Category Archives: This Charming Man

05

Aug. ’11

Murdoch Mysteries: Bachelor Sharks That I Would Hoard

I know my way around a television set.  I know that you put it on a table or a dresser or hang it up in your bathroom, and then you plug it in.   I am aware that cable comes from heavens above, and that through a special tube when inserted in the back of the tv itself binds you to a contractual agreement with Satan and his minions who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with “Shmogers`).   I hate the way they sell their juice, the life blood, and they know they have you by the short and curlies when you are too old to understand that how to put your laptop on top of your tv and magically stream in a world of entertainment far beyond your imagination.  Young people seem to know how to do this and they are so entertained by the mind-numbing stream of reality shows including Shark Week, Bachelors, Snake Charmers, Tree Men, Hoarders, Shut-Ins, Makeovers, and Real Estate Transactions (don’t get me started on this one).    I am slightly bitter that I pay for cable especially considering the fact that I watch the same tv over and over and over again. 

I put in DVD’s of my 2 favourite shows and I watch them in order and in a rotation like a round of antibiotics.

“What’s up, Peterson?”  Neighbour might ask, nonchalantly, on the front lawn of our homes.

“Oh, not much, just kind of wondering about that notice the city sent out that we have to redirect the downspouts from the eavethroughs so that our roof water doesn’t end up in the sewer?”  Real life details like this totally stress me out and make me want to run inside and TURN ON THE TELLY and watch Dick Van Dyke!  And eat crackers while I watch my mother iron tea towels.

So yeah, now I am old and tv is my teat. And I have two favourite tv shows that I over and over again in rotation: “Gilmore Girls”and “Sex and the City.” I get it, Freud.  Don`t judge me.

But I have discovered a third nipple from the TV Tit and it`s Murdoch Mysteries.  It is an awesome show and established so I can get the DVD`s and include them in my round.  It`s kind of like CSI: Turn-of-the-Last -Century Toronto.  There`s murder, mystery, intrigue, sexual tension galore.  The men all have crazy handlebar moustaches and toast-wedge size sideburns which probably made them the douchebags of their tyme.  However, in order to give us a modern-day panty-creamer, Murdoch himself is clean- shaven and impossibly handsome.  He has palpable chemistry with the woman doctor from the morgue which is so fantastic because it is CHASTE.  And let`s not kid ourselves, the sex in your head is always better than the sex in your bed, but the sex under a bunch of petticoats is probably mind-blowing.  Just saying.  Take that, Shark Week.  Sigh.

Posted by . Categories: Get out of your comfort zone, This Charming Man. Tags: , , . Leave a comment

23

Jul. ’11

I Love You, Caplansky

And now I’m going to share with you a personal too-much-information tidbit:  A few years ago, when I was going through a Hard Time, I went for some professional therapy.  I was mooning over some dude and the therapist, a man by the way,  listened to me for an hour lament/whine/wail on about how broken hearted I was and how this lost love was the most tragic thing EVER.  He was having a nicotine fit the whole time, crossing and uncrossing he skinny little legs, chewing on his gnarly fingernails with his yellow and brown horse teeth.  At the time, I remember thinking:  Why aren’t you saying anything?  Why don’t you help, for Godsake?  And finally, when he did speak at the end, he said to me:  “Well you obviously don’t know the difference between love and lust.”  What an idiotic, dismissive thing to say after I opened up all my emotional baggage.  I never went back to him.  It turned out that non-professional therapy, ie. drinking gallons of wine while watching Dr. Phil, was good enough for me.  Gradually the mooning stopped, time is a great healer.  However, I still run into the heartbreaker often enough and when I see him, I get a pang.  And I get a little wave of nostalgia, and I think:  Man, I really miss those dry rubbed baby back ribs you used to make on the bbq, I could suck on those all day!

