurkers flocked to lay their eggs in that chin bum. And of course Jordan-underscore-random number with the 12 year-old-boy profile pic had nothing to do with Jordan-DOUBLE underscore-same random number who was a hot dude on Tinder who swiped right on old broads. No red flags here at all.

We swap some pics. I demand a picture of his feet and he sends one right away. I believe that the feet are the base of health and beauty and his of course, are perfection. Long, big and vascular with the second toe longer than the big toe. Also I am satisfied because the feet seemed to match the face and the previous dick pic he sent. The red flags were waved away.

We make a date to meet later that week. You’d think I’d be more excited but Franck, in all his physical glory, does NOT make me that hot. For one thing, he’s a terrible texter. I don’t mind a typo here and there but he has no idea how to punctuate. And his sexting is awkward and too graphic. Like where he wants to place his finger, DON’T TELL ME NOW, just do it when the time comes. Our date day comes and I hear nothing from him to confirm and I don’t bother either. Phew.

But then a couple weeks later, he kiks me a message: Why are we such losers that we didn’t meet?

That’s so cute, I’m charmed. I scroll back and look at his feet and I’m in again. More banter and I asked to see his chin bum. He sends me a pic of his face that looks like a professional shot, not a selfie. You can tell by the lack of strained shoulder muscles and the depth of field in the background and hot damn, he is smiling and his teeth ARE perfect, and he looks like a model. I’m nervous now. He says oops, wrong photo, and he shoots me another and says: This is me now. He has a beard! It’s covering his chin bum and it’s blond but it’s still a beard. Okay, now I am smitten, I can work with this.

We make another date again for later on in the week. This time he texts all day how he can’t wait to see him. Again some awkward talk of where he wants to put his fingers but I let it go. But, the day before our date, I can’t get that photo he accidentally sent out of my mind. It looked like one of those sports player’s face pics that they use on score boards. And then I remember I have google reverse search as an app on my phone.

I copy and paste the photo in the app and tap on search and wouldn’t you know it’s some Swedish hockey player named Mantas Armalis. This little Jordan dude stole all his Instagram photos, even the Pomeranian one! Also the real Mantas Armalis has some hot young Russian looking girlfriend because of course he does. I ran the dick pics through and they came from various porn sites on Tumblr. And the feet pic, too! Wasn’t even his. Someone actually has a Pinterest board titled “Men’s Feet” which I promptly followed.

So I messaged him, calling him out. I’m not even mad, bruh, I said, in fact I’m more amused than anything. And he said he was sorry but girls don’t want to date him because of his age. Which he claimed was 18. He told me he had a girlfriend who was 35 but she moved away and asked me if I had any interest in dating him. Hahahaha! I almost asked him to send me a picture of his feet but thought the better of it. Rascally catfish probably can’t even grow a beard yet. Soon though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Tossing Salad ;)

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My friend had a dinner party last weekend and one of the guests was a woman whose family used to run a very popular restaurant in their hometown. One of the specialties was that they made Caesar salad at the tables and the dressing was made from scratch, and not that creamy white stuff like Renée’s in a jar. Don’t get me wrong, I love that shit and would drown my romaine in it any day of the week. But the made from scratch one was so much fresher tasting and most of all, captivating to watch her make it. Like everything had to be “just so” in a particular order or something would congeal or combust or some other chemical disaster. Also it had to be made in a seasoned wooden bowl that had never been washed with soap. Like cast iron pans you’re supposed to only wipe clean. You know what? Bacteria is good, people, I don’t know why y’all worry so much. You have to eat a little dirt before you die is my motto.

