Category Archives: This Charming Man

Internet Kinksters United


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tiresome, like going to the same fucking gym for 17 years and all the fantastic step classes from yesteryear have been replaced by boring ass body sculpt classes THAT DON’T DO SHIT, DON’T KID YOURSELVES.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.


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.


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:


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


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


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.



Bring It On


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

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

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

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

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

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

6. Pro: This woman, no comment necessary:

susan sarandon over 50

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

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

In the meantime, this came on my laptop screen:



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

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

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


New Dating Rule: Bang First, Explain Yourself Later


This week I was talking to my old buddy, Jesus (not that Jesus, my Jesus, Jesus of the Junction) and he was telling me about how frustrated he is going on dates with these women he meets on Plenty of Fish. My Jesus is in his forties and he has never been married. He is sick of GAME PLAYING. You know that is my biggest pet peeve about menfolk: I hate it when they say how they can’t stand “drama” and “game playing” when drama and game-playing is how we roll in the great cluster fuck that is the human race.  If it didn’t work that way, we’d all still be sea monkeys, it’s the Darwinian way.

He said: “I usually go out with much younger women but lately I have been focussing on older, single 45-year old moms. I figure we’ll go out on a date, if we have a good time, we’ll go home and bang it out. We’re old, man, we can fucking figure out if we like each other or not.  What is it with these women and their rules? Fuck man, WE’RE OLD!  I don’t have time for this shit!”

I know, right? When he was telling me all this, I tried to recall The Rules and thought to myself: “Jesus Christ, Jesus, what is your problem? You’re just soooooo old, you can’t possibly wait for the third date?” I felt bad for him though, the pain was in his face, and if there was a big enough napkin around, I would have given him a quick little handjob. A handjoblet, as it were, just for some lukewarm comfort. I am compassionate that way. With a name like Jesus, I bet he has one of those stress busting rockets I like so much so it would have been win win.

I thought about what he said for a couple of days though. While I am a lady and I understand the fundamentals of playing the waiting game, but like Jesus, I am an impatient ho and not one to be confined to too many rules. I read Steve Harvey’s book “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man” and I probably sacrificed 20 I.Q. points for it, it is THAT dumb. According to Harvey, women should wait like, 6 months before putting out and for what gain? So they can finally have sex with a dude who has been having sex with other women for 6 months while you have been spinning some clever little web that you think is going to lead to marriage with some “quality” fuckarrhea? Not smart hockey at all.

I respect Jesus’s primal need to “bang it out” on the first date. Why would you want to waste any more time than possible sitting in a bistro after bistro, collecting farts while you try and make small talk? With every inane topic, like how you always cry when you watch “Marley and Me,” a subliminal subtext of how tragic your life really is has been planted in the other person’s brain, processed, and filed into the “not banging this tonight or ever” category. Dating is just so damn depressing. This is why Jesus’s Bang First, Explain Yourself Later strategy might be the smartest hockey for old bitches on a first date.

But how can Jesus and all you other dudes out there get what you want in the timely manner in which you want it?  You have to convince her that it is her idea, obviously. Most ladies of a certain age will not suffer a fool for all steak dinners at Harbour Sixty, they have been a few rodeos and know the whole thing always ends up with painful crotch burns.  I might not be an expert on the art of seduction, that seems too complicated and European ridiculous, but I know what puts ants my pants and hurries things along and can be done over beer and chicken wings in any dump of your choice. If there’s one of me, there has to be thousands more with same responses. Here, read, learn something, go forth and get ready to start pounding from the back:

1. Don’t even bother to lie. The bad news is that seasoned smart ladies know when you are bullshitting, like you are “in between opportunities” and doing some “consulting” in some vague field like “marketing management.” The good news is they’ll rationalize just about anything, like that you are unemployed still live in your mother’s basement, for some decent bone. Remember, women in their forties are horniest people on the planet so rest assured,you have targeted the right group, son. In order to score with some young chick for the first time, you have to make up a pack of lies, write them down on a list and stuff it in your wallet, then figure out what douches dress like and get some new pointy shoes, a leather jacket, some skinny dark wash jeans, probably borrow a car, and money even. Then you get to go on a SUCCESSION of the most boring dates in history where you have to listen to her talk about those inane things but she puts a question mark at the end of everything? She says it like this: “Oh my God, every time I watch Marley and Me, I cry at the end?” And you don’t know if you if it is a statement or a question? And should you answer? So you tune the fuck out just because you think there is a pot of gold at the end. Are you stupid? That is not rhetorical. Yes, you are.