Maybe the crackpot therapist was partially right, I mix love up with hunger.  It explains a lot:  My butcher crush, the way I always hang out with the oyster shucker at parties, and my latest obsession:  The Caplansky Deli Truck.  Last night I went to the Beaches Jazz Festival, which is always a lot of fun but I go more for the street meat than the actual music.  I knew through the Twitter feed Caplansky was going to park his truck at the foot of Elmer so I made a bee-line through the freak show that is local beachers in Birkenstocks and sarongs swaying and gyrating to the honk and tweet that is jazz.  The truck was there, Zane Caplansky himself was there (read about him here), and I was there.  The universe converged us together.  Now I had already eaten dinner, believe it or not: A SALAD, but there was still room for more of course.  My eyes scanned the menu and fell upon:  Maple Bacon Donuts.  Oh. My. God.  I ordered 6 and don’t get in my grill.  They are little balls, kind of like beignets from New Orleans, coated in maple infused with bacon.  I realize this is kind of girlie food, a sweet and salty PMS remedy but I was ovulating when I had it.  It was sublime.  This morning I woke up thinking about it.  And tonight I will go back.  Until then, I will leave you with this classic maple bacon lover:

Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink, go girl, This Charming Man. Leave a comment

09

Jul. ’11

Searching For Mr. Tenant

If somebody in Toronto spots this man, tweet me pronto.  Not for me, perv, for my daughter.  I might be in my cougar years but I’m not on the prowl for young prey.  Please.  But daughter is a big fan of his work.  Although we would both love to get a real-life glimpse of the enigmatic (and by enigmatic, I mean: What’s the story, morning-glory? Is he gay or straight?) Robert Pattinson, the sparkly star of that heinous Twilight franchise.  He’s in town RIGHT NOW filming “Cosmopolis.”  He wasn’t at the Pride Parade on Sunday, but then again all those oily young bucks looked alike in blazing sun.  He doesn’t seem to sleep or eat anywhere, so he could possibly really be a vampire.   So yeah, if you spot a Cosmopolis film truck, call me, and we will put our slap on, change our shoes, and Scionate on over to the locale and pretend we are part of the makeup crew.  Hilarity would ensue, it would be like a hybrid episode of Gilmore Girls meets I Love Lucy. It would make our whole summer.

And speaking of slippery young men, last week my tenant gave me notice that he was leaving.  And by “notice,’ I mean a text on July 1;  “Just a head’s up, Kristin, I’m looking for a cheaper place.”  Me:  “You mean September 1?”  He: “Well, like, kind of like August 1, I’ll let you know.”  WHAT DO YOU MEAN “LET ME KNOW?”  You’re leaving or you’re not, and you’re only giving me 30 days notice, JESUS MO-FU!   I didn’t say that to him, instead I remained calm and told him I would have to advertise it right away, blah blah, but inside I was seething with the usual fear-based rage I have become so accustomed in the past year.  As much as I love my tenant, and by “love,”  I mean from afar, from very afar, because he spends most of his time in Woodbridge.  And for me, there is no better tenant than the absent kind.  But he was having problems with rent, so, maybe it was really for the best.

So onto to Craigslist I went.  It’s a scary place, that’s for sure.  Last year I put 8 harp-backed dining room chairs for sale.  Those are those ubiquitous chairs that every East York gramma has but I put the clever spin on it in the ad:  “As seen on Sex and the City.”  It is true, when you own these harp-backed chairs, you can spot them a mile away anywhere.  So I noticed in the episode where Charlotte wants to convert to Judaism and she barges in on the Rabbi’s Seder, she is offered a seat on a harp-back when they say their prayer.  Funnily enough, the person that answered the Craigslist ad, was a woman named Esther, who came to see them one evening with her husband.  They were a young Jewish couple from Bathurst and Lawrence and they drove all the way to the beach late at night   She was wearing a long black wig ass-length wig that made her look like pole dancer in a witness protection program.  She was  painfully thin and covered up in a button down shirt and one of those long, ankle length corduroy skirts that Ralph Lauren still puts out for that particular demographic.   He was all conservative, also,  wearing a yarmulke and suit and was non-stop finger fucking his Blackberry the moment he stepped out of the mini-van.  I took them to see the chairs which were in the empty dining room of the apartment that I hadn’t yet rented out to the current dingle-douche. It was way past my bed-time and one of those sweltering hot Tennessee Williams-style July nights that make sensitive souls such as myself want to ruminate in the dark with a wet washcloth and sweating glass of icy vodka-laced lemonade bed-side.  It took these two wretched characters the better part of an hour for them to fight over whether to buy the chairs or not.

