Category Archives: This Charming Man

Mastering the Art of Being Ugly

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I have an apartment for rent in my house and while I am so very, very sad to see my current tenants leave, I love them so and their 420 baker buddy who looks like Dick Van Dyke but! I am always excited at the prospect of new ones. “The Landlady” is the memoir that I hope to write when I’m accidentally living in Costa Rica during my old batdom. By the way, I’ve given up on planning my next chapter or more precisely, freaking out about having to plan my old age, I’m going with the flow and going to let shit happen day by day, it will unfurl spectacularly as long as you promise to stick by me. Anyway, for the time being, in my middle age, aka, adolescence 2.0,  I’ve had 5 sets of tenants here in this old house so I’m a veteran at this landlady gig. I put ads out on the free advertising sites known as Craigslist and Kijiji and hope for the best because fuck knows who will move in, I’ve seen Pacific Heights. 1990 Michael Keaton was cute, I would totally let him move in and destroy my house while he wrecked my upstairs if you know what I mean. The people from Craigslist are especially dodgy and yes, the site may as well be called Cannibals ‘R’ Us. But I like it because you make your needs be known and even in the darkest hour of despair you can get shit transpiring IRL way faster than a pizza delivery from The Hut. But! There’s always that danger of getting murdered.

Kijiji is more pedestrian apparently. Everyone in the ladies’ locker room at the gym tells me it’s better than CL and those hoes seem to be getting a whole lot of lawn furniture on the cheap. On Craigslist if you were selling and/or buying “lawn furniture,” you would have to be tested for STD’s afterward. That’s just basic modern day social mores and people should just stop questioning the kinks of others. From my experience tho, Kijiji  is a fucked up junky site full of ads and false ALL CAPS promises and they are always trying to get money out of you for the sake of urgency. URGENT! $49,95 YOUR AD WILL APPEAR ON THE FRONT PAGE! ALSO HERE ARE SOME UGGS AND DESIGNER SUNGLASSES! IN! CASE! YOU! WANTED! ALSO! WITH! YOUR! NEED! FOR! A! ROOF! OVER! YOUR! HEAD! Oh my god, Kijiji, here is what urgency is: Urgency is a liver transplant thatI’m going to need sometime soon (don’t ask). If some asshole who’s looking for a place to live can’t fill out a criteria search and scroll through a few listings, then the same dumbfuck prolly can’t scroll through his wallet and pay the rent on time. Team Craigslist, just saying.

Okay, so the other day a dude answered my Craigslist ad via email and asked if he could come and see the place. Yes, of course you may, my potential serf,  I fired back promptly and we set up a time. I immediately googled up his ass because that is what a savvy landlady does and easily found him on Facebook. No, it’s not “stalking” or “creeping,” it’s just smart hockey to check people out before you meet them. Personally, I don’t trust people who have no social media outlets or web presence whatsoever. At least have a burnt out campfire on LinkedIn. I do kind of get shunning Facebook because it triggers anxiety but do try and maintain a Pinterest board of some bogus vegan quinoa recipes. I can tell a lot about you by the what you think you should be wanting to eat but aren’t really. And also what is up with people who put privacy settings on Instagram? Get off the internet,  you have no idea how it’s supposed to work.

Anyway this dude had a kind of strange name and there was only one in Toronto so I clicked on his profile and no word of a lie, I actually gasped when I saw his profile pic. I literally lost my breath, clutched my heart and made the sign of a cross. He was that ugly. So ugly! Fugly ugly was a fug!  Ugly wugly had a mug! Ugly wugly was so ugly he made somebody blog about his fugly.

Now before you get all in my face about how ugly is how ugly does and who do you think you are, bitch, Charlize Theron? I will say no, I am not Charlize Theron and yes, I am ugly as fuck too. I just got my new driver’s license in the mail and I am one passport portrait away from morphing into a bewildered walrus suffering from climate change asking you to sign a petition to save the icy rock I’m melting on. I’m gross. My downfall is my main chin is a golf ball and my other chin is a loaf of sourdough. The plus however: My eyebrow game is on point, my eyes are kind of good but the rest is just garbage that passes off as cute depending how many drinks you have had.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being slightly ugly rocks because you can move through a crowd incognito. Save some lives maybe. I saw Charlize Theron in person once at a party and it was like looking straight at the sun. People were passing out at her beauty, just like dropping their jaws and falling down all over each other. Everyone had to be defibrillated back to life. It was a shit show. Also apparently bitch can’t get any acting jobs because of her beauty, and that must totally suck. So being dealt some ugly cards is not such a bad thing. Bad hair day? No problem, who cares, there’s clusterfuck of lady whiskers on my golf ball right now taking priority.

But this dude who answered my ad was fantasy ugly, off the charts, he actually looked photoshopped. And! His profile pic was a straight-on headshot. Never do this! Know your angles, Quasimodo. Even Grace Kelly had the wherewithal to know how to tilt down 10 degrees, shift right every so slightly and look to the sky to the west as though it was cocktail hour in Monte Carlo. This fucker’s eyes were on all wrong, pinned to the sides of his head on different planes, and you could see up his nostrils, two dark portals like double garage doors into a retrofit Cro-Magnon skull. His face was craggy and crevassed in such a way a topographer would tell you it was Utah. I don’t want to talk about his hair at all or think about it ever again.