Amongst the ingredients were garlic, parmesan, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, oil (vegetable is better than olive oil!), raw egg yolks (salmonella shmalmonella, tits to the wind!), and anchovies, which is a small hairy fish that only pussies hate…”Oh, I hate anchovies!” People say this all the time, drives me mental. Oh really now? Do you hate salt also? Anchovies are just another form of salt in a living organism. Salt keeps the goiter away! Chop them finely so the hairiness is a smooth paste! Yum! Anchovies are life. Your mother’s mother’s mother times a million generations ago was an anchovy! Also the anchovy an important ingredient in Worcestershire sauce, which is yet another thing dumped into the Caesar salad dressing. Anyway this amazing woman had to use a lot of brute strength and trick wrist work stirring up the eggs and stuff so everything was amalgamated to the proper texture. I won’t lie to you, watching that fork pounding through those yolks did something in my loins because I’m libidinous lady and I developed a confusing girl crush. This was food porn at its finest because I actually got to eat it at the end, unlike when I watch my lady-love Martha on tv whip and fold with her spatula and only get to imagine what her meringue tastes like. I’m guessing lemon-zesty with a hint of mint.

Anyhoo, before we move on to the next salad, I just wanted to point out some fun facts about the history of the Caesar salad: The original Caesar salad was probably made with limes, not lemons! Holy shit! It was a lost in translation thing. Caesar Cardini was an Italian immigrant who opened a restaurant in Tijuana where he was avoiding the restriction of Prohibition in the 1920s. Oh! And he coddled the eggs! Oy! I don’t even know what that means! Sounds sexy. For the true Caesar salad story, read here maybe or stick with me and we’ll talk about eating ass cuz that’s the tossed salad I’m talking about.

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Okay, yeah, so if you’ve not followed the blog thus far, here is me, a 53 year-old lady on the dating circuit, via the trusty internet. I’m bored as fuck of the actual dating part however and I just cut to the chase and go to the end game, Bone Town. I’ve recently learned from someone’s Facebook post that “life is too short and unpredictable not to live exactly how you please” and if so, I don’t have time for coffee and finding out where some hapless dude got his degree and wondering why he tucks in his polo shirt with hips like that. I’ve also narrowed my focus on 25-29, which I’ve explained why in my last post, with an allowance for randoms in either direction because I like to break my own rules.

Anyway, the whole ride to B-Town is getting easier and easier, I don’t even need a drink to loosen up. Yes, my nervous level is slightly more than opening up this month’s heatwave hydro bill but considerably less than parallel parking on a hill with a standard transmission. My screening process needs honing however! I treat my “dates” as therapeutic appointments, which is how I rationalize afternoon delights, or as my Moroccan friend calls it “sieste crapuleuse” which sounds more romantic than it is. I’ve had a good run so far and my intuition has been right in that I’ve met no serial killers yet (knock on wood) and everyone has been so nice and gentlemanly but! There was one dude who texted like a Neanderthal would if he had a phone, all one word answers and everything misspelled. I let that red flag slide because my friend Bob, who texts equally boneheadedly, is one of the funniest people I know and I shouldn’t let bad writing skills be a bone barrier, right? His profile pic seemed cute. He had a baby face (with a chin bum!) that I love when I’m not drooling over dark beards. When I talked to him on the phone he was far more chatty which was a relief but when he came over, he was giant and awkward and I really wasn’t feeling it but! I sieste crapuleused with him anyway because he really was a sweet teddy bear I had to see what a 6’8 dick was like. Good boy. I do need smarts and wit though. However, he got my cues when it was time to leave and toddled off into the world, another cougar down, I’m sure he does this all the time. Which probably makes him clever. Oh well, for a mercy bone, I don’t feel bad about it, I didn’t even mess up my mascara that day. Onward.

Okay so there is this one bone of contention I have about young dudes and that is they are always up in your ass, like literally. I have not even been two sentences deep in a text conversation when I get: “Do you do anal?”As if I’m car detailing service, providing satisfied customers with rim jobs and anal for over 30 years. I don’t even know their names yet and they want to know if they can go up my butt? This was not ever on the table when I was a young hot chick. I mean I know it’s not a new thing, it’s in the the bible filed under sodomy and in old timey literature, ie. Madame Bovary was an inspirational hoe on the Hershey Highway, but why are the millennials so obsessed with it? I’m blaming all that main stream porn people watch because they’re bored. We are all so de-sensitized now. It’s simply not enough that a lady has two other viable holes and an ample cleavage to squish together to form a makeshift dick trench because that’s not awkward at all, But at least it doesn’t hurt.