He:  These chairs are UGLY!

She:  I like them, I want them.

He:  You just like them because you want to buy them.  You`ll hate them when you bring them home.  You do this all the time.

She:  No I don’t, I haven’t done any decorating in that apartment!   I really like them.

He: You don`t like them,  you just like buying things.

She:  They’ll fit perfectly with the table.

He:  WHY?  They are UGLY and they are too small!  We have fat relatives! (and he turns to me and says) I’m sorry, lady, but I know my wife and she just likes to buy things even if they are ugly.

Me:  But she likes them…..But you are right, she married you and you are ugly (haha, I don’t actually say that part)

He:  SHE DOESN”T LIKE THEM!  YOU’RE NOT HEARING ME!  I KNOW MY WIFE!

And so it went.  I shut up and just watched this post modern, twisted version of “Fiddler on the Roof” play out until she finally complied right around the time his Blackberry ran out of battery.  Off they went, chairless, into the sultry hot night.  When they got home, they probably had negotiated sex:  “I’ll buy you an ottoman,” he said,  After he planted his seed into her bony loins, he rolled over and said, “If you have a baby, it better be a boy,” as he plugged his Blackberry back in the charger.  Stupid Craigslist, creepy people, dumb chairs.  A week later, the good folks at Frontier Sales ended up taking them off my hands.  “These chairs are a dime a dozen,” Frontierman said, ” But I will give 50 bucks.”  Sweet!  Deal!

That was a year ago.  So when I reluctantly put the apartment up on Craigslist this week, I was delighted with 8 responses in one day, and 6 people came.  It turned out I had my choice!   Everyone was so nice!  There were ladies and couples but I ended up choosing the single, mid- 20s male, once again, to replace the old one.  The house is top-heavy with both fresh, ripe, and spayed estrogen (poor 15-year-old Freddy, even the dog is a girl)  that the virile testosterone of a young buck can be the only remedy to make the house feng shui balanced.  That is my story and I’m sticking to it.

Posted by . Categories: Handy Hints, This Charming Man, Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , , . Leave a comment

24

Jun. ’11

Scratch and Sniff This

I would pay money to have my sense of smell eradicated.  I don’t care anymore about the beauteous aromas of warm chocolate chip cookies, lilacs, a freshly bathed baby, or my all time favourite: a lumber yard.   I am tired of malodorous scents wafting through my house and then becoming permanently embedded up my nostrils so that I become immune.  And blind and deaf.  But not so deaf I didn`t overhear two ladies talking, 4 aisles away at Loblaws.

Lady #1:  The woman across the street got arrested for having too many cats.  Some of them were dead!  Her house reeked!  And she had chin hairs!

Lady #2: She must have been an animal hoarder!  That’s so sad. 

Lady #1: I could see that happening to Kristin.  That dog of hers pisses on the carpets and she doesn’t notice all the fecal nuggets imbedded in that shag rug in-lay.  Although she herself is impeccably groomed. I’ve heard she’s had Botox, a Juvederm injection, and a series of photo facials.  She looks fabulous!

Lady #2:  And laser hair removal on those chin hairs!   Imagine never having to pluck them out!  But I can’t stand that dog!  Is it Betty?  It ate an entire chevre log from the coffee table.  Thank GAWD she’s not in our book club anymore!  Although she did make a mean Negroni cocktail!