He had other profile pics but they were obscured with the overlay of the French flag and a rainbow, which means he is socially conscious. This is a plus for me! Feel the Bern! He also has friends who commented on his profile picture!  This is the internet juice I live for: 27 “Likes” and here’s what some of them had to say: “So handsome!” “Dude! Looking good!” “George Clooney 2.0!”

So cute! Everyone loves this ugly mofo. His whole Facebook scroll down was filled with sweetness and good times. His girlfriend was smoking hot, too, but her Facebook was on the private settings and so was her Instagram. If she is thinking she is hiding her love of her ugly boyfriend from the rest of the world, she is sorely mistaken. Her Pinterest was filled with wedding boards consisting of Vera Wang dresses and Tiffany engagements rings and cakes with intricately sculpted fondant icing of snowflakes and shit. What a piece work. Why do men go along with that? I guess being ugly is a state of desperation? But even handsome men marry those types of women! It’s head scratcher, we’ll have to analyze that later. Let’s just think about ugly for now.

Ugly is a a subjective thing and there’s all kinds of categories. Like this guy is unfortunate ugly. Tragically ugly. Not a whole lot he could do about it but fix his hair and maybe wear a hat with a brim and a scarf and stick a cigar in his mouth and hide behind the billows of smoke.

Then there is ugly by design, like hipsters 2.0 or the cat lady, Jocelyn Wildenstein, with all the plastic surgery. There’s also ugly by proxy. You can actually get contact ugly if you are related to Donald Trump.

The worst kind of ugly is the ugly that comes from within and leaks out. Like Ted Cruz. Remember when he first came on to the scene, he looked like bumbling comedic actor Kevin Malone or Grandpa Munster? Hilarious memes, right? Like months ago  @youngvulgarian on Twitter said: “How does Cruz always look both happy and sad? ‘I like lasagne but it’s not what I ordered,” his face says.'” Now every time Ted Cruz opens his mouth, he gets uglier and uglier by the syllable. He’s even uglier than Trump if that’s even possible. He is pure evil. He IS the Zodiac Killer. How can he possibly live ever that down?

And conversely but related, please someone make a Bernie Sanders Beanie Baby because every time I see that man, I feel like I’m looking at a basket full of Pomsky puppies. I just want to hug and kiss him and eat Ben & Jerry ice cream with him all day long. I love him so.

Anyway, so yes, ugly Craigslist guy came to see the apartment and lo and behold, he was not nearly so fug in person. He had gotten a haircut! Also he was tall, lanky and wearing slim jeans and a cute Penguin polo shirt AND he had swagger. He possessed that male version of the thing the French call “jolie-laide.” Ugly-beautiful. And he was confident in his ugliness. He had mojo. Women probably want to date him just to have an ugly boyfriend they think no one else wants to bone. The joke is on them. This guy is a true pussy magnet. He has charm and I can assess he probably some tongue game by the way he whistled and trilled while he walked around the backyard. His whack-doodle eyes that flew off on different planes in his photo were actually kind of bright and sparkly and when he smiled his Utah-landscaped face made these  charming dimples and crinkles. Also he laughed at my jokes! Which is a bonus. Men hardly ever laugh at my jokes as they are always so busy assessing my sexual prowess. Prolly wondering what a walrus vagina looks like and how do they get to have a go.

His girlfriend didn’t come with him as he was checking out places that she might like based on her criteria. Ugly has to do all the work. Usually when I get the couples come see the place, it’s the woman I deal with. And statistically, everybody, one hundred percent, like all 5 of my tenants, who rents this fucking apartment ends up getting married! I told him that, not letting on I had already stalked his girlfriend’s Pinterest boards, he said lol yes, he and his girlfriend were planning a wedding but no date yet. Worth noting: He never referred to her as his “fiancee.” Is that a man thing or an ugly thing? Is it not a deal unless there is a date?

Things were going good between me and Ugly Guy, he loved the kitchen.  Apparently the girlfriend likes to cook and the kitchen is chef-friendly with a gas stove and butcher block. Really cool tin ceiling. Hardwood floors throughout, washer and dryer, basement storage, parking! You should come see it. At one point near the end though, Betty barked upstairs and his craggy face corrugated into his Facebook mugshot  and he told me in his current place the dog upstairs made click-click-click sounds with his nails on the floor which was why they want to move. Seriously. Click-click.

“Oh I love dogs,” he explained, “but my girlfriend hates them.” Ugly Guy’s Pinterest princess hate dogs. You know how they say in New York City you’re never more than two feet away from a rat or something like that? Well that’s what it’s like here with dogs. There’s dogs on the roofs here! You cannot possibly live in my house if you are not canine friendly. In fact, I don’t even want a tenant who doesn’t have a pet, be it furry or scaly or plastic or blow up.