Old bitches don’t talk like that anymore, their inflection stays steady after years of asking questions that don’t get answered. And they don’t want to see your dumb ass in those skinny jeans so just don’t. Wear your regular jeans (Levis 501s, I’m telling you) and a plaid shirt (I’m begging you) and don’t overthink your game plan. Go with the flow and do not get attached to the outcome because that is what will lead to despair which is you on your desktop fapping into your filthy gym sock watching LiveJasmin.

2. Compliment wisely.  Do not say anything stupid like; “You look beautiful.” That is a generic word reserved for European men with English as a second language. Everything is beautiful. Even just this morning I went to pick up my dog’s dainty turd and admired its dry and compact texture: “That is just beautiful,” I said out loud, which is why I am known as the crazy pyjama lady of Brookmount (the street Betty poops on). Tell her she is “hot” or “fierce.” These are power player words that make things happen. “Fierce” once made me go home with a dude who had a busted face and no front teeth. Because he was a hockey player. So hot.

3. Have a funny childhood story to tell.  Just don’t tell that one about how your mother beat you with a wooden spoon because you let your little sister get stung by a bee and then the rest of your childhood memories were completely blanked out after that. There’s not enough lactating women in the world to soothe that savage beast. Instead tell a little story about your first crush in kindergarten, Debra Jo McMakeitup so it sounds adorable that you still remember her name after all these years. Tell us about how you pinched her, then pulled her pony tail. We will be captivated by what happened next, how did she react? She cried and you had to stand in the corner for all of recess. Then she moved to another city because her dad was in the mining industry and you don’t know what happened to her but you searched her on Facebook (trust me, that will make us wet our pants that you still think of the one who got away) and you think you found her but she still hasn’t accepted your friend request, so maybe it’s not the right Debra Jo LeWhatever. Copy, print. You’re welcome.

4. Find something yonic on your plate and eat it like you mean it. What’s yonic? You know I can hear some of you reading this out loud in your outdoor voices. Yonic is VAGINA SHAPED! There’s nothing hotter than a guy who eats everything and anything with gusto. I have only one hard and fast rule about what is a deal breaker and it is this: PICKY EATERS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON THE VOYAGE! Also if you are on, or have ever been on a colon cleanse, keep it to yourself. Pro tip:  When eating with a lady you want to bang, find something on the plate like a perogie or a fig or even a chicken wing…let’s go with a chicken wing that’s shaped like a safetypin, not the drumstick because that’s what I will be sucking on to show my prowess. Take the safetypin wing in both hands and lick it on it’s side, then quickly take a tiny bite, chew that one slow, swallow and then push your tongue through the remaining meaty bit so the tip shows between the tiny bones then suck all the flesh into your mouth. Be a bit of a pig about it, as long as you ate the carrot and celery sticks like a gentleman so we know you’re not a complete Neanderthal. Lick your fingers, too. The more we see your tongue flickering around, the juicier our beef brisket slow cooks in the crock pot that is our lucky underpants.

Sigh. You know, it’s that easy.

Okay that is about all I got for now, gotta go, I have something burning in the oven.

the call of nature

The Pandemic, Kimye, and the Cable Man

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

Still a little delirious, obviously.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least I have Peachtree.

The Enlightened Old Bat and the F-Bomb

There is an upside to all these candles, there has to be.  I’m telling you as a “Lady of a Certain Age” on the slippery sleigh ride into Old Batdom, that the key to successful modern living is to practise the fine art of detachment. It is one of the principals of Buddhism. To not give a shit is a tangible entity. The path of enlightenment is paved with zero fucks.

Forget about “aging gracefully” the older you get the more you fall. There is nothing graceful about taking out the garbage in the morning and slipping on wet leaves and falling on your ass and landing in the dog poop area of your front lawn only to have your hot neighbour help you up and you are wearing a coffee stained Old Navy Tshirt and your weekend bra pops open as he pulls you up by the armpits.  Oh yeah,and afterwards you realize your pyjama pants have blood on the crotch and you have to console yourself with the thought:  “At least he knows I still get my period!”  True story and one ugly anecdote.

Wisdom is over-rated.  I only know all this shit about life because I have been slapped around the block a few times and I troll the internet 8 hours a day.  I would have been perfectly happy living to a hundred not knowing that a dude will actually lie and think nothing of treating your heart like a urinal mint. All that time wasted I could have just pleasantly masturbated to reruns of Gunsmoke.  Life would also be golden if I didn’t google up “goatse” and “tub girl-” why must I need to know everything?