Okay, I’m making this up.  But it could be true.  Betty has lived and peed and barfed and pooped on the carpet in my living room for 6 years and I have developed selective smelling.  Some areas are more pungent and damp than others.  I move around them, hopping over furniture, avoiding the living room altogether.  I know what you’re thinking:  GET YOUR DOG TRAINED but we’ve been over this a few posts ago:  We are a family of bad doggie behaviour enablers and rather than get us trained, I’ve made a decision to get rid of all the carpets and slap on some hardwood, literally and figuratively, as a part of Project Mojo Rising.  This time-flying business is ridiculous and blows you downhill pretty darn quick.  So if you don’t grab on something and forget to put lipstick on one day, you will be on The Humane Society Public Enemy List.  So yeah, home improvements this month, stay tuned for more details. 

In the meantime, I am taking care of my nephew’s dog, Riley (that white long piece of business whose butt Betty is sniffing in the photo above) for the “weekend.”  In nephew lingo, weekends start on Wednesday and end some time on Monday (‘not sure when I get up” he said).   Riley, unlike Betty, controls his bladder and sphincter in the house.  He doesn’t chew things or bark or rearrange the furniture.  He doesn’t jump on you or eat off your plate when you’re not looking.  He is mild-mannered and mellow.  If I were to have a man in my life, he would be much like Riley.  In fact, Riley has taken over the bed much to Betty’s outrage, and she has been sleeping by the door.  When Riley went to sleep last night, he had me pinned in one spot with his long snozzly snout propped on my inner thigh.  I couldn’t move without him freaking out so I just lay there, praying he change spots so I could do my usual “thrash 3 times and settle” manoevre.  But no, he stayed still.  He snored, he farted, he whimpered in his dreams.  Only when the claps of thunder hit at dawn, he tried to bury himself under my head.  Betty stoically stayed away the entire night, not a peep or a poop out of her.  And I did miss her in the bed, her tiny little paws smell like corn chips.  Sweetness.

Posted by . Categories: Hanging Around, This Charming Man, Uncategorized. 1 Comment

17

Jun. ’11

Boston Bruins 4-Evah!

When I was in Grade Two at Mountainview Primary School in Otterburn Park, Quebec, I began my lifelong mission as one of those annoying contrarians that you run into every so often when making small talk.  It’s sunny out and you say, “Oh what a beautiful day” and I say, “I hate the sun, I can see all the dirt in my house. I only like it when it rains.”  Lady Gaga comes on the radio and you say, “Oh I love Lady Gaga, she is so innovative, everything she does is magical genius,” and I will respond, “She is a twat.”  When really, obviously I love the sun when I sprawl out on Hanlan’s Point with nothing but a bucket and a blanket and of course I appreciate Lady Gaga’s theatrics, particularly the one where she claims to be 24 when obviously she is 45.  Good times!

So when every little kid in that tiny Quebec town was cheering for The Habs, I did not.  From my brother’s hockey card collection, I discovered a Boston Bruins player named Phil Esposito and I was in love at first sight.  Don’t ask me why, in retropect, I don’t get it either.  Back then I thought he was the hottest thing since Dick Van Dyke (again, not sure what was going on in that tiny mind).  I remember the classroom was set up with four desks pushed together, bistro-style and I was the only girl in mine.  I made an announcement to the quadrant that I was a Bruins fan and they are the best team and Phil Esposito is best hockey player in the world.  The three boys scoffed and told me I was a “dumb girl.”  One of the boys lunged over the desks and grabbed my arm and gave me an “Indian sunburn,” that’s what we called it, don’t get on my case.  He kept squeezing my wrist one way and the fat bit below the elbow the other way so hard that snot bubbles popped out of his nose.  But I let him do it and sat there stoically, I didn’t wince or cry.  That is where I learned to stand by my principals and not to let some stupid little dude tell me who or what to like.