For me it’s no. I don’t want to. Nope, I will tell these boys, once I find out what their name are: Ryan, Connor, Tyler, those ubiquitous names from my days as a young mom at the playground are of age now! By the way, I have made it a personal rule that once I come across a Jayden, I’m quitting this practise and its Steves, Mikes, and Daves only. So yeah, Liam, it’s a hard fast rule that I will break IF I like you and it’s my birthday and it’s a full moon and I’m drunk and you gave me a puppy as a present.

But! I have learned to like a new thing butt-rific on the menu. Yes, I *will* have the tossed salad and young man, if you are good at it, I will toss yours like a boss. Tuchis-lingus, they discussed this on “Sex and the City” in the late 90s and like if Charlotte is doing it, why aren’t we all? Don’t get me wrong, I was totally skeeved out by the thought when I saw that episode back in the day. But then a couple of seasons ago, on “Girls” they actually showed Marnie having it done to her!

Holy shit. I am in the slow sexual group. Anyway, I filed the salad toss in the “I’m too old for this probably” folder and didn’t even let myself wonder what it was like but then! One of those anally obsessed young dudes surprised me with his delightfully rogue tongue game. This was one of those rare dudes that I was so floored with his hotness I would have let him a) do anything b) do anything back and c) sell all my stuff and buy a Volkswagen camper van and go on a two month summer road trip with just so I could watch his beard grow even longer. SIGH.

Anyway he did his thing down there and when he finally came up for air he looked up and said it tasted good! What? My butthole tasted good. Like what I wondered but didn’t ask. Also it felt so good I didn’t even care. And that was like the nicest thing any man has said to me in forever. These are the people you want in your life at all times. Also, who does this on a hook up? A fearless soul who deserves several endorsements on his sexual LinkedIn profile, which is what I think I’m going to be using mine for in the future because I’m really poor at Microsoft. But very good at titty fucking.

Anyway, I tossed that salad back without any problems. This was also a dude who was hairy and marinating in his own musk for some hours. I am an animal, I really am, because I hate the smell of cologne and weird deodorant but go crazy over sweat and body odour that hasn’t quite turned rank yet but is getting there. It’s a fine line between ripe and rank. SIGH. Anyway, the tuchis-lingus salad was all good, tasted like chicken! With a couple of dumplings on the side. Yum.

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Leaving

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Hey my faithful lolcats, remember how last time I wrote on this thing I was blathering on about being scared of the wind because wind is change and change is scary but change shouldn’t be scary because everything changes and grow a pair and turn and face the strange ch-cha-changes, blah blah? Well that last gust of wind brought some bad and heartbreaking sad change in the death of a friend which made the rest of my dumb problems seem like a side plate of cold french fries. I realize that’s a confounded metaphor that might only make sense to me but bear with moi as the last weeks have been unsettled and no sleep!!!! But! One night after a tortuous week of tossing, I remembered that Bob, who has to wake up at ungodly wee morning hours, takes a Gravol with a rum and Coke and conks out hard and wakes up as such (so he says). So one night I needed to sleep because I had a job interview the next day (ugh, more on that later)  I had a Gravol and a glass of wine and guess wot? ZZZZ! All the way through! Woke up with dry mouth and a sore throat but it was worth it. And don’t worry this post has a happy ending so stick with me.

I tried it again the next night and it kind of worked but I actually threw up in the morning. I never throw up even if I’m hungover! Gravol is supposed to make you anti-nauseaous so I am obviously already abusing the medication! Michelle told me about some sleepy time hot drink from the health food store that contains magnesium. I know me, I will never go through all the steps of boiling water at night, mixing something in a cup, wait for it to cool and sip it the whole thing until it’s gone. Why not just take the tablets? With the wine, duh. So I’ve been doing that and it’s been working! And the dreams! You’ve all been in them! Especially you, Scarecrow.