And fuck Cameron Diaz.  Here she is in Esquire:

Here is what she says:  “For the first time in my life I’m content. I’m so excited. Getting older is the best part of life. Like, I know more than I’ve ever known. I have gratitude. I know myself better. I feel more capable than ever. And as far as the physicality of it — I feel better at 40 than I did at 25.”

Shut. Up. Turning 40 was the worst thing I ever did.  I will explain it all with this graph that took me two hours to make from a template on a children’s website.  Growing older doesn’t make you good at the internet, by the way, in spite of all the time spent on it:

The bottom numbers are age, and the number at the side represent “Fucks Given per year” which by my definition means how many days a year your ego gets the better of you.  And Cameron here is demonstrating how your undergarments reflect the state of your fat-ass evil ego.  Let me explain.

At Age 10, zero fucks are given because who cares?  You are 10, you walk out of the house wearing mismatched socks.  You think nothing of stuffing an entire pack of gum in your mouth while walking down the street singing at the top of your lungs. Your hair is a mess and you got lice on purpose, it’s hilarious! You get to miss school! You do not need a bra and your mother buys your Hello Kitty cotton underwear.

By Age 20, you don’t have to give a fuck because all the free fucks are given to you.  You can walk out of the house wearing your period underwear and some creeper will ask for your number because he smells fresh meat. Your ego is not yet fully formed because you are invincible. You also cut your own hair and it looks fantastic. Maybe once a month or so you will get a zit and feel bloated and you will cry because the last dude you gave your number to won’t call in a timely manner but that mood won’t last longer than a day, so maybe you will give only about 12 fucks a year, tops.

At Age 30, things are slipping a little.  The metabolic shift that your older sister predicted has fully kicked in and you have to worry about muffin tops.  At this age you are probably wearing matching bra and underwear because you think he thinks it is sexy.  Pro tip: Absolutely no one cares, Victoria Secret, especially the dude you are banging. But sometimes you need Spanx because that “bloat” is actually a flesh belt…remember when you were twenty and all you had to do was drink a pot of tea and you lost five pounds?  You worry about all this on a weekly basis.  Also you are plucking your chin hairs routinely with a magnifying mirror. Why did this happen?  It’s super sexy testosterone building up for your forties!  Hold on to your hooters, sister, because you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Aaaaand you are 40….it’s subtle at first but things are really starting to go tits up (or down, technically)…Everything needs to be pushed up, sucked in, and smoothed out.  Your hair has become a full time job.  You need professionals from around the world for every different type of follicle, not just on your head, but your brows need a Russian woman, your pubes need a Brazilian, and your Korean pedicurist waxes your toe hairs, and oh, how she laughs. And notice on the graph how the 40 year old woman gives a fuck 24/7, 365 days of the year?

40-something women are consumed with themselves.  They walk out of the house with their tits pushed up, and their leggings as pants.  They don’t need actual underwear!  The 40 year old woman is twice as likely to have sex at the gym than any other demographic so they would just get in the way.  The 40 year old woman has a mojo like a teenage boy.  She gives so many fucks that she will easily give one away if you ask her, go ahead ask her.

Trust me, this way of life is exhausting.  But relief is on its way (at least I am hoping).  And this is where the art of detachment comes into play.  Listen up, because the magazines won’t tell you this little secret:  The older you get, the less you care.

There is a rapid decline of fuck giving at the age of 50.  All that unbridled mojo is getting a bit embarrassing, isn’t it, Demi Moore?  The phantom ovulator or the full moon will pull you back in once a month and will only give a fuck because you are hornier than a Hoover. You will match your black bra with black Spanx and some sluttier sisters will wear a thong with those jeggings.  You are now dyeing your own hair because Botox costs $11 a unit and you need 30 to get rid of that bitter expression that is keeping the boys away.  Trust me, a few squirts of poison in your forehead every 3 or 4 months and you can still charm your way out of a traffic ticket.  So worth it.

At 60, you give zero fucks again, not like when you were ten, you would never put an entire pack of gum in your mouth but! You would think nothing of dropping $8,000 on a set of veneers. Who gives a fuck, YOLO?  Sometimes you don’t even bother with a bra, Susan Sarandon lets hers off-leash so why not?  And fuck Spanx, they ride up the ass, those boxer briefs the cabana boy left will do just fine.  Snap!