It is also where I learned that hockey is a passionate sport, and picking your team isn’t always the most rational choice.  So this particular Stanley Cup was more exciting for me than any other because normally don’t care so much.  I watched all 7 games and tweeted on my Twitter because that is what you do these days when the tv is on.  Last night during Game 7, I twattered out something quite rude about the Canucks that I thought for sure I would lose some followers.  One tweeter was pissed and chirped my head off but by then I had fallen asleep and when I woke up to the news, I was elated:  Bruins won 4-0!  The city of Vancouver was in a riotous uproar!  Rage was in the air!  Suddenly my tweet didn’t seem so harsh!  And I am validated!  I don’t even remember who that boy was in Grade Two but all I have to say to you is :  HA!  I might be “just a girl” but my team won the Stanley Cup! 

 Karma is a slow moving bitch.

Posted by . Categories: go girl, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , , , , , . 3 Comments

30

Apr. ’11

The Dress! That Ass! Harry and Pippa Sitting in a Tree!

Well it really was perfect, wasn’t it?  No flies on this lot of royals.  There were many memorable moments but for me, my two favourite supporting characters that have captured my imagination are Brother Harry and Sister Pippa.  While Kate was ravishingly beautiful, blah blah, Pippa was actually sizzling hot in her white dress.  The twitterers were in a frenzy over her and as my #twittercrush pointed out:  “She not wearing knickers!”  Prince Harry was so cute, he always looks like he’s up to something.  Some deaf person read his lips when he mouthed out “Wait til you see her” to Prince William when Kate was walking up the altar.  I think he might have said, “I’m going to bang her sister” but we may never know.  Look at him grabbing his crotch while he stares at her ass.  Anyway, I feel like I can’t enough of this and I want a sequel.  Harry and Pippa:  Let’s get it on!

Other than that, I predict and I’m no Nostradamus, that hats will be big this summer.  In fact, I may go down to my basement where Hoardy McHoardington left all his crap and start making fascinators out of all the debris.  I’m sure I can come up with something like this:

I’m not actually joking, I have the crafting gene and a hot glue gun.  The sky is the limit literally.  These things distract from bad hair days which is perfect in the summer when nothing goes right.  This is not the mimosas talking:  Watch out for these on eBay.

Posted by . Categories: go girl, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , . Leave a comment

20

Apr. ’11

Royal Love: Don’t Try This At Home, Folks

By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this —
One of you is lying.”
— Dorothy Parker

I don’t mean to put a damper on this whole royal brouhaha, William and Kate taking the plunge next week, but chances are this is doomed.  I think they are both lying!!!!!   Before you dismiss me as some jaded old cougar, I will tell you why:  I may not be an expert on love, per se, but I know about marriage.  It’s simple science.  For one thing, we live too long to expect a union between two people to last a lifetime, less their age at the time of their wedding.  In olden days, the woman often died in childbirth and Farmer Dickhead would marry her 12-year-old sister.  He`d die when she was 20 and she`d be referred to as the Old Widow Dickhead.  Her ovaries would rot quicker than a dingleberry off a donkey`s ass and by the time she was 30 she would be a spent, useless commodity.   Now we live longer, thanks to better health care.  But it doesn’t help that modern times are not conducive to life long relationships.  The internet has turned us all into ADHD, twittering, porn loving rat people, clicking and scrolling the days and nights away.  It turns out there is a whole sub-culture, more common than you think, whose lives are based in cyber space and not actual human interaction.  I think this is stunting our emotional growth and I will discuss all this further in my upcoming book, The Art of Modern Living.  By upcoming, I mean I haven’t written it yet.  But I will.  Tweet.  Oh look, a YouTube video of a kitten stuck in a box!