The day of my friend’s funeral, Freddy left for his camp job for the summer. He’s been doing this for a couple of years or 3 and usually I feel that sweet melancholia sadness that I can easily console myself with by thinking one less egg to fry when he leaves but this time I felt like my fucking heart was being ripped out by a dark monster. The couple of months he was home from university, he and I have been super close. Spotting each other at the gym and watching Jeopardy every night, real mother and son bonding stuff, good times. Sometimes we watch a movie and he is all reluctant when I make a suggestion for a classic because you need to see these things for just for reference sake. This time round we watched Se7en which I hadn’t seen since it was in the theatre. I remembered being scared by Sloth and SPOILER ALERT: Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box but this time around I found the whole movie slow, boring, ridiculous with the rain machines trying to make L.A. seem like a dank mystery city and an overwhelming bloated music score. Gwyneth’s head tho! LOL!!!!!! Freddy liked it so that was good David Fincher representation, not my idea of a classic per se but whatevs. I also would have seen Fight Club again, but he was like, no, mama, I know who Tyler Durden actually is, and this is where I have to remind my son of the age old wisdom that it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that counts.

So off he went last week and I felt physical pain watching him go but! No more socks to sort! By the way, potential suitors out there and I know you’re there, I can feel it in the wind, that’s measure where you know if I love you if I sort your socks. But! If I leave them in a random pile then you should take the cue and leave. Anyway I just did some laundry and there was one random sock of his and I didn’t know what to do so I threw it out, I figure the other one has petrified under his bed somewhere and that’s something I don’t want to know about.

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So I’ve been on a few interviews for various jobs that we won’t go into specifically because I don’t list my strengths and weaknesses to just anyone and tell. I will say that there’s no rhyme or reason for these employers’ criteria out there. You can have all the qualifications and more but they think you’ll be bored even though being bored is not one of my issues in life. I could stare at a blank wall and knit a scarf all day. Conversely, your “busy” office and need for someone to “multi-task” and have a “sense of urgency” is not a problem for this OCD insomniac who does complex math in her brain at night while furiously masturbating. Or! They think you don’t have enough experience as though you can’t learn anything new. And you people are always telling me I’m too old in general for anything but! I know who Tyler Durden is because I actually saw Fight Club in the theatre back in the days when popcorn had “golden topping” instead of real butter. Young people know who Tyler Durden is because they saw it in a meme. AND HEY! I KNEW WHAT MEMES WERE BEFORE JESUS GREW A HIPSTER BEARD. Holy shit.

The prize interview of the lot goes to an Asian chick named Zoe who I think we can all agree needs to be called out and nailed to a cross. She advertised on Indeed a couple of positions being available for a home reno showroom WITH A SET ANNUAL SALARY OF NOT BAD MONEY, dreams of a bathroom demo danced through my head. She replied to my application that she was conducting a “soft” interview with a group on Wednesday. I’ve done this group interview charade before, it’s a disaster, there is always this one dude who needs to take the floor to mansplain every stupid fucking thing that comes into his head. But whatevs, I went, enjoying my little commute to the flatlands of warehouses and Chinese banquet halls.

So there’s 8 of us, all ages by the way. Everyone was in a chair but I was perched on a high stool which you would think was embarrassing but I felt empowered like I owned the joint. It was kind of cool place, a giant warehouse with good lighting and shiny things set up as sample showcases. My magpie sensibilities would never be bored except for the barf-awful ugly art on the walls. There was actually a giant portrait of Marilyn Monroe in pixelated tiles, it was much wow but very fucked up at the same time. If you can’t tell if something is amazing or hideous, it’s probably really tacky.

So Zoe says: “Hi everybody! Thanks for coming. I just want to let you know that we have hired the salary positions over the weekend but I am offering you all an opportunity to a part of my team of commission sales.”

This beautiful elegant Persian lady bats her lashes and says WHAT THE FUCK?

And Zoe is like, flustered: “It’s a great opportunity for an entrepreneur. You can set your own hours and use your social media to network…” She started to stutter when she looked at everyone’s faces and somehow ended her vomit of words by exclaiming “Pinterest!”

I thought it was just me that was confused but Elegant Persian Lady interrupted her and said; “I’m sorry but I’m leaving.” And she haughtily left in a puff of smoke, closely followed by an old groovy dude whose name was actually Elvis, then the young people silently got up and left also.