So Ugly Guy left but his ugliness wafted and stayed with me for a few days. A lingering longing, like a zit to be popped. I prolly need to add his ugly mug on my Pinterest board for jokes: “Men I Want to Bone.”  Maybe one day in his click-click free apartment, he’ll google himself and find it there and then wonder about the walrus that could have been his landlady. Ugly Guy, call me! Goo Goo G’Joob.

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Embracing Your Inner Zombie

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Happy New Year, my interweb angels! Hope you are enjoying your righteous January resolutions as I am mine. Drink more whisk(e)y, is my top one. Apparently brown drinks are the answer. To what question, I’m not entirely sure.  It was on my Facebook newsfeed that whisky prevents cancer and has less sugar than wine so it must be true. I’m over that whole Juiceless January cleansing ritual, it’s for amateurs.  You end up with too many lucid waking hours with more time to feel guilty about being alive and not doing the things you said you would do when you were drunk, ie. a 4 hour Zumba class for Syrian refugees at the local rec centre on a Saturday afternoon (there is no way).

Also, for Christmas I got a cast iron pan which is a first for me believe it or not, so I can make a proper steak and these taters I am very excited about. Fuck you and your kale smoothies, your lazy ass colon frightens me, do you know that whisky makes you poop? THIS gives me a starchy lady boner:

And speaking of fear, why am I zombied up, you ask?  Evangeline did this to me because she’s been bingeing on The Walking Dead for the past few weeks which I just can’t with. I tried the first episode but it did not grab moi but because she watches it in the living room (to be close to mama because she’s too scared to watch it in her room) I have the soundtrack in my head constantly. There’s hardly any dialogue on the show, a bit of hillbilly babble and the rest is all just low level guttural monster groaning/snarling/gurgling interspersed with silent bits and then bam! some really loud growl and screaming (Evangeline). You could set your watch by the ebb and flow of zombie moaning. Freddy, when he wasn’t downstairs engulfed in his own rattle and hum cocoon of PlayStation, we would huddle in my room and laugh at the predictability of it all. Then when she was done watching it on Netflix, she watched it again! AMC actually aired a 24/7 marathon of it on natural television after Christmas, and Jesus and Jose in the manger, there was nowhere to hide. Also! the hot dude with the cue cards from Love Actually is now her tv boyfriend which means there will be more zombie groaning in the future.

Normally I would rather talk about stupid vampires than entertain the mythology of  the ridiculous zombie apocalypse but I softened after seeing how pretty a zombie I am. Dem eyebrows tho! I should change up my eyeliner game and wear darker lipstick, no? According to the girl, the modern obsession with zombies is a tabula rasa for us to project our collective and individual fears upon. Zombie Apocalypse can be representative of a number of paranoias and dystopian disturbances aside from the obvious disease and death, let’s randomly list:

  • global warming
  • terrorism
  • Isis
  • people in general
  • North Korea
  • Labradoodles
  • aliens!
  • guns
  • ‘Murca
  • Tinder
  • Internet cookie trails
  • LinkedIn
  • Donald Trump
  • butt plugs
  • Zumba *shudder*

It turns out all my zombie fears are within my own skeletal base, I discovered this by accident. Aside from the frying pan, I also got a massage certificate for Christmas which I was so excited about since I no longer get these things covered by insurance. I know I can just bite the bullet and pay for them but I’m not wired that way. So I booked an appointment last week with a burly Mexican dude name Juan, and since it’s been awhile I thought I would opt for some deep tissue. I figure man hands are clumsy but they can dig mightily and it never occurs to them they might be hurting you when they prod into your organs. I don’t like to be a wuss so I always take the pain and let them have their way. It’s usually beneficial in the end because when it’s done, you feel so much looser. This time I should have maybe cried uncle at some point because Juan was a fearless deep sea diver of a massage artist and he probably should have left some knots stay clenched tight.

It started out fine, he let me lay face down and he poked over the blanket me like I was an interesting beached mermaid with legs. He pummelled his fists down my spine up and down and then he got the point of his elbow and jammed it into my right ribcage and exclaimed, “Oh you’ve got quite a knot in here!” It isn’t a fucking knot, I wanted to say, it’s emotional scar tissue, but I let him keep digging while the rest of me snap, crackled and popped. This spot in the middle of my right ribs is my trigger area for a repressed memory that I once buried and would have completely forgotten about if my mother hadn’t asked twenty years after the fact: “What really happened that night you came home covered in sand?”

So this happened, and I did forget about it until my mom reminded me, and it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of things but it goes to show you about how times have changed somewhat, maybe, in that if it happened today I probably would have said something instead of kept it a secret. Anyway, I was 16, my parents took me to Florida for a vacation in February. I got a sunburn at one point during the week and I slathered on baby oil that night to ease the pain, which is stupid because I think it fries you some more, but we did dumb things back then. At night on the hotel strip which was on the beach, there was a 7-Eleven and a small playground. That greasy night I went out on my own and sat on the swings and a group of young dudes were hanging out trying to score beer from the store. I don’t know what the age limit was but I had been buying beer at the bodegas in Quebec since I squeezed my first zit. So I volunteered to buy it even though I was younger than all of them and sure enough I didn’t get ID’d. It’s all in the attitude and maybe my sunburn made me look 40.

So I made a bunch of friends that night, we drank the beer in the playground for a couple of hours. One dude seemed to like me. He was one of those strapping cornfed first generation of ‘Super Size” American boys with a baseball hat over a mullet. I told him I was Canadian and he said his favourite band was Rush. Ugh. In my personal opinion, Rush was the original Nickelback, that trilling Geddy Lee voice over those synthesizers was enough to me lunge for the radio dial and kill it, blechhh, ear rape. I might be wrong, so sue me, but I was into punk and was obsessed with Blondie, Bowie, and the Stranglers back then. This dude did not interest me at all but when it was time to go home, he opted to walk with me along the beach, which I think I thought was  gentlemanly.

We got to a dark spot on the beach and he asked me if I would give him a blow job, but without a question mark. “Give me a blow job,” he said.  I’m like,” WHAT? No…what are you even thinking? I don’t even like you!” And he got all weird and he tackled me.  I was face down in the the sand and he knelt on top of me, his knee pinning me down in THAT VERY SPOT merry massage therapist Juan was gleefully untangling some thirty years later. I was winded, I remember panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was sure he broke a rib. He managed to get his pants down, and thinking back now, was he not afraid I was going to bite? Oh, I’m going to just take one look at his fructose fatty chode and want to tenderly place it in my mouth? My dad always said if I got myself in such a predicament to grab and squeeze and twist the balls, which I did, he squealed like Geddy Lee and I managed to slither away, all slippery from the baby oil still, and run home.

My mom asked me then why I was covered in sand and out of breath and I said I just tripped on the beach. And I really forgot all about it until she asked me again a few years back. Anyway, flash forward to last week and fucking Juan and his grind happy elbow and me face down on a massage table, my face smushed in the cradle, trying to breathe through the intense pain. I started coughing, which is the worst when you’re getting a massage, but he finally eased up I got to flip over which is the best part anyway. But no, he jostled something out of me, like my growling inner zombie child, and I started hacking up a lung. That was an entire week ago! I haven’t stopped coughing for fuck sake. And my fucking ribs are killing me.

I can’t tell if the experience was cathartic or what. “You prolly have pneumonia,” my ex-husband just said.  Great, and me without a drug plan. All I know is the next massage I get will be from a lady with sweet soothing fingers. I’ll leave those man hands for other things.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Burying the Body

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I’m not even being metaphorical here. We’re going to totally talk about burying a real life hypothetical dead body. Stay with me and maybe I’ll hand you a shovel and we can drive into the woods, dig a grave, and hold hands and skip afterwards.

I FINALLY finished listening to that fucking podcast that was all the rage once upon a time, like 4 months ago, Serial, that “This American Life” spinoff about a true story teenage murder that took place in 1999. Okay, I don’t care if I’m giving you a spoiler, whatevs, if you haven’t already listened to it, you won’t now, it’s a time consuming commitment that is basically a series of interviews, and journalist Sarah Koenig’s speculations of why the convicted killer, Adnad Syed, may or may not be innocent of the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Hae Min Lee. It all takes place in Baltimore where the girl’s body is found shittily buried in a place called Leakin Park, which sounds made up but isn’t. The very last episode comes a convenient theory of who else could have killed Hae which makes you mad that you bothered to listen to all 12 episodes when you could have just wikipedia’d that shit and be done with it.

It’s all so real that it seems fake. But it’s true and tragic, for the family of the murdered girl and especially if Adnad is actually innocent, what a waste of a life.

Koenig’s voice is the true star, I can listen to her yap doodle all the live long day and be in a zen state, she’s just like all mellow and I bet smokes pot before she maunders her spiel into the microphone. Her cadence is soothing and she goes off on tangents and even though I sometimes zone out, I’m more or less riveted. Every time she says “Best Buy” take a shot! It’s a drinking game!

No drinking for moi, though, I listened to it at the gym! Okay, I do not have one of those bicep strap-on-audio device holders, that would be far too practical, I could probably get one at the Best Buy, speaking of which, if I had the wherewithal but I don’t…Anyway so I need to hold my greasy iDick in one hand and stuff the testicl-ay headset in both ears because cramming it precariously into my bra, with all its moist hooter sweat, causes too much static and the wire to unplug. So! I developed an entire 45 minute work out routine, laying on a mat and rolling on a ball. It’s what I call the Starfish Workout, it works! I’ll post it below, trust me, you can actually bounce a quarter off my ass right now. By the way, I don’t believe in modern-day cardio machinery, especially those ellipticals, I think they actually make you spongey and complacent. And I love the idea of a workout you can do in a 4 by 8 prison cell cuz you never know, you could be as unlucky as Adnad Syed too.

Anyway, I’ve been listening to this podcast week by week…it’s hard to follow the plot because nothing happens and I have a low attention span and in the process, I developed a new gym crush, #fml. Yes, I know, all my ridiculous gym crushes, Sweaty Man, The Oaf, Kettlebell Jesus, Turban Dude (still makes mine heart flutter so), have been pathetic chimeric illusions that I have pined over ad nauseam so I hold no emotional attachment on this one. I have evolved somehow, having lived and finally learned BUT! He is TO DIE FOR! While I roll on my bouncy ball and try and absorb the Serial plot, new gym crush, let’s call him The Viking, does this crazy caveman circuit right before my very eyes. Uurgh, I am weak in the flesh fo sho, and brace yourself, Spring is coming. The Viking is a study in dichotomy: From far away, he looks stocky and short because he’s muscly and bunchy-butt and has that compact running back swagger but when you shimmy yourself near him at the water cooler, he is fucking TALL, holy shit, and you feel like you’re in a fairy tale, it’s amazing. His face though. It’s kind of rough and weathered and his teefs are all busted up like he chews on bones and nails and maybe I don’t want to kiss him with my delicate lips and tongue and stuff but I definitely want to sit on him, ladymeat to fugmug, and, oh my god, you know he’d be good. It’s just the way he flips the tires and pulls on ropes, heaving and hoeing, he is strapping and capable… of flipping and pulling big ol’ starfish me all around and upside down. SIGH. And it occurs to me, he’d be the perfect dude to help clean up a crime scene.

Anyway, what I take away from the podcast aside from how flawed the American justice system is, is that if you actually commit a murder, you better be careful who you ask to help bury the body with you. If Adnad actually did it, getting his stoner compulsive liar buddy, Jay, to be his partner in crime, then that was his big mistake.

Who would you ask to help bury a body if you murdered someone?

I asked this question to my son, Freddy, and he, without missing a beat, answered, “You, mommy.” And my heart swelled up with emotion. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing anyone could say?

Later on I asked the same question to my daughter, Evangeline, and she was at first all shocked and appalled,”What do you mean, I murdered somebody?” And I realized how telling it was that Freddy and I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the hypothetical prospect of having committed a murder. So I had to make up a scenario where she actually accidentally murdered a crazed doggie killer who broke into the house to kidnap Betty and make a catsuit out of her exquisite hide and secretly disposing the body herself would save the taxpayers’ money, blah blah blah, which let her wrap her head around the moral dilemma, but anyway, she chose me also! I am so proud!

I wouldn’t choose them, though, I wouldn’t want to burden them with a crime on their delicate consciences. My first thought would be I would run over to the next door neighbours, they are always my first stop when I have a sticky problemo that has turned into a conundrum that needs some slapstick…or I simply need to borrow a cup of wine, they are my touchstones. I know they’s be all like “YAAAASSS, Peterson! Let’s do this!” And then they’d make a day of it, and get a cooler full of Coronas, some chips and guacamole, and start Instagramming that shit. Then we’d all be in a fine mess on social media, no less.

Then I have a list of lady friends and sisters but they are small and petite and have bad backs and tiny cars and that leads me to the obvious choice of Bob and his junk trailer that he parks in my backyard. But he is sometimes so unreliable, he’d be like, “Okey doke, Starfish, I’ll swing by on my way to the dump,” and he’d really be eating chicken wings and forgetting all about me on his fourth pint on the other side of the Beach at the Filling Station while I’m waiting tapping my feet with blankie-wrapped stiff on my front porch.

I briefly considered the hot dudes at my butcher shop, they have knives and a power saw and they always take care of me when I am bordering on hysterics, the shop is my “safe place” so I wouldn’t want to tarnish it with a felony and risk them getting a bad Yelp review.

Then I thought of the perfect person! My ex-husband would totally groove to this…CHALLENGE ACCEPTED…and do it with the prowess of a ninja. He is a one hundred percent law abiding citizen, trust, but he has a clever criminal Heisenberg-type mind and not only would he surreptitiously dispose of the body, somewhere, somehow, he would do it without me so I wouldn’t fuck up. Phew, that’s a relief. Everybody needs a friend who can keep a secret.

Okay, here’s one ball exercise I’m sharing with you, I’m going to keep some secrets to myself, this is where you can attack that problematic lady part where ass meets leg…you’re welcome. By the way, I saw The Viking out on the street in his civilians, he really should have his own Tumblr blog of his outfits…he was wearing a pink cardigan and he managed to make it look all testosteronic (yes, it’s a word) because he paired it with classic cut Levi’s, I wish all men knew this trick to showcasing a traffic stopping bubble butt…anyway, I nearly ran over his dumb wife with my car,but  at least I know what I’d do with the corpse.

Here you go, Bubbles, roll on this and daydream:

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Internet Kinksters United

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So I deleted my OkCupid account…okay “suspended” it, it’s currently hibernating like big giant grizzly bear waiting for Spring. Just so you know, during the last couple of months I was on there to “make new friends” which is legit option on the site, it’s not just dating and whatnot. Randomly, serendipitously, miraculously, and mathematically, in August I found my Great White Whale and he’s a keeper. He understands and even embraces my Myers-Briggs ESFP personality quirks: That insatiable need to deep sea dive into the bowels of the internet for all the fucked up crazy-ass antics that people hide in their day-to-day lives. The internet is not just for deep fried ramen noodle recipes, IT IS A FREAK SHOW WHERE THEY ALL COME OUT AND PLAY 24/7. I love it so.