Back to William and Kate plus Fate.  The subject of the monarch and royal anything normally gets the glaze over my eyes  but I have to admit I’m getting excited over this one.  The girlie girl in me wonders what she will wear, what her bridemaids will look like, et cetera but the jaded old cougar is in a tizzy about having a Royal Wedding party at 4 o’clock in the morning, complete with Mimosas and live twittering!  And maybe a banger or two!  Last night, I watched a Barbara Walters special, click here for bits,  about the story of William and Kate, and how they met and courted.  Let me tell you, the red flags went off!  For one thing, they broke up not once but twice.  Kate was known as Katey Waity basically because she was a “rules” girl.  She lured him in by wearing some see-through garbage bag in a fashion show but then played the good girl card, that whole Madonna-Whore thing.  They dated.  He got bored at some point and dumped her, they got back together, and he dumped her again.  An American tacky mall skank factored into the play.  For some reason, British people see Americans as representative of `what could be`if only they had better dentists.  She lured him back by dressing like a ho again and having the paparazzi get her picture in a sequined garbage bag looking insanely, maniacally happy. “She played the game and got her man,” said British commentator.  That`s the key thing:  Wearing dresses that barely cover your mash will always bring in the banger.  Red flag:  this will soon get tiresome.  Madonna, whore, madonna, whore, madonna, whore…get me a drink.

And then Barbara Walters showed some photos of Kate wearing those demure outfits with wacky hats, looking `strikingly similar` to Princess Diana, William`s mama.  Another red flag:  William is marrying his mother.   If I`ve said once, I`ve said it a million times:  When a man is actually eager to marry you, it`s only because you remind him of his madonna, not his whore.  So if Kate wants to continue to play this tedious `game of love,` she better hone her bulimia (check!  The  British press never lies: she`s lost a stone since the engagement announcement) and keep her seatbelt on at all times.  But I bet she she won`t.  The monarchy is just too oppressive and she will soon find out that it`s not her game anymore. She is just a pawn, a lady dressed in white in a revolving a door.  All they need is a good pre-nup, and after, a really good song to sing to:

 
Posted by . Categories: go girl, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , . 1 Comment

31

Mar. ’11

The Boy, The Butcher, The Burger, The Bomb

Last weekend was Freddy”s 15th Birthday.

Me:  What do you want?

Freddy:  Nothing.

Me:  New shoes?

Freddy: No I like my old ones.

Me: What about a bike? A jacket? A day at the spa? A party? A cake?

Freddy:  Nah, no, NO, no, I hate cake.

So pretty much nothing it was!   The evening before was that dreaded Earth Day where you have to turn off your lights for an hour.   Evangeline was at a party so he and I spent the night in the dark, secretly watching television with the volume on low so the neighbours couldn’t hear and judge.  We watched 127 Hours which was the most riveting movie I’ve seen in like, 127 years.  Maybe because the first hour was watched on the down low which made it more compelling.  Anyway, I forced Freddy to watch it even though he didn’t want to but he ended up liking it, so that was my gift to him.  Happy Birthday, Freddy!  Enjoy your right arm!

The next day was his birthday, which by the way, was exactly like the day he was born:  Cold, crisp and sunny with some snow on the ground.  I always remember that morning, looking out the window of St. Mike’s Hospital while I was in labour at the KFC billboard and thinking:  ” Lunch, please be out before lunch.”  And sure enough, as soon as I hunkered down on all fours, out he came like a rocket.  My little Freddy had a bullet shaped head and he didn’t even cry.  And right away, after I manoeuvred myself over the birth goo and umbilical cord, he clamped on to my tit and began his feast.  And the rest is history.  Freddy is off the boob (at least mine) currently a burger aficionado, hence all the burger blogging I have been doing:  The Burger’s Priest, The Burger Shoppe, The Great Burger Kitchen and now my own glorious creation:  The Giant Mother Burger Cake!

Ever since The Righteous Teenage Daughter made the declaration four months ago that she will only eat meat from happy farm animals, I have been hunting butcher shops all over the city.  I found my favourite, The Friendly Butcher, on the Danforth just east of Broadview.  I’ve said this before, butcher men are hotter than oyster shuckers or firemen so make sure your bra is on tight and you don’t have lipstick on your teeth because the testosterone in that shop could cause spontaneous pheromone eruptis, if you know what I mean.  And they are helpful.  So when I decided to make a Giant Mother Burger Cake for Freddy Birthday I went there and got two pounds of ground beef and some Tamshire bacon (and the range of bacon they have from Perth Pork, click here and check it out,  is pretty interesting).   So here is what I did:

Wove all the bacon (Tamshire)  from the package into a square and broiled it until the fire alarm  went off (true….but until it looked done)

Made a giant beef patty out of : 1.5 ground beef, 2 eggs, Italian bread crumbs, Worcestershire sauce, frozen placenta (haha, kidding, but occurred to me had I the wherewithal back then), then fried it over the stove, salting both sides with coarse sea salt.  Fried up burgers are the best, keep all the juices in, I learned that on The Food Network.  You know, that Bobby Flay could probably take someone’s chopped arm make a burger out of it.  Sigh.

Cut open a sourdough loaf of bread, put the burger on it, the bacon weave on top of the patty , and some grated sharp cheddar!  Finally, I dug some holes in the bread for candles and Happy Birthday to You, Freddy!  Bon Appetit!  It took 4 days to eat that burger!  XOXO

Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

24

Mar. ’11

Sh*t On A Wet Tar Roof

 

This post is segued by the sad passing of Elizabeth Taylor this morning.  She was a true Hollywood legend and humanitarian and although her heyday was when I was a tot, I do remember the first time she came into my awareness.  One day she appeared on the Mike Douglas Show which I used to love even as a child.  He was on in the morning and later, Merv Griffin would come on in the afternoon.   I thought Mike put on a wig and became Merv, then put on another wig and became Phil Donahue!  Ah, the stupidity of youth.  Anyway, Elizabeth Taylor was on the Mike Douglas Show and my mother told me who she was:  She was Cleopatra, don’t you remember seeing that in a drive in?  No (it turned out I was an infant rolling around the back of the station wagon).  She is married to Richard Burton and he gave her a giant Krupp diamond!  Who, what?  She has violet eyes!  She is wearing purple eye shadow!  Her eyes are blue!  Don’t mess with me, Mom, I have 64 Crayola crayons, I know what violet looks like!  As a youngster, I may have thought Mike, Merv, and Phil were the same man, but I was not buying into hype of Elizabeth Taylor.  It turned out, she was an acquired taste for me.  It wasn’t until I was a full-fledged adult did I start to appreciate all her shenanigans:  her tragic widowhood from Mike Todd, her husband stealing that weasel Eddie Fisher, marrying Richard Burton  twice!  That is hot.  Her movies with him were the best, especially Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.  They say there wasn’t much of a stretch between George and Martha’s boozy volatile relationship to the real life Dick and Liz.  That film, to me, was not just hot but the ultimate in romance.  I like things high strung.

Speaking of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (ok, whatevs, it’s another iconic Elizabeth Taylor movie), I have been moaning for the past couple of weeks about my leaky third floor roof.  Unfortunately, it is a flat roof with a wooden deck on it.  The deck must come down before a roofer can even assess the situation.  Who better for the job than my buddy Bob?  Which brings me back to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.  Bob and I, although strictly platonic, have that kind of George/Martha relationship…to a degree of course. Since 1999, we have had some major ups and downs.  We’ve done all kinds of things, had adventures and misadventures, taken road trips, drank beers galore, cottaged (that story remains sealed in a vault) and had a few fights and falling outs where we didn’t speak for as much as a year.  Currently he has a girlfriend, the kind that keeps him on a short leash and sneakily sews in a GPS system in the seam of his briefs (which ha! ha! is why he goes commando).  Anyway yesterday Bob came over to dismantle the third floor deck and I was his helper.  It was a pretty big job, and back-breaking especially for him because he was doing most of the work.  His girlfriend texted him a few thousand annoying times and at one point when I was sweeping the sludge debris into a pile, he barked at me and said I was doing it stupidly with one hand when I should be using two and he called me by her name!  Oh how I laughed, he thinks I am his girlfriend when I am doing something boneheaded.  I ended up picking the gross sludge up with my bare hands and dumping it into 5 big plastic garbage bags.  And then I remembered the raccoon that took over that deck one summer and slept in its own fecal matter all day, barricading the door so we couldn’t open it.  Probably all that sludge was actual shit!  Panic ensued, just like the time I visited a co-worker and went into his bathroom and accidentally touched his butt plug which was sitting right there on the counter, I ended up washing my hands countless times for days(weeks)  afterwards.  Raccoon shit is poison, but another person’s butt plug residue is just unspeakably disgusting.  Oddly, I found the idea of the raccoon shit far less disturbing so I finished up, washed my hands once, and got us a bottle of wine at the liquor store and we had a pleasant and civilized after-work drink and he went on his way.  Leaving a pile of wood in the backyard.  Not quite a heap of diamonds but that’s the kind of lady I am.  And to that I say, farewell sweet Liz, may you fool the angels with your violet eyes!

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11

Mar. ’11

You Can’t Hurry Lube

I usually ignore the door unless I am expecting a pizza.  It’s almost always some trickster trying to sell you a new furnace so he can get in your basement and check out how big your tv is.  But the other day, the doorbuzz made it’s obscene sound and Betty started barking like an actual working dog (her day job is bed warmer) and I couldn’t ignore it.  Ironically, it was The Dog Catcher.  It turns out they randomly check and see if people have licensed their pets.  This is just me fear mongering, it’s not really true but the back story is too long to tell and ends with bad neighbour relations.  Anyway, the man at the door was there to remind me that I owe the city of Toronto $25 for a dog license.  After he informed of this, here is how the conversation went:

Dog Catcher:  I like your skulls! (pointing to the two skulls on my front porch chaise lounger)

Me:  Oh, they are still there from Halloween…

Dog Catcher:  Well I really like them.  A lot.

(awkward silence as he pulls out his registration form)

Dog Catcher:  What’s your first name?

Me:  Kristin, with a K

Dog Catcher:  Kristin!  I love that name!  Kristin!  I’ve always loved that name, Kristin, Kristin, Kristin!

Me:  Stop saying it!  It sounds so….crispy!

And it went on like that until he got all my information.  You should have heard him stall when he got to putting down my postal code.  He pretended to be the Amazing Kreskin and tried to guess every number and letter.  I gave him twenty-five dollars in cash and he apologized profusely, “I’m so sorry to take your beer money.”  And I shut the door.  A couple of days later, it dawned on me:  Was he flirting?  Am I so out of the game that I don’t recognize the signs?  And then I thought, am I going to die alone, a single skull on my front porch? 

5 years ago, I tried on-line dating.  I went on that one site that colour codes what you are looking for:  relationship, dating, or intimate encounters which was orange.  I went straight for the chase (orange)  because knowing what I know about menfolk, they like to cast a wide net so they have their profiles on all three playgrounds.  I think my first handle (you have to pick a name) was “Girl Afraid” and much to my delight “Mr. Shankly” gave me a poke or a wink.  It turned out he was gay and just liked my Smiths reference so I changed my handle to “Drive, She Said” and got the straight men’s attention.  I went out on 3 different dates and they were all quite nice and funny but that summer I turned into one of those ‘rules” girls and decided to lock up the vagina until I was good and ready.

Yes, that was years ago and I’m still a single lady.  All the men “have moved on” which is what they do.  Once in a while I get a fleeting crush that amounts to nothing because he has a personality disorder(you know who you are) or lives in my tv (Dr. Drew).  And is it wrong to actually like being alone?  The other day, on Twitter, #change love to lube songs was “trending”  I like how grown people participate in these things.  My twitter crush, whose handle is “arseburgers” went crazy on it.  ” Silly Lube Songs” “Lube Hurts” et cetera.  And I thought, you know:  love is like lube, it’s good at first but then it gets sticky and messy and you just can’t wait to wash it off. 

Oh, and Dog Catcher:  If you’re reading this, call me!

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