I stayed!!! Why? For you! So I’d have something to talk about. After everyone left, Zoe got all sweaty and nervous. I pretended to be interested in her obvious pyramid scheme which was probably a front for some elicit activity. She claimed she worked with “real-a-tors” who did staging and developers who built new construction in the big city. 4% percent commission on a half million dollar decorating job! Do the math! That’s 20 grand! She kept saying the same sentence over again and somehow ending it in “Pinterest!” It was really the weirdest thing. I asked her some hard hitting questions, like who are you, where are you from? She was dodgy and kept getting up to leave to tend to something in the warehouse, which, by the way, was devoid of any other people much less newly hired salaried employees. She did tell me her Welsh father-in-law hated her until she cooked him something delicious and now he loves her. Which I find hard to believe.

She gave me a tour and told me she really wanted me to be a part of her team because she liked my personality. I smiled ruefully and told her “I like you too, Zoe.” I found some ceiling tiles I wanted for my kitchen. I took note of the manufacturer and I’ll go straight to the source because fuck her. As if I’m going to use my social media to sell shit, I feel bad enough I plop this blog on my Facebook wall. Anyway at the end, I grabbed a heaping handful of candies from her desk and told her I’d be in touch, and hauled my sad deflated self out of there. #FML

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But! The next day the universe actually threw me a bone. Some young dude on my dating website sent me a message, the kind I always ignore, you know the “I’m in your city for a night, wanna hook up?” kind of message. Except his was better written and had a legit reason which was he is in a band and playing at a specific venue which I looked up, watched a YouTube video of him playing and basically exploded in my loins. Yes, yes, yes. Holy shit. We had Facetime chat the day before which usually means the death of everything. Ghost city. I don’t know how to behave over the phone. I always end up saying too much. But! Not this time, dude pulled through and showed up after his show. Okay, on YouTube and Facetime, he was very cute and with a hot voice and sexy af accent but IRL, him standing under a streetlight in front of my house, I practically fainted. If Serpico and King David from the Old Testament made a baby, threw in a bit of LeBron James for the height and dapperness, it would be this guy. You should know of my fetish for big black beards by now, he was too young for the silvers that set me over the edge but you know they’re just around the corner. His future is paved in pussy for sure.

Anyway, in the house he happily entered. I offered him a beer which he took of and we hovered in the kitchen and stared at each other. He took a sip from the can and even before he finished swallowing came the throw down. OY VEY! To think that I almost pressed the delete button and sent him off into the ether, it almost makes me cry for the missed opportunities every where. Anyway, later when we were waiting for his Uber to take him away, he said: “This was fun and very healthy.” And it’s true, it was. He left behind a bunch of tiny fingertip-sized bruises on me that will eventually fade away but I’m going to keep the memory awhile longer. And yes, I finally showered and yes, washed my face eventually. But took my sweet time about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Spring Fever

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There’s a particular spot on my front lawn that randomly grows a bunch of mushrooms. It’s been happening for years, same bat time, same bat channel. Like wtf, I mow them down and they sprout back up again. Once a few years ago, some super ancient dude neighbour passing by carrying his liquor store bag of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, don’t knock it, saw me stomping on them and stopped in his tracks. My mind was about to be blown.

“There used to be a big ol’ oak tree in that there spot,” He said in a cute Mark Twain-y old man way.

I’m like, ah, smiling politely, stomp stomp.

“Even though the tree is gone, the mushrooms will still grow where the stump was,” he said.

And I’m like, huh, interesting, and thinking go away, stomp, stomp.

“That’s not going to get rid of them.”

“But they’re so gross, they’re like lawn zits!” Really, more like grass dicks. Nature’s pornography.

“Well, miss,” he smiled all twinkly blood shot eyed, “You better get used to them. They always come back.”

Stomp, what. When? Sigh.