Hopefully as you go further on the chart, you have your health and you mind, and you will get a cake full of candles that you can light your cig off of…I will wash mine down with bourbon, and wear my bra on my head like a party chapeau.  And I will yell:

I am bat, hear me roar!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I flew by the seat of my pants:

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

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

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

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

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



The Creep, The Weirdo, The Bachelor And The Elevator

Yesterday I had big, important plans but I ended up not doing any of them. First I was going to go to the gym first thing but it was too cold to move so I deemed it a Possible Snow Day, pretended to be sick and took to the bed. I ended up watching “Live with Kelly” where Jessie Palmer was her cohost. You know who Jessie Palmer is: He was born in Toronto (homeboy!), raised in Napean, played college football for Florida, then the New York Giants and the Montreal Alouettes. He was The Bachelor in 2004 and now he is a football commentator. He looks like this:

My big question watching the show: Why is he still single? He’s so handsome and he has a bubbly, agreeable personality that even your mama would like. He’s funny and self-depracating. He thinks Megan Fox is “out of his league.” Bitch, please. As though any man, no matter how dysmorphic or Aspergery, thinks he is out of any woman’s league. That kind of stupid talk sort of makes you want to hit on him. But then you don’t, because he’s just too perfect. The litmus test fantasy is what would happen if you were trapped alone on a broken elevator with him. He is the man you want to love but ultimately when you stand next to him, you become hyper-self-aware of ugliness vapours emanating out of your rapidly gaping pores. Nope. Pass. Press the emergency button.

The other important plan was to obtain Jack White’s new release CD, “Blunderbuss” at an actual record store, NOT iTunes. I need solid, concrete music, not this internet sorcery that is my current music library since getting separated, this is me: “Oh, you can take all the CDs, I will just copy them onto this computer one by one until I grow old and die.” Of course I missed a bunch of albums that I ended up obsessing over even if I would never listen to them again. On one hand, there is less clutter but on the other, it’s a precarious situation, the computer will probably break and the iPod will spontaneously terminate itself and I will be tuneless. And alone.

By mid-morning I had moved from bed to couch, still too cold to go out. Pretending to be sick would be an all-day event so Evangeline offered to go get the Jack White before her class downtown. Yay.

Now I love Jack White. Here he is:

Toronto Star’s Ben Rayner describes Jack White as a weirdo, which can’t be denied and is why I love him so. He looks kind of like Johnny Depp on estrogen supplements. He is a temperamental genius, graphic proof here…and is there any other kind? He dresses in costume, like a 19th century bandit which is kind of off-putting and badass at the same time. Repulsive and fascinating, the dichotomy is a recipe for capitulation. Imagine being trapped in an elevator alone with him. Somehow, without even knowing how you let it happen, you would walk out with a hickey and a broken bra strap.

While she was gone, I put on my favourite movie of all time:

Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo 66 with Christina Ricci before Thinspiration ruined her and her acting career. This is one of those independent cult movies that if you say the phrase “spanning time,” people will either look at you blankly or laugh knowingly, the video clip says it all. Vincent Gallo has such intense charisma that it is creepy. His default expression is a mug shot. You can’t spend too much time thinking about him or you might go out and get his name tattooed on your chest. One thing you might want to consider, is checking out the shop on his personal website. For $50,000 you can go out on a date with him and for $1,000,000 you can get his sperm! Not bad. And if you were ever so lucky to be trapped on an elevator with him, be prepared to re-enact a certain scene from The Brown Bunny. Or maybe that’s just me. Should probably just take stairs from now on.

And this, just for fun:

The Penis Diaries

First of all, let me preface this potential mess of a post by saying how much I love my dentist.  I’ve been going to him for 20 years and he may very well be the love of my life.  He is so gentle that I have had fillings done without freezing. If I do need numbing, he does this vibrating massage thing to my cheeks so when he sticks the needle in my mouth, I am so distracted, I don’t feel the jabbing prick. As he digs away, he always tells me how awesome I am in his cute South African accent. I never dread going there and in fact, I sometimes go early because he has the best magazines in town.  He subscribes to In-Style, People, and Men’s Health. I have learned some things from Men’s Health I may have never known from my own field work.  And when I say “field work,” these days it’s restricted to watching “Californication” which I know is worse than a fairy tale and Hank Moody is the fictitious Holy Grail of sexual prowess who would never exist in the real world.  A girl can dream.