Anyway, back tracking a few weeks ago, one of my family members sent me a barrage of Facebook messages about how my blog was inappropriate for human consumption and my gross sex life should be kept to myself and reminded me that I have children and I should be ashamed, would I talk about such things at the dinner table  and I’ll never get a job and blah blah blah. AND YET! if you can take a week off work and manage to scroll through an hour’s worth of her inane Facebook postings, you will find it littered with Kim Kardashian’s (awesome I must say) oily ass, a reposting of Jian Ghomeshi status declaring his penchant for hard-core BDSM amid all the bitstrip cartoons (no judgement but really?)…so a porn star and a dickhead misogynist, their agenda she sees as A-OK newsfeed fun and yet my cute story of shopping for sensual aids at the Shoppers Drug Mart IN THE SAME AISLE AS BEN-GAY AND DISNEY PRINCESS NIGHT LIGHTS brings shame to the family and doom to my future. I mean, seriously. Like I care. I’m a middle-aged woman with a propensity to unapologetically over-share in a blog that as a grown-ass adult reader, you can choose to read OR NOT.

In any case, I became silenced (but only temporarily, ROAR) out of shame because I am sensitive like that. And I also deleted my beloved OkCupid account because it just became tiresome, like going to the same fucking gym for 17 years and all the fantastic step classes from yesteryear have been replaced by boring ass body sculpt classes THAT DON’T DO SHIT, DON’T KID YOURSELVES. I don’t know where that analogy rant came from but you know what I mean. I have become desensitized by all the internet kink that maybe should just go back to participating in Facebook commentary, Twitterrhea, and Instagram buffoonery. SIGH.

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Kink. Let’s over-share.

I might be “out there” yapdoodling about embarrassing things, but on the grey scale of kinky, where Jian Ghomeshi is leather strap black, I am like a soft heather grey sweatshirt, you know the kind of faux- retro white flecked fleece they have at Forever 21. I am what they call vanilla, more or less. I have one little “kink” and thanks to the other over-sharers on the internet, I found out I am not alone. I have an ear fetish. Not your ears, don’t be sending me your ape-like lug hole pics, my own ears. I like having my ears fiddled with, even when the doctor does things to them. I had an ear infection over the summer and as a result, my left ear drum became punctured by the excess pus fluid…YES, TRUE STORY, contrary to urban legend, I did not jab a shish kebob stick in there, I SWEAR. Consequently, I’ve had to go to the hospital to have a mini hoover stuck in my ear to suck out all the  goo to keep it dry. The doctor is hoping that in time, the hole heals itself, so I can avoid surgery. I, on the other hand, am hoping this goes on forever. I get dressed up for these appointments. For one thing, can the intern be any cuter? And for another, I am in heaven with a hose in my ear canal. He barely has to flip the switch and my toes are curling, my eyes are rolling in back of my head. Last time, though, I had a different intern, a little Asian dude who did NOT get me at all. His hose technique was awkward, it kept falling out, he kept apologizing (DON’T! Shut up! Just stick the fucking thing in!) and gingerly had to placed  it back in mid-suck, so it actually hurt, and it was a big letdown. And at the end, when I demanded to see what splooged up in the Kleenex, he was reluctant and actually said: “Why? Do you have a fetish or something?” OF COURSE I HAVE A FETISH, WTF? WHY ELSE AM I WEARING FISHNET STOCKINGS IN A HOSPITAL?  Oh my God.

The internet satisfies my kink by giving me YouTube of people having their ears cleaned. You know how on every city block we have Vietnamese nail salons? Well in Vietnam they have ear cleaning salons by delicate ladies fastidiously digging away at ear canals using long, sharp, pointy instruments. Are you kidding? I am dying, DYING to go to Vietnam. In other parts of the world, they have men do this also on the roadsides and beaches, that I am not so sure about participating, but I’d like to go and watch. Holy shit, this:

RIGHT? If you watched that and got a chub then you and I are going to be really good friends.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My very first encounter with an Internet Kinkster happened innocently enough through the on-line Scrabble games. At first the site just matched you up with whoever but the people began to state their preferences for chatting or not. It took about half a minute for the fetish crowd to catch on. One day I clicked on some guy from the U.K.’s game and he messaged me: “Before we start the game, did you read my profile?” I hadn’t but went back and saw he wrote this: “Oxford student, looking for ladies of all ages. Your flatulence is my pleasure.”

This was even before meme culture gave us this:

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But that pretty much nailed my reaction. But dive deep is what I do and I needed to  poke this weirdo with a spear and see what kind of creature he really was.

Me: “Yes, that’s cool, let’s play.”  I plunk down the first word.

He: “Can you describe one of your farts?” He promptly plays a good word I haven’t heard of but I am too lazy to look up and learn something new.

He is an Oxford student after all. He must be smart. he moves fast so he’s probably not cheating like I am.

Me: “This one I just had seeped deeply into the couch.” I stole that line from an old roommate when we used to watch tv and drink Diet Coke all night, she was positively poetic. This is going to be fun, I think, as I put down a decent word on the board. Scrabblecheat. com, holla.

He: “Delightful! How did it feel?” *plays “Q” on triple point* Yikes, he has a good vocabulary and can strategize.

Me: “Fucking amazing, like dynamic power of a leaf blower mixed with sweet relief of a cool breeze on a hot day.” Whatever. I plunk down all my letters in a lame place for a bonus 50, thank god because I’m already 100 points behind.

He: “Oh my God, what did it smell like?” He changed his letters and passed a turn. I never do this. I am impressed when people do. Isn’t it better to play a crummy 3-letter word than no word at all?

Me: “A very rich hunk of triple cream Danish Blue with a high note of hard boiled quail eggs.” I have nothing but low quality vowels and play “aioli.” Ridiculous.

I feel like I can hear him giggling in an out of control  British hyena accent from all the way across the Atlantic. This has to be a joke.

He: “You are an angel, my dear, straight from the heavens. Would you open your bottom on my face and let Polly out of prison?”  He plays an “X” on a double triple point.  Aaargh. I have 3 U’s.

And I think to myself: Okay, do I need a special dictionary to play with this dude? Who or what Polly out of prison does he mean? (and btw, it’s a euphemism for farting, thank you, Urban Dictionary, without you I’d probably be doing something useful like learning Spanish)  MOST IMPORTANTLY: HOW ON EARTH DOES HE EXPECT ME TO SIT ON HIS FACE FROM A BILLION MILES AWAY?

I decided to just ignore the chat and keep playing, I am gaining momentum in the game and I love a Scrabble challenge more than anything. Except having my ears fiddled with, lol. So when I didn’t respond after the next turn, dude deleted the game. At first I thought WHAT AN ASSHOLE but now years later, several million hours spent scrolling through the sea of lemon parties, goatsees, and scatpaloozas, I have a whole new respect an admiration for the early pioneers of the internet, putting their kinks and fetishes out there, hoping for a kindred spirit to fart on their face or whatever. I think about that young Oxford gentleman from time to time, especially after a bean burrito, and wonder if he ever found his Polly. I hope so because if there is one thing I learned from the Wild World of the Webs is that there is a lid for every pot. And a bunch of toys too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tale of Pokey and Lamb Chop

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

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

Enter Pokey. Or: Enter, Pokey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

When Bad Things Happen To Stupid People

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Isn’t that hilarious how just last week I was talking about how my greatest fear is highway driving and how my car, Precious, hates velocity? True story, scroll down to the last post…AND THEN IT HAPPENED! It turns out Precious doesn’t hate velocity PER SE, she just had some lady part problems. Like her mother, she is middle aged, 7 car years is fair to say prolly equals a 50 year-old drying up bitch with some good years left but with scrapes from an enraged mall parking incident two days before Christmas and a side door dent from another parking lot on a super windy day…and yes, both were my dumb faults for backing into a pole and parking too close to an SUV with those righteous stick family adhesives on the back window, although anyone with common sense knows not to park theirs next to one containing children because parents are too drunk or frazzled to care if the doors swing open too far and hit the next car, can you blame them? Have you ever tried to stuff an arched back wailing toddler into a car seat? Who cares if a middle aged lady Scion XB needs $500 worth of body work? Get that child safely tucked into the Jeep Sahara so you make it home without breaking anyone’s legs. I SO understand, but back then I had the smarts to have a mom-van with sliding doors and you laughed at me, see? Makes sense now, right?

Anyway on Sunday, five of us family member drove up the Don Valley to Newmarket for Father’s Day, and because I hate highways so much, my nephew Arne drove us: He, Me, Freddy, Evangeline, and Sister Sue.

“The clutch is not engaging properly,” Arne said mid-way somewhere beyond the moon. But he always says this, at least since Christmas, I think it’s his tag-line on Grindr.

“What does that that mean?” I ask from the backseat, looking at my eyebrows in the rearview mirror. What is going on with my eyebrows? They used to be so dark and lush and now they are all but gone. I haven’t even been stress-plucking, I think they are just shedding and rotting in my old age. And why did I used to hate my eyebrows so much? They were way better than Angelina Jolie’s supposedly perfect brows, they arched more cleverly and with wry humour that made you think I was laughing at you (and I probably was back then, not anymore). Now I am drawing them back on with a brow pencil. Pain in the ass, sometimes I end up looking like a chola. Or Joan Crawford when I rub the gooey brown junk off. What the hell?

He said nothing and my daughter kept giving me worried glances and then we managed to get to Aurora, except we didn’t know it at the time because who knows where you are on GeoGuessr ? (Seriously click that link after you finish reading this and play the game with Google maps, fun fun fun). Relatively speaking, in case you don’t know the geography, is like if Toronto is Earth, then Newmarket is Mercury, we’re now in Venus, which is basically in the middle of nowhere, and that there was cell phone service was a fucking miracle and how grateful were we when the car finally died safely at the side of the road. And Arne, bless his heart, had the wherewithal to Instagram it. And then call a tow truck.

I, on the other hand, had lost all the saliva in my mouth and production came to a halt. I started to bark.

“What are we going to do? I don’t have CAA! I don’t even have a credit card!” I am so stupid. Pro tip: Do not hide those envelops in the back of your junk drawer, pay the minimum balance each month. You can do it.

Everyone else is all chill, as that is the Peterson nature, I am the Chihuahua of the family, all nervous and neurotic. Don’t worry, blah blah blah, they kept saying and Sister Sue finally placating me with her enviable vacant Mastercard. So we waited for the tow truck and my Other Sister Sandy to pick us up from the side of the road. Other Sister Sandy came almost immediately (or at least as long as it takes to get from Mercury to Venus) and the tow truck driver took his sweeeeeeet time. ಠ╭╮ಠ

That was when we a) got sunburned and b) met Officer Excellent from the OPP who bellied up to our wreckage with his cruiser. His last name was actually Excellent! Is that not awesome? He was the sweetest man, all laughing and cheerful, and he hung out with us until the tow truck arrived. There was a kerfuffle about how would would all travel, squished in my sister’s car or one of us on the tow truck? Officer Excellent would figure out for us. Dude could do anything. Even the Russian mafia tow truck driver was enchanted by his charm (“That is the nicest OPP officer I ever met!” in thick Russian accent) but alas, he had a hooker in the passenger seat and yes, she was definitely a working girl with her feet up on the dashboard and one of her tacky pink gladiator sandals was hanging on the rearview mirror, I am not even kidding, so he didn’t have room for one of us. We begged Officer Excellent to give us a ride but “that wouldn’t be safe” instead it was A-okay with him for all us all piling all sardine-like in the back of Other Sister’s sedan-type car, “Godspeed!” he said as he whizzed away in his blue OPP Excellentmobile. Adorable. Sigh.

Aaaaaand the Russian mafia tow truck bill came to $270.71.

Pro Tip: When your car breaks down on the highway, THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU CALL CAA and join on the spot and enjoy a free tow from a driver who probably enjoys his hookers AFTER his shift. These are the things that stupid people learn after the fact. Because everybody with a car of a certain age should have roadside insurance. Holy shit, most people with only a brain stem know that. Why don’t people tell us head-in-the-sand-types that you can actually join when your car breaks down? Well I am now, and you’re welcome. ****UPDATE: Apparently the old dude at the gym was WRONG, membership is activated 24 hours after initial sign up for new membership, so that was $270.71 well spent after all.

The next day, my beloved mechanic Mike, took a look at the car and the obvious was true: Burnt out clutch. He called me no less than 3 times that day and the next while he was fixing it and said: “Kristeeeeeen, why do drive a standard transmission? I think you should have an automatic, blah blah blah!”

He was clutch shaming me to the point of tears. Clutched shamed and horrified that my stupid veiny long-toed feet caused $850 worth of damage, I actually did cry and have a massive meltdown. What the hell? The car is 7 years old and needs a new clutch, that doesn’t seem too crazy, or does it? So I googled and found out that NORMAL people, not just the stupid ones, burn out their clutches. (Also confession: I have done it before on the Mini Cooper but maintain it was a faulty, piece of shit car because it was only a year old and everything else broke on it within the first year. Fuck those BMW crooks).

But nonetheless I cried and cried all that night and was talked off the ledge by my fellow blog friend, Erin. The clutch shaming was too much for my fragile ego. It was an accumulation of the shit storm that has transpired over the last few years. Although everything “bad” that happened, happened because I was a dumb ass. Like for example, even when I went to pick up the car, as I was walking along Eastern, I tripped and fell on both knees, shattering my dainty, dollar store quality crepitated knee caps and scraping both shins. You know those types of road burn wounds take forever to heal. Betty the dog won’t leave me alone, she thinks the scabs are raw bacon bits, licky, licky, licky (tickles, I kind of like it, gross I know). If I wasn’t wearing stupid flip flops, it probably wouldn’t have happened. So now I am wearing Birkenstocks, which is almost as ridiculous but the soles are hard and less slippery. A stupid bitch can actually learn a lesson once in awhile.

Also back to the important issues like my eyebrows. Pro tip: I found the eyebrow kit from Benefit, it’s way better than a pencil because you brush it on all feathery so it looks like hairs, not a sharpie marker line. If I didn’t have the internet for things like that, I would be spending at least $850 in 7 years having my brows groomed by the professionals at the Brow House, so by that estimation, who cares about a little old clutch? Honestly, get a grip, Peterson, these are all just first world problems.

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UXSWO

Bring It On

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. Pro: This woman, no comment necessary:

susan sarandon over 50

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

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

In the meantime, this came on my laptop screen:

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IDRIS ELBA! OMG! OMG! OMG!

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

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

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

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