He just kept standing there and then went on to say that lived around here all his life, from back in the day when the neighbourhood was all boarding houses for horse jockeys, prostitutes and Anglo Saxon street gangs. The neighbourhood was like Pottersville in George Bailey’s alternate reality in “It’s a Wonderful Life!” I remember when there was a horse race track down the street, which is now a 20 year old development wryly nicknamed “Pleasantville,” but given the current price of real estate, I did not know the neighbourhood was once so dodgy. I would give anything to time travel! Anyway, the old man was born in the same house he still lives in to a teenage mother and his grandpa was a longshoreman. Gramma worked at the hospital and his teenage mom facked off to join the circus when he was 2. They had jockey boarders and there was brawling #porchlife 2.0 and even the children drank beer because the water was so dank.

I love the stories of yesteryear! I asked him if he wanted some lemonade and he looked me up and down and said no, he had to go home and feed his cats. Maybe another time, he would bring his Harvey’s Bristol Cream if I could supply the ice cubes. I never did see him again though. But he was right, the mushrooms multiplied. I think the mighty majestic oak tree and recurring phallic mushrooms are metaphors to a life lesson I have yet to fucking learn because years later I am still stomping on the grass and chopping down trees on Tinder.

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Anyway spring fever hit me with its pointy mushroom cap head. It’s hard to say exactly when because the weather so was so dodgy. Warm one day and snowing the next. About a month ago, there was a full moon waxing and a decent day and I finally woke from my Netflix coma and decided yes, I am ready. I poured myself a Bristol Cream! and texted some young dude from my Internet Dick Farm, or IDF. These are the fresh fellows in their prime without any important baggage from dating websites who are all about the messaging. They don’t actually want or expect to meet you in person because scary and work and messy and bodily fluids, blechhh. And this particular dude especially. He would always text at like 2 pm on Sunday asking me to drop what I was doing and come over when really he was at the laundromat bored, waiting for his Tommy Hilfiger cotton staples his mom bought him to finish twirling in the dryer. I think he appreciated my quick wit and prose. I like to pepper my sexting with actual real life descriptions of blocked nostrils and embarrassing farting sounds. I am always game to hone my writing skills but the boys on my IDF are not ones I want to actually meet IRL either. I usually message them for about 3 days or so and then we mutually move on. But this particular dude hung on for the past year or so. He’d like to tell me about his dates and stuff and all the girls he banged. I’d make him tell me about their apartments and what kind of sheets they had, did you stay for breakfast? What was her French press like? And the stuff in the background of his dick pics, I would actually zoom in on and assess. Once I thought this black blob was a cat and I got excited, what’s your kitty’s name? But it turned out it was his gym bag, lol. A couple of months ago, I wasn’t my usual self, I was kind of depressed, not sad per se,  just flat and bored, and he suggested I go get my thyroid checked! So cute and sweet! He said his mom had a thyroid issue and it affected her mood also. So last month, I did book a full body hoe checkup. My tiny doctor, who shops at Gap kids does not drink or even eat, asked me about my alcohol intake. I lied like a rug and told her I averaged 15 units of spiritual beverages a week, her jaw dropped to the ground, luckily it was carpeted with mendacity, and she booked me for a liver scan. Apparently women are supposed to have 8 units maximum! Bear in mind there are 6 pours in a bottle of wine. Let’s do the math. Can you imagine? That’s like one bottle of wine and 2 beers in a week!!!!! What the hell. I’m of Scandinavian descent, my liver is basically made whale blubber and black tar. Can you give me a medical marijuana card at least? I have the perpetual condition of menopause and rapidly growing chin hairs, FFS. She’s like, no, that wouldn’t be good either. Jesus Christ, the indignity. That’s whole other blog post though. Thyroid is fine however. And liver has some good decades left, told you so, Dr. M, skál!

Anyway, back to dude and the full moon. I decided let’s do this or this texting will have to die soon, the next girlfriend this dude gets, he’s going to have to marry, I’m sure his mother would agree. So I made a booty call. I actually never do that. Yes, I beg and plead for a certain faraway peeps to hop on a plane and make my dreams come true but I NEVER casually text someone in the deep 6 to come over for good times. Not because I am a rules lady but only because I fear disappointment. So I texted him some nonsense I forget and since deleted and he texted back that he had to go to some birthday party (right?) because you know how millennials love to celebrate their birthdays like they are all second comings of a twisted entitled version of Jesus Bieber. So I said ok, no problem and went to bed and fell asleep and in my Bristol Cream dream haze, my phone actually rang. Like real phone, not just dopey text alert. Somebody has died! But no, it was dude and he wanted to come over! In the middle of the goddamn night! It’s like 3 in morning but I’m so stupid I say yes and he takes the address and slurs it to the cab driver. And I say, why don’t you Uber? But he has moral principals about the taxi industry, he tries to explain but goes off on another tangent, something about a fight he had with one of his Ninja Turtle buddies, prolly about a Pokemon battle. I am fully awake now but wearing a men’s XXL 3 wolf moon tshirt, appropriate but ugly as fuck, and pyjama bottoms, the bad ones I have! They sag at the ass and I have been working on it so diligently! I have slept on wet hair and I have too much to deal with including a bunch of dogs that I am dogsitting because it is a full fucking moon. And ladies without proper menstrual cycles attract small needy house pets when everyone else is out howling, prowling, and working it all out, sexy times, U.S.A.

It took him forever to get to my house because when the cab driver let him off, he couldn’t figure out which way the numbers went and he kept walking in the wrong direction as the numbers got smaller. Oh my God,  in all my Bristol Cream hazes, I have never had this problem. Odd numbers are on the south side and even numbers are on the north. The spine of the city is Yonge Street and if you are east of it, the numbers become greater as you head toward the rising sign, more east. They don’t go randomly like 17, 15, 13, and oh 35 is next!  It’s not hard, dude (that’s what she said). I had to go out in the street BAREFOOT IN MY STUPID PYJAMAS to find him, he was heading west, the house numbers were getting smaller but he just didn’t get it. I waved at him from the distance and went inside and waited. Somehow he crossed the street and was heading more east, omg. Then when he finally staggered in, all the dogs ran out of the house and onto the neighbour’s front lawn. Okay, there were only 3 dogs in total but that’s still a wrangling situation that was probably as hot to watch as that episode of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” where the whole fat family chases their pet pig in mud.

And this is where all time stood still. we were standing in the front hall, dogs barking and jumping. I told him to take off his shoes. It stared at the ridiculous dogs, it took him forever to move, do something, say anything and when he finally did, he looked over at me and said WITH AN UMISTAKEABLE SNEER: “You have some white stuff on your face.”

And I’m wiping my cheek, “Oh! it’s toothpaste…whatever…” And the worst sinking feeling of disappointment started to flood in. He was probably expecting me to be dressed like a slutty version of his mom in a Talbots sweater set and spike heels.

“I think I’m going to go,” he said with that creaky vocal fry tone, emphasis on the word “go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Am I that bad? It’s just toothpaste,” I swear I was about to cry.  Somehow I channeled an episode of “Sex and the City” where Stanford get rejected by meeting an on-line date on a street corner and the guy just looks at him and sniffs dismissively, “this isn’t going to work.”

“I think I’m going to go,” uttered by a drunk dude instantly translated into me thinking I had my last fuckable day like that skit on “Inside Amy Schumer” when they sent Julia Louis Dreyfus down the river. Mine could have been sometime in October of 2015 and I didn’t even know it!  If I did I would have celebrated when I had the chance. FML.

‘I don’t want your dogs to kill me,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment.

“Oh my god, I warned you about the dogs, they’re just precious little woofers…okay go, then. Just go.” Like go home and microwave yourself a pizza pocket, son. Ugh, I’m too old for this.

Some more stupid conversation/negotiation ensued and yes, normally I would have been down for what he suggested but I could tell since he could barely cross the street that his aim would be off so I said forget it. Empowered by my own righteous ugliness, I shuffled him out the door. I was just pissed off by that point. Fuck that guy and his lofty expectations. I watched him walk the opposite direction of where I told him to go, I mean I even pointed with my gnarly finger GO THAT WAY to the main road and he literally skewed 45 degrees toward the graveyard. Part of me felt bad for him because clearly his pathetic sense of direction will lead to many needlessly expensive cab rides but then again, that’s what you get for being a dick. STOMP.