Anyway, although I love my dentist, I hate his receptionist.  She is an uptight Leaside mom-type who obsesses over her preschool-age son, named Adam.  She wears a headset and always on the phone talking to her nanny about Adam who is a hellion.  When the kid gets on the phone, she threatens to “punish” him when she gets home for being “a naughty boy.” I’ve been privy to this conversation more than once, and I only go there twice a year. You just know where this kid is going in 20 years, I can picture his ad on Craigslist under “M4W” with a cryptic picture of a wooden spoon, captioned;  “Spank me.” She is a control freak.  Last year, when I was waiting, the tv was on and Dr. Oz was talking about how to enhance the female orgasm.  She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to the monotonous reel of petty crimes and weather reports that is CP24 and muttered about how the topic on Dr. Oz was “inappropriate.” And I was like, “Bitch, please, I don’t have that nailed yet, I’d like to hear what he has to say!”

Just other day, while Freddy was getting some fillings, I was in the waiting room alone blithely pouring over “The Best Sex Tips of 2011” in Men’s Health, when a woman and her 3 children plunked themselves down. Now I don’t care about children, I can easily tune them out.  Their inane blathering is often repetitive  and rhythmic so I can translate it into white noise.  It’s parents I hate.  Sure enough, this woman was one of those cows who talk loudly and refer to themselves in the third person: “Mummy wants you to do your homework while you wait, Mummy is tired, blah blah..”  I pegged her for one of those older mothers who miraculously spawned these 3 snotgobblers from her rotting egg farm so she needed to advertise how fabulous her parenting skills were.  At one point her son, age 11, picked up one of those pop-up picture books meant for pre-schoolers.  This one was about “The Creation” as depicted by Adam and Eve. I know, right? Why is this in a dentist’s office?  The receptionist is a religious freak and she probably brought it in from her Bible Study group.  The kid opens the book and up pops a cartoon drawing of Adam and Eve and an apple tree.  Eve has her back to us and Adam is facing her.  Her cartoon bum and his cartoon peen are obscured by a cartoon bush. The boy holds it up, “Look mummy!”  The mother shrieks: “Ryan! Put that away! That is so inappropriate! You’re embarrassing me!”

Now I am the only one within earshot and I am sitting with a magazine spread on my lap of a woman with her real legs up in the air with a man’s real head popping through, obscuring her real bush, and I am thinking that between this lady and the receptionist, exactly what goes on in North Toronto behind closed doors?  How do they raise their sons?  Do they make them shower with their clothes on?  Shame is their weapon, the wooden spoon that keeps their behaviour “appropriate.”

Speaking of which, last week, my daughter and I went to see the film, “Shame” with Michael Fassbender and his penis. And yes, this was our main purpose AND we liked him in Jane Eyre.  We consider ourselves to be “British Celebrity Penis Connoisseurs.”  6 years ago, when she was not much older than that Mummy-whipped boy in the dentist’s office, we took a trip to London to see Daniel Radcliffe, aka Harry Potter, go full monty in “Equus.” Neither of us particularly enjoy live theatre but we got to see Harry Potter’s Arab-strapped penis boner and that is worth the price of admission. And no, it did not scar my 12 year old daughter, it empowered her. My first viewing of a non-relative’s penis was not so spectacular, it was semi-traumatizing.  When I was 10, my friend and I would crash sugaring off parties at the sugar shack on the bottom of my street.  We’d steal syrup taffy from the trough and if we got caught, we’d run into the woods.  Once we saw a drunken French Canadian man with his pants completely down, wang out, taking a slash in a bucket attached to one of the maple trees.  You know, the ones that collect the sap that makes the syrup.  Yes, he was urinating. No, I never eat pancakes.

In “Shame,” Michael Fassbender’s penis is the protagonist of the film. His character, Brandon, doesn’t say much, but his peen keeps the plot going.  It’s not like it gets closeups or anything but it has more screen time than most Actra members.  Usually in a non-porn cinematic experience, you might see a flash of pube and a blur of tubular flesh from afar and the actor is in a fast action mode like diving into a pool in the dark.  In “Shame”, there is a decent sequence of frames that pans it as it sways from the shower to the kitchen, in the brightness of the morning, like an elephant trunk sniffing for peanuts. The film made me sad for the penis, “penis empathy’ if you will, Freud. It’s a bleak and realistic depiction of sexual addiction, and childhood shame is the cornerstone.  This is why you can’t be an asshole as a parent. Respect the penis, it’s got a fragile ego.

On that note, here is the trailer for “Shame,” go see it, take your mom: