Category Archives: Uncategorized

Mastering the Art of Pandemic Sourdoze

You know it’s been Covid Times long enough when you actually dream about your kindergarten teacher and she’s carrying a broomstick she’s about to beat you with it as per usual from decades of the same nightmare plots but now she’s not wearing a mask and you wake up with a jolt at 3 am and toss for the next 4 hours waiting for for the sour dough starter to bubble.

You are a negligent jack ass and thee foray into sour dough was a mishap base on your inability to read directions. In 2019 you would have said you would have used the word “disaster” to describe all the sticky white flour glue globs embedded in your kitchen crevices and the rock hard ball of gluten you baked. But it’s 2020 and mistakes are now just charming diversions. Lolz, as it were.

You cried the day it was really here in March of 2020. Although you knew it was coming from weeks of international news but the people stuck in quarantine on the cruise ships just seemed like fools on a modern reality show version of The Love Boat. It’s terrible to have the Schadenfraude gene but it will come in super satisfying in November of 2020. Grease your palms.

You called your family and friends that day they declared LOCKDOWN. Said hey in case they were dying and wished to tell them you loved them. You watched Tiger King but it didn’t sink in. Carole Baskin seems like a very nice lady though. You lay on the couch and the bed and back again. You threw up a once, standing up. You wondered if you’d get more fat or slightly thin? Spoiler Alert: Fat wins for 90 percent of the population. Let’s agree to laugh about this now because one day some Animal Crossing playing millennial will figure out how to turn all those carbon dioxide farts into fuel that propel us all to Mars to escape the mess.

You finally watched Godfather 1 and 2. Not 3 because you are not a completionist. But! You rewatched all 6 seasons of Sex and the City and the two movies for the upteenth time and finally after all these years, figured out Aiden really is The One. K period F period C period. Are you kidding me? Get in my bed, you fried chicken eating handy man.

You found a new path in the city to walk through, one where there were no locks on gates and the dogs could run free. There was beauty in the world and life is good. It really is lovely and quiet.

You woke up one day and it was April. The leaves were budding. The birds were chirping, they don’t fucking know it’s Covid Times. Suddenly, as if lightening struck, the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into a fog.

You got your haircut finally.

You grew it out again.

You lost your mojo but can’t pinpoint when.

You binge watched The Queen’s Gambit in November and masturbated.

You came when Biden won.

You also started a YouTube channel because the sour dough didn’t work out:

Mastering the Art of Surviving in Mercury in Retrograde

Mercury in Retrograde is definitely a thing. All this universal anxiety, we all feel it.  I don’t know what it is but I have the faith that when all things go awry, it’s probably in threes because! That’s what everyone in the astrology world says that about “bad things.” It must be true because it’s on the Internet. This is our Godly place now. Facebook is our Church. Memes are our preachings. Your friends on social media post black and white photos of Marilyn Monroe or Einstein with mumbo jumbo: “Show up late, keep them guessing, don’t do the same things over again,expecting things to happen or you’re the definition of insanity.”

I am a prompt, nut job, call me, seeking the same.

I have had two bad things happen the last year, waiting for the third, hoping it happens later rather than sooner, otherwise I will melt.

Good things happen everyday but we don’t really notice them. The sun comes up every morning much to our despair when we we hoping for a snow day, a certain impeachment, or best case scenario, a zombie-nerd-ass apocalypse where we can all just give it all up and forage the way we are meant to be truly human superstars. Our days are usually quite routine and boring that we can’t fucking wait for a diversion. And yet! The underwire from your best bra sprung free and has stabbed your armpit while you are driving on a narrow one way street in back of a recycling truck taking its sweet time and you have to pee and you squeezing yourself shut and hating life but yet fail to realize you are alive and life is actually good. The despair is actual gratitude! And it’s just pee. Slip some out. Your underpants are thick, they are the thick cotton man-brief kind from Aerie. Your outerpants can also take the moist heat, they are water wicking Adidas joggers.  Dude who is hauling the garbage into the truck is actually handsome and he has shoulders and is capable to throw 90 pounds of shite out of your way, driveway by driveway. Mercury might be in “Retrograde” (whatevs that is, Jesus Christ is laughing on his cross) but Venus is in Hunger Games, and I think you know what that means.

And why are you not in love with him? You could be. He is there.

I am looking at you, sweet sir.

Look back…..jerk.

These fucking diligent pricks never do. They just do their jobs. I’ve been invisible all this time. Yet! My winged eye-liner is so on point.

Tomorrow is another day however, and Saturn might be in Uranus, in which case, we’ll need lube. Ba-da-ba-tzzz. And that’s all I have to say about Mercury.








Mastering the Art of the Irish Exit

Christ on a stick, muthahfuckahs, I’m trying to get back on-line and write on this blog thing but I’m hindered with technology. Please send thoughts and prayers my way so I can prolly upgrade this greasy sneeze and fecal matter speckled lap pad at some point so I can watch my shows. My lil portal into the interwebs will soon be outdated, I’ve been warned by the godz, not able to get Netflix on my crickety old Model T Ford of a browser AS OF MAY 15, hey hey bitches that’s 4 days after by birthday, let’s get a fundo mcstarter thing happening… just jokes, my hoes, I’m slightly concerned  but whatever! I’ll figure it out, fucking Apple, what scam. It’s a sign. Of what I don’t know. (I do know, I have a fantasies of living a simple life in a tiny house, but ironically I need the internet  with a kickass computer to validate #tinyhouse #lifestyle #FML) HASHTAGGAH!  (that’s how we pray these days, crossing our fingers and eyes at the same time)

Anyway, just saying hi after a long reprieve from here. My place of joy. Where typos can’t be Marie Kondo-ized. What an awesome cunt, right? Cheers, ho! What does not bring you joy, just toss! I do love that bitch’s philosophy bt-dubs but I do need things hanging around my house like that portable Dyson that gives me anxiety but picks up  dog floof by the door jams and I have to end up picking it out of the canister with my bare hands cuz it’s an actual piece of shit that I spent too much money on. HOWEVER, it does the job. Dyson and Apple are way over-rated. But I need both these dicks.

Breath, because I don’t think I can give up Apple.

Aaagh. My dad died in November. It was his time but he slipped away one day like an IRISH EXIT. It was so him. No one was in the hospital room with him that particular Tuesday afternoon even though they might have been but! I love that so much. He took his own time.

He’s not Irish but Icelandic so close enough by boat (ginger beards, wily white men types that like to drink and and climb trees). By the way, I adopt the credo of the Irish Exit as an Urban Lady who goes to those type of pyramid parties where another Urban Lady is trying to sell shit like candles and housewares, just go in, say hey, oh, Heather, I love your addition, amazing gas fireplace, eat bitch’s cheese platter and drink what you can of her boxed wine that she put in the decanter that she’s trying to sell you, great for Christmas gifts, and high tail out of there.

As for your death bed though, you prolly don’t have a choice. Doctor on duty gave some comfort to my mom and said some people to choose to go on purpose when no one is around. I believe that in my heart that is what he did and there is beauty to simply slink out of the room. Or the earth. Wispy, woosh, gone is your soul, whatever is that energy. No one is hanging on to your hand and weeping. Instead they find you there, just that gentle napping body, prolly snoring, and doing that wake up thing when you hear the snort but instead of coming conscious, you slip away. It’s pretty perfect. I think.

My dad. I loved him so much. And I am left with the grief which is cool.I can really relish in the memories I have about him. I’m good with that. He was 95 so godspeed. Aaaand so I ask….what is godspeed anyway?????

But! I as an earthly human am left with much freakoutedness. What is death? I know I am super old to be thinking these things and it with an immature mind that I ask the question, but where do we go? I had a routine doctor’s appointment for a follow-up something ominous which I will overshare at some other point and I asked her, mid-clamp, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE DIE? She was also rattled and had a terrible time finding my cervix which seemed to have her head in the sand as well.

NO ONE KNOWS, that’s what she said.

I’m posting this in the ether because I want more comfort and maybe clarity of what spirituality for someone like me who doesn’t follow a religion per se, even though I opened up this post with “Christ on a stick, muthahfuckas” which I think Modern Jesus would be all cool with using his name for the sake of a hashtag, I listened to a podcast about it, so there’s that. If there was a second coming of Jesus he would be on Instagram right now.

Ugh, it’s trippy. Living is very boring over a certain age (I’m getting there) and death is scary (I’m not at peace yet).

Let’s fuck things up. I want to do mushrooms. Hit me up.



Mastering the Art of Loneliness

I’m pretty sure we’ve covered this topic already but let’s have another go at it because who doesn’t love to beat up on oneself for sport? Lately, I haven’t been great at blog writing becuzzzz, ma bitches, I’ve been doing my dog business and feeling pretty good about things, turns out being happy is not a motivator to spilling out guts on the internet. But of course you need ebb and flow, thank Dog for nature, so you can’t be happy all of the time, all day, every waking moment, even though today I’m pretty fucking content laying around catching up on Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown on Netflix. Which, by the way, is the most amazing show and I love him so much and I’m watching it in the now and still with disbelief that he’s dead.

His life is my dream life and he’s so cool and seemingly self-contained so I wonder why would he kill himself? Maybe it’s not so much why as in who is your inner demon and how can you make friends with it? I don’t have the answer because I have my own devil hoe, that harrowing sense of loneliness, I don’t find it funny enough to personify it and give it a cute name, but I wrestle with it every day. Not all day, because I like to shit in private and I value my me-time to putter on the internet or in the drugstore like everybody else but it’s a shadow in the day and a howling wolf at night, full moon style. Trust, it’s not glamorous like the tshirt, it’s like being tied to a pole in front of Noah’s Ark and the flood is starting, and you’re like a poised Tundra wolverine with your posture all pro, eyebrows on point, and nice smile you force on and yet there are a blur of basic snaggle-toothed hunched backed coyotes with tufts on their shoulder blades filing in the proverbial Yacht of Life two-by-two because they filled out the right paperwork. That’s my best metaphor. What the fuck did I miss?

Basic human need is to couple up, I don’t know how deep it goes in our psyche but I read clickbait articles and have been around the block, and moseyed down the main street to the tracks, crossed the tracks, jumped over creek, found a dead body, came back, lathered, rinsed and now I’m spinning in circles. I am an emotional soldier with no medals. I’m not sure what I’ve learned or where my boundaries are or where I’m heading or even what I want. What I do know is that while being in a relationship is nice for appearance sake, and keeps everything normal, it doesn’t necessarily keep loneliness away. Being lonely in a couplehood is probably worse because then you’re doubly fucked up, being lonely in a crowd type thing, that displaced feeling that haunts you no matter what situation.

It’s assumed that being single is bad. Especially as a lady over say, 40, and over 50, pack it up and just enjoy your food because game over. Unless you have been widowed or something, then that is an elevated grade of tragic loneliness. But! Caveat! If you are a widower (man-widow, English language has weird semantics), no worries, within three months you’ll be hooked up with a barrage of Single Ladies from Beyonce’s closet, I don’t know who, what, or where, but they are all hot, kind of id you squint, and the world is now your oyster. Slurp away at that candida buffet, bruh, enjoy your second wind.

I don’t know what my lonely shadow bullshit is about because coupledom has never been a comfortable situation for me anyway. It’s not that I haven’t been with the right people, it’s the situation that I’ve chosen has been wrong, and timing is everything. But! When you’re old as fuck, time is not on your side so it’s best to get your demon, call him a he, give him a kind face, broad shoulders, a beard with silvers, imagine a hairy chest, a treasure trail, a nice peen if you’re going down that far, then look him in the mirror, call him Frank or whatever, and buy him a plaid flannel shirt and wear it yourself. Cuz being lonely is poetic.


That was the end of that post but here’s a bonus story that I didn’t know how to fit in that actually happened to my friend that write in a play style, changing the names, location. Here goes:

Sharon, a well-dressed self-possessed woman in her 50s, walks into her favourite neighbourhood gastro-pub where she can sit down at the end of a work day and order a gin martini and a plate of pickled herring, sweet onions, or whatever Anthony Bourdain ate in Norway. Normally the bar is her space to zone out and scroll through her reader on her phone, she’s a smart as fuck woman and interested in politics and social justice but! she is also funny and engaging. If you were ever lucky enough to be her friend, she makes a mean Caesar and will let you hang in her backyard for a whole afternoon even though she prolly has other things to do.

But! This day, the bar is full of fucks and Sharon has to wedge herself not in her normal spot but in an awkward spot beside some group of people, and another dude, who is apparently single so she is kind of forced to strike up a conversation. Said dude is in his 70s, SEVENTIES, like motherfucker would have had to have been born in the 1940s, he wretched but in a virile way, we’ll give him a hall pass for now. Ma girl, reminder, is rocking her 50s.

Sharon (super friendly): Oh, hello, blah blah blah

Wretched dude (friendly): Blah blah blah, I have a cottage in Muskoka, I’m turning it into an AirBnB

Sharon( still friendly: Oh! Nice blah

Wretched (in his own world now): Blah my ex decorated it blah my other ex blahed in it

Sharon (still engaging because polite): Blahed?

Wretched (anus prolapses and completely exposed): Blah this n that, me so rich etc, what about you?

Sharon: (trying to shut this down) Oh! Yeah have two daughters, blah, do you have a card because I might be interested in renting your place?

Wretched (with the line I’ll leave you with because it’s amazing and never be afraid to be lonely ever again:


I want to end it with Sharon’s vagine growing a long neck and gulping up his french fries but there really is no satisfying ending to this, except for in real life she told him to shut the fuck up and turned her back on him and I guess that’s all you can do.

So. Dicks abound. Hold yourself close and remember, we are ALL lonely, don’t worry about it so much, forge through, change something, anything, pet a dog or fry an egg, then go watch tv. I’m still here.Call me.















Mastering the Art of Stumbling Into The Next Situation With Dignity

I hate when I don’t write for a long time then I have a back log of things to say and I can’t form a single thought and then I continue not to write then I have nothing to say at all. I think a lot but the fingers don’t move with my brain jive. They do actually move but only to pick things out of my teeth while clicking on the remote control. You know what I mean? Also my trusty little lap top might have gotten a virus or an Apple pandemic because it’s slow right now, I perhaps watched too much low brow porn and click bait in the form of Tasty recipes,  and now it can’t load the Netflix properly so now I’m on my daughter’s laptop and I don’t really have the feel of the lay of the land right yet and my fingers need to stretch out farther which feels uncomfortable and yet necessary. That’s actually a lesson I learned recently, stretch your fingers out farther and you’ll be surprised at what itch you’ll scratch, if you know what I mean. Or not, I don’t know what I mean either, I’m just nervously typing right now. (Psst, I actually do know what I mean but we can talk about it on my Tumblr blog from the secret menu).

On a side note, I’ve been listening to a lot of Elton John these days, in my car with the windows down, thinking about his stubby-ass genius fingers on a piano. Levon and Tiny Dancer, bro. Why did I forget about him?  Ruhhhh-spect. And Mad Man Across the Water, hands down, his best song ever: “Ya better get ya coat, dear, it looks like RAAAAAAAIIIIIIN, I’LL COME AGAIN NEXT THURSDAY AFTERNOOOOOON….” Dem lyrics tho, Bernie. I can totally sing along to that 70s pitch, definitely my era. I myself have like old wrinkly fingers now, tap doodling on a keyboard, which I respect, my own witchy ancient integrity and chipped nail polish, I’m super cool with that, you can pull the skin up on my knuckles and watch it deflate back to normal for the amount of time for an 8-track tape ca-chunk over to the rest of I, Robot Track 3 or whatever. Only 70s kids would get that sentence and the rest of you can call me later. I can teach you things.

Anyhoo, yes, what I need to say is forming. Being inert is a bitch. Being inert when you know what you need to be doing is a disgrace. That is the trajectory of my life until now. I’m old as fuck and only getting older with the rest of y’all and I realize I should have been taking on the bull by the horns prolly a long time ago but no! That “people pleaser” mentality is too ingrained and I’m not sure how I got it but it needs to stop. I honestly don’t remember my own parents specifically instructing me to suck all the dick standing in my way so I’m assuming it’s from one of society’s longstanding mores which should be revised in today’s climate. My feeling is that the only dick that needs to be sucked is the one you want to suck. If you can suck your own dick, you are golden. That goes proverbially, obvi, you know what I mean, be your own boss. If you can suck your own dick, literally, and I saw that on the internet, some boney-assed dude just curling up like a cooked shrimp, turning into the snake that eats itself, which! is what prolly broke my computer, then that mo-fo needs a proper job. Or not. That’s the thing about finding your truth. You never know where that path will lead. We’ll talk about that at another time.

Ahoy, back to point, I quit my job a couple of months ago,  but not because I didn’t like it, I loved it, but circumstances changed. I wasn’t doing the quality of the job I wanted to do with the new situation and it seemed there was no other way out than to bail. In doing so, I had to take a leap of faith that things would work out but I also had to know that things would get fucked up quite a bit. Bombshell, bitches, here’s the thing, don’t take on a business for yourself that you can’t manage properly, listen to feedback, and that’s all I will say about that situation.

I know some of you come her for the dating stories but I haven’t really had the heart for anything except! The universe has thrown me some recycled bone from my Tinder days. Which is nice cuz I don’t have to fish for it, just shave my armpits and vacuum the hallway to the bedroom a bit. That kind of low maintenance is all I ask for. But! I am slightly lonely these days though, I won’t lie. I don’t what the calling is cuz I’m self-proclaimed dyed-in-the wool single lady. However! I had a really cool regular-normal-by-the rules-no-boning date last week  with a dude that I was messaging with from the old OkC dating website but! The caveat is that he lives in a whole other city that is a plane ride away because of course, 8 billion people in the world. It’s weird how hard it is to find one. Maybe soon though, I’ll keep the windows open.















Mastering the Art of Cleaning Your Closet and Buying More Shit

Aren’t I just the worst? But this was hanging around my desktop and where else to put it. Adult Jesus, not the sweet baby one, so it’s cool and consensual. So yeah, hey y’all,  merry hoes and jolly log rolling, seasonal greetings, and whatnot, whatever jizzes on your tits or lights your candlestick! Kisses!

I’m a social awkward at this time of year and even getting back to the blog thing is weird as fuck. I’m a hermit by nature, would love my own planet but with access to Sephora and Foodora and maybe once in a blue moon, Dickora (can someone make that an app?). But! Was very cute and encouraging when I went to my gym Xmas party and was asked where I was and why no write and most importantly HOW GOOD MY HAIR LOOKED. More on that later, or not, depending on the tangent I go on.

So I’ve been super happy job-wise but no time to do stuff really, like get my hair did, or get other stuff taken care of like doctor’s appointments. ugh, it’s such a fucking chore and a half. There’s no way I can fit stuff like that in my day and I’m not hypochondriac enough to give a shit. I have the weirdest lump that I can feel growing out of my sternum (Question mark? not even sure, but that body part when you put your hands down between the tits under the bra line)  that could be either a bone configuration gone awry or I’m pregnant with an alien chile which would explain some of my dreams lately. But most probably the thing is. I’m not inclined to get it checked out. It’s a slippery slope to a bunch of other things to get worried about.

I’m not worried about my own death, but am freaked out by others, My dad is in the hospital now and my lovely sister is taking care of him daily and in doing so, she is glowing, she is luminous, a true caregiver with her calling. I am so thankful for her and I am paralyzed by what is going on with my dad. He’s slipping away daily with Alzheimer’s which is a fucked up disease and please, let’s make a cure, because his body is still super fit. For a 94 year old. I’m sure I’ll be dead in my 70s because I’m giving birth to ET and his cousins from Mars.  Ugh, but my sweet dad, aka Papa-don’t-preach-I’m-love-with-him, as I used to sing to him in the 80’s when we had to roll up the garage door to  drive together for my summer job at his company. The only reason to love Madonna really. We’d laugh. He got me and my humour. But now. I don’t hate to visit him because he is in a nice place but it makes me feel me fear and dread. And I’m pretty much sure I have the gene. I’ll break open the pearl on that necklace with with hidden cyanide if I can remember where I put it. Muddled thoughts. It begins there.

But anyhoo! Lighter notes. I am loving my job. I adore my puppers and each and every day cannot wait to see them. Is it weird that I actually love them as much as my own dogs?  I didn’t think that would be possible but it is. There is not a dog that I take care of that I wouldn’t want to hang with for a weekend. Most of them I would have for over for a week or two. And three of them I would keep forever, in case of emergency, and they know who they are. *Ear Kisses*:  Shmiles, Costco, Leonardo. Ugh, and you too Derby, Blanka,  Hubba, and Mephisto…I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH IT HURTS.

The only shite part of my job is intense driving, which is a bummer with my stupid stick shift situation. HOWEVER! I feel like my first generation ScionXB is in great shape. It works like a hot old school bitch, I feel like it’s the Jane Fonda of cars which is a compliment to Jane Fonda. Who is 80 by the way. And who am I kidding is way better than my car. So forget that comparison. My car is more like a first generation Pokemon. It’s antiquated,  like from 2006, but shows no problems. One day things might fuck up but for now, all is good. I’m wary of new cars and all the bells and whistles of “keyless” like what the fuck is that? More potential problems. Everyone I know with new car is always going back to the dealership with issues, like electronic gall stones. My car doesn’t get such things because it’s basically a golf cart. As long as Jane Fonda is breathing, my car is alright and I don’t need a new one. Praise Auto Jesus.

Do you ever hope for more things? I haven’t in awhile. Up until recently. I have been living frugally, not buying anything new for 3-4 years. There’s something to be said about that kind of righteousness but after awhile it feels oppressive, when you can’t afford stuff. And stuff can bring great joy. Like a handheld Dyson vacuum cleaner.

Jesus Motherfucking Christ, what a game changer. I have a vacuum, a Miele snort machine, a small elephant I have to drag out from that gross sun room off the kitchen I hate so much because it contains a filing system with all the horrors of daily living. Also! Inevitably some dog laid a fecal egg there so clean that up, haul the machine out, wrestle with its nozzle, wrangle out the chord from its intestines, find a plug (over the stove, where the toaster is) plug its ass in, vacuum around, move a little bit to far and the slat and pepper shakers will fall off into the dog dishes. Vacuuming is a chore and disaster until NOW.

I’ve been shopping on-line a lot lately. I hate stores, except for Loblaws and Costco. I didn’t used to be like this, but the on-line experience is amazing. Order up some shit, forget about it, then come home to a present, it’s amazing. I have no fucking time anymore to spend in stores as much as I love a tactile experience. Also I have no fucking time to go to the vacuum thing at the gas station to get the doggy hairs out of my car. I NEED MY OWN DEVICE.

Last Sunday I cleaned out my closet. What a shite show AND! dust bunny colony. I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore. I used to wear all the skirts and high heels but now my feet are like oak tree roots (at least I don’t have bunions? Again, thanks the Jesuses, especially the foot fetish one) so I have to wear a size bigger now. Fuck yes. Your feet grow and your heart shrinks as you age. Hardly any of my shoes fit anymore. Toss. Also skirts. The fuck. Who was I? That’s a whole other blog post and maybe even a novel.  She’s dead to me now and I’d feel bad but I’ve hardened my heart.  I’m a pant wearing lady now. Also dumped anything woolen. Christ on a stick, I’d rather be hung on a cross than itch all day. I threw out out 8 bags of my old identity. Buh-byeeeee.

But what a mess!!! And dust balls!  Sneeze-aroo, achoozapoolaz! But also, I couldn’t do it proper because I had a hair appointment on a Sunday, weird I know, but it was a cut-a-thon for mental health downtown. I could have done more, like gone through my drawers and purged a bunch of fucking pyjamas, and workout wear (oy, what’s wrong with me) I’m pretty sure, but got my hair did. Haven’t had a cut in months. I hate getting my hair cut, not because I’m attached to my hair but I hate sitting in a spot for that long. The fanfare makes me crazy. Do. Not. Blow. Dry. I am not a newscaster. However! This place I went was awesome and the dude who cut my hair was my kind of peeps, totally got my vibe and I loooove my hair. Sometimes I wonder why I resist things? Should I go back on Tinder? Instead I went on Amazon.

So I got the hand held Dyson something-6. I’m not here to sell you on something but I’m telling you not to die in a frugal fire. Buy some shit once in awhile that makes you happy. Also I got a pair of my dream Doc Marten Silver Kiltie Leather Loafers and a back scrubber.  Let Jesus come on your tits. Merry Christmas, bitches.



Hey Yes, Hello Again, Mastering the Art of Waking Up from a Coma

Long time, no write on this internet highway. I miss you folks. I have lots to say! But I’m stunted with writer’s block or laziness or lack of nutrients or something. Please, let me warm up: Blah blah ahem coff coff coff. Red leather, yellow leather. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.  Qwerty you a pointy long ass dick. *wiggles fingers* let’s go:

So I’ve been pretty busy with my job which is like my 10 year-old self’s dream of heaven, taking care of dogs all day. It’s also my 54 year-old’s self’s salvation, who would have known? It’s a pretty sweet way of spending the days and after 6 months, I’m still in the honeymoon phase. I CANNOT GET OVER THE FACT I GET PAID TO DO THIS. In the morning, I pile a pack of dogs in my car and drive them to a park, play, later rinse repeat in the afternoon. Every time I stick my head in my doggofied-seats down hatchback to load up a woofer, another ploofo-bear will ram my head with his/her tongue into my ear or whatever. I will lean in and my heart will just explode with joy as tails wag and flog my face. Plus I love the doggy smell. Corn chips and low note farts. Whatever, the nose is an olfactory mystery of wants and desires.

Speaking of which.

I am in a constant state of needing to shower, pretending I showered, not showered, just air-dried on top of my bed at the end of the day. Under boob sweat smells like expensive French cheese from unpasteurized milk FYI. I’m like totally savage these days. I have never felt hotter. And yet I’ve been a lazy hunter.

My excessive dating has died down exponentially from last year since who needs such things when you can let a Weimaraner head butt you in the ovaries. Or a muzzled mutt try to pry his metal trap open between your legs and hammer-head your upper thighs til they’re a flank steak ready to fry straight up on a George Foreman grill, ho. Bitch, I am bruised and scratched and all of that tactile energy seems to feel that need. Or did I ever really have a need? Not knowing, it’s currently a learning curve. All I have to say is I have never felt so alive.

But! In my two month comma from this bloggo, some shit went down which has been a processing exercise. I’m super bad at reacting to things straight away, a thing I learned about myself, I have to marinate and stare at walls or tv screens. Been watching “The Bachelorette” for the first time since that desperate doe-faced Trista married that Frankenstein cro-magnon looking firefighter Ryan back in the early aughts, oh my god, I remember watching that in a bar waaaaay back when my kids were little and I was sneaking out just to save my sanity. I don’t want to google how they’re doing because it’s not like I don’t care, it’s like I care too much.  I sincerely hope they are happy-ish. Ish because most people don’t even get that. I feel sad for the couples of the modern world because they bought into society’s ideals which I revere and mock at the same time. It’s a real dichotomy of emotions I feel on any given moment. Sometimes I pretend my pillow is hairy bearded Jesus looking man with a long nose and nimble fingers who can make me achieve a mighty orgasm, sweet motherfucking Christ, and help me fix things around the house. Other times my pillow is just a pillow, prop, prop, fluff, fluff, let me watch Seinfeld on Peachtree, and I need to wash the case in the morning because I’m getting chin zits.

Anyway, my pops has gone to live in Sunnybrook Veteran’s Hospital to live out the rest of his life. It’s sad, yes, but it’s not really. In his case it’s actually idyllic and well planned. He has Alzheimer’s, a terrible disease for anyone to have and for everyone around him. Going through the stages is a roller coaster at first. There’s the grumpy, angry period, where they know it’s happening, and by the way, the best time to make sure they stop driving. I get this, sometimes I forget how to shift and let my wispy mind wander into an existential overdrive that I feel like I’m going to start to fly out of traffic like an aeroplane, spelled the British way, wheee! I’m pretty sure if they don’t have cure in the next 10-20 years, my brain will petrify into a rock hard blob of no return. Crosswords don’t help really.

So, going to see my poppadom has been a mixed bag of stuff. First and foremost, my second oldest sister has taken over this whole thing and has gone every single day. She is the MVP of the family these days and she has seen her calling in taking care of our dad. She is actually glowing and they are good together, being a caregiver is her calling. My dad doesn’t know our names but he recognizes us as familiar people. In his current state, he’s like a toddler. His once brilliant mind, that had designed airplane engines in his heyday, is now enthralled by a fidget spinner. BUT HE SAYS THE CUTEST THINGS. I love you, to my mom who he has known for over 60 years, but what’s your name again? I would just swoon if someone said that me. I wouldn’t even be insulted because the fact that they still love you but kind of forget you is tantamount everything that romance stands for.



So that.

Got Shingles in the spring. Was shocked when I went to the clinic and that’s what dude-somewhat-handsome-and debonair-probably-gay doctor said it was. Thought I had poison ivy because it was on my butt and I pee outside nowadays. “Let me see your bum-bum,’ he said, that’s gay, right? It’s not a big deal but it’s painful as fuck but I don’t think it’s worth spending money to get the vaccine. Life is full of shit in general so a bout of shingles is just a slap in the face that any adult should be able to deal with. Still have the rash tho :(. On my butt crack.


Then a very tragic death happened. Won’t discuss that here but just to say life is precious and let’s watch out for each other.


Dating: I know that’s why you read this. I have been involuntarily monogamous with my foot fetish friend! Dude from the previous post post, in goddam April, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve blarffed up a blog. I totally love his personality, he’s the chillest, most easy-going human being I have ever met. You know when people self-describe themselves as “easy-going?” They are not really. They get fucking mad at things and you never know when, it’s like walking on a land mine. I have examples but I’m too ashamed to report them. “I”M EASY GOING BUT YOU ARE A RACIST FOR SAYING MY EX-GIRLFRIEND HAS NEWSCASTER HAIR!” Okay that was just one example from the past. This dude gets mad at nothing, ever. Also, he’s is totally cool with my Shingles butt rash. He’s so quirky though, it’s like peeling an onion of kink layers. I thought the foot fetish out was something but turns out, there’s more! When someone tells you who they are, believe them, is that a Maya Angelou quote? Don”t just fucking believe them, but times it by 100, cuz that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have a foot fetish! But I also like a lot of other things! Gather your big ol’ Home Depot 10 gallon bucket because I’m going to fill it with a list you didn’t even know you had! How lucky am I? More to follow I guess.

And yeah, I’ll just leave this here for now and thank ye for reading this far…. Summer time, let’s enjoy:



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Mastering the Art of Not Getting Sunday Anxiety Syndrome Because Your Job Sucks Balls


Yes! I’ve miss you too, my internet kittens, but I’ve been getting my act together and whatnot. I’ve been soooooo super busy being blissful, I’ve forgotten how to blog. It’s not that I don’t need you, it’s just that my day is fulfilling enough for the occasional Instagram #doggo post. Just let me take off my pants and settle in my sweats….oh wait! I don’t have to! I am already in my fucking sweat pants and have been for two whole months! Every. Single. Day. Don’t hate me because I’m so comfortable.

Okay so last we left off, I was on a job hunt where I had a weird group interview for a small “startup” company where we had to describe our spirit animal and try and sell a glass of water to the hipster CEO. Scroll back one or click here because it was strange and maybe this is how the world works now so heads up.

Last year I had a couple of short term administrative office type jobs that I didn’t tell you about because it’s best to keep these things on the down low BUT! I will say that what I got out of both experiences was that working for small businesses that are run by completely insane people sucks balls. I would get Sunday night anxiety on Saturday morning, working was that bad.

One job, the boss was a woman from South Africa who would yell orders from her cell phone in the car. I’m not really used to talking on the phone with anyone since texting became a thing. I talk to my mom but I’ve known the cadence of her voice for over 50 years. I know her sighs and mumbles and can piece together the conversation (prolly about the weather) without have to say wut? all the time. This boss lady would scream into the speaker phone with her A/C and radio on and tell me to do something in her South Eeh-freekn accent and I’d be like, excuse me, what? Sorry, I can’t hear you, the phone is breaking up. And she’d screech even fucking louder and more shrill so I’d understand even less. My dentist has a South African accent and I love him so much, I would open my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow for him just to hear him tell me not to brush more softly so my gums don’t recede. He croons, she squawks, that’s the difference.

She also had one of those narcissistic personalities that I can’t resist fucking with, so I’d pile on the compliments, “Oh, I love your dress!” “Oh, I thought you were way younger!” It’s kind of like putting too much air in the balloon to watch it explode. I think this type of trolling is what the Trump administration is all about, they’re all just waiting for an orange A-bomb to erupt. For shits and giggles. Trolololol.

Anyway, I dreaded this woman but thankfully, it was a short-lived gig but the next job was longer and although less scary, the boss was clearly losing his marbles. I did his excel spreadsheets for his accountant. It wasn’t good (*whispers* I would have run away to an island somewhere if I were him and oh well about his wife and kids, they’ll survive). But! Zero fucks to the wind, he spent most of his time on the internet shopping for cows for his hobby farm. That was his porn. He was British. I feel like that explains it all. British men are all about fetishes and weird avocations. Also he mumbled. He always thought I wasn’t listening but it just took me about a four second delay to scramble his blathering into a coherent sentence. I totally would have dated him if he wasn’t married. I’m pretty sure he had a kinky side that wasn’t being fulfilled, hence the bovine obsession. By the time I finished that job I bought 8 boxes of Girl Guide chocolate mint cookies from his daughter. So it was worth it for that.

Anyway, so recap of last year: I was unlucky in jobs but lucky in bone, whatevs, but this year has been a switcheroo. Now some of you read this because you actually like my dating stories and that’s cool, I hope to have some more soon BUT! It’s been winter and it’s CUFFING SEASON y’all and I missed that boat, so once the warmer weather comes around so will my mojo, I’m sure. So hang tight. I have sweet repeat leftover from my Tinder days who, as it turns out, has a foot fetish! And he’s not an old British man! That’s something to look forward to, right? A “pedicure?” There has to be an urban dictionary explanation for that. I’m not sure what that entails or entoes lol, I’ll have to google, I’m pretty sure it’s easier than most of the other things on the menu these days. Hopefully because I’m having some dental work done later this month and I want to keep things pristine above the neckline. I’m that kind of girl.

So yeah, a couple of months ago I applied for a job with a dog walking company. It’s  2017, this is now a legit business that people thrive from because fur babies are people too. I don’t have the wherewithal to put up flyers and think of a cute pun name like Your Woof Is My Command Pet Service (that’s up for grabs now, you’re welcome). When it comes to work, I just need to show up, have someone tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m efficient, prompt, and customer service orientated. I don’t take a lunch and I poop at home. The latter business was an issue with the last boss who actually moniturd (lol) how long this one dude took in the bathroom, which was a half an hour every morning from 10:30 to 11 and he would say to me: “I’m paying him to take a shit every day!” Then mumble-mumble something else with an up intonation that I was supposed to respond to, probably with a “yes, I agree with you nod” or maybe a SMH, who knows? See what I was dealing with?  Oy.

So Dog Company replied to me and I had a phone interview with one of the owners of a family run business. She and I had a great conversation. We both are obsessed with Pomeranians, she has one, and I have a half of one in the form of Betty! They have a private dog park in the neighbourhood! It’s all local! It’s basically a dog taxi service. Pick up dogs in the morning, drive to park, play with dogs for an hour, bring dogs home, and do it again in the afternoon. I WANT THIS JOB SO BAD.

I had an in-person interview for the next step. Dog Company has a dog-boarding loft kitty corner from my gym. My gym is my second home. I do not poop there but I shower and all my secrets live in my locker. This is geographical perfection. The interview goes well! I like both the owners, they are a married couple. Do you ever notice how sometimes, more often than not, marrieds are mismatched? Like you can like one but not the other, she’s sweet but he’s a dick? Or he’s funny but she’s a shrew? Or he’s quiet but he’s a control freak? Or she’s normal but she’s got issues? It’s refreshing to meet a couple who are equally cool and fun and easy to talk to AND LOVE THE DOGS.

It’s all about the love of the dogs that makes the pack leader. And so I got the job. It’s been over a month. I’m in love with my dogs. The park is like a little Utopian canine confinement near Cherry Beach where they can run and hang with others of their kind. Or mix it up. Sniff some butts. Chase balls, fight over sticks. At first I couldn’t tell some of them apart because they were the same breed. I’ve got 3 Vizslas in my morning crew and at first I had to memorize them by the colour of their collars. But now they could be roaming in silhouette and I can tell by their mannerisms which hound is which. One of my dogs is this giant intense scary looking mutt with soulful eyes. Sometimes I think he is human. Every time I look around the park he is always standing a distance away staring at me like that one dude at the gym who I hooked up with but it turned to shit and that’s another story. It’s like we were star-crossed lovers in another life. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize the dogs because they have such distinct personalities. And I’ve been bringing Betty with me. Take your dog to work has never been more appropriate, and she is loving it. She gets to throw her weight around and bark her hoarse smoky bark without being the most obnoxious asshole because there is always another dog with a more annoying voice. But to be honest, barking is music to my ears. Compared to humans on the phone.  And if the worst part of the job is picking up shit, then at least I don’t have to put up with it. Woof woof, muthahfuckas, I can’t wait til Monday.






Mastering the Art of Selling a Glass of Water to a Hipster


Happy New Year, Smiley Faces, Tongues Hanging Out, Hearts For Eyes, and you all other round faced emoticons, especially you, Eyes Closed Cheeks Blushing ❤ (call me)

I know! Already over half January down the pipe so the new year is already yesterday’s news but I still feel like I’ve been frozen in time since I threw out my Christmas tree last weekend. That was a sad day because Freddy and his fish friend, Frankie, went back to school on the Greyhound that day. I hate it when he leaves because then I go into an existential funk. Also I have a very bad lingering cold so I haven’t been on Tinder either (my nasal passages are blocked!) so new stories to report but I have been on the job prowl (new year, new me, hahahahaha, same fucking shit, same old boring ass me) and I think you’ll groove to this interview I went on last week.

I found this job posting for a “start-up” company  which is in sales, I want to hone my pitchman skills. I think being able to sell is a great trait in all aspects of life no matter what kind of job you have, including dating and relationships, we’ll talk about that in the future.  Anyway this job is selling space to realtors on a website  that allows them to farm their chosen neighbourhood with free local business ads and sale promotions. The internet is chock full of website clickety click clackery and fuck knows what is smart and clever from what is funded by somebody’s dad and the cocaine dreams that only a millennial with a weed pop in his mouth could come up with when “adulting.”

And I put “start up” in italics because that was how they advertised themselves. “Start-up” always sounds genius and sexy no matter what. Exposed brick loft offices with a beer fridge and bean bag nap chairs and a low maintenance dog that mostly sleeps and wanders around occasionally for petting purposes. Team building parties where you get to throw axes. Loosey goosey time clocks. Sweat pants. Swearing. Probably even farting at some point.

I applied to the job and had phone interview with one of the two owners. She seemed nice and we role played me selling her something, anything, the first thing that comes to mind. I just parked the car so I ended up selling her the Green Parking phone app because now there’s no excuse for getting parking tickets. You just pay for street parking on your phone by punching in the meter’s code number.You want to stop for ramen after shopping and need an extra hour?  Easy peasy, you add more time on the phone app wherever you are, and when the parking gremlin punches in your license plate, it shows you’re golden even without having to put a ticket on your dashboard. Somehow we’ll be paying for the lost revenue in taxes or road tolls (!) but it really does feel good to renew your license and there’s no forgotten tickets on your annual fee. Sold! She said.

She invited me to the next step, a “mixer” which is like a group interview with food and booze. “To see if you fit in with the family.” As long as there’s booze I’ll fit in anywhere, pretty much. The family could be the Carleones or the Mansons and I would be cool with a cocktail. So I think.

The Glassdoor-dot-com employee reviews of this company are a mixed bag though. Raves: “Best place I’ve ever worked!””The only complaint I have is there’s no office dog!” Some of them are scathing: “Run, don’t walk!” “Slave drivers!” “They don’t pay you!” “Those good reviews are fake reviews!”

These are the red flags I ignore for you people, my readers, because I love you so. One day I’ll tell you about the massive red flag role playing Tinder date I had but I’m still recovering emotionally from it. Anyway, red flags =  blog fodder. I’m in. Also the pay is great, if they actually pay.

The job ad describes the website as being a cross between Yelp and Groupon which, when I peruse it, makes no sense at all. For one thing, it looks like a template of some website from the mid aughts, kind of corporate and confusing to navigate.  Basically the concept is to get realtors to purchase annually for $5000 his/her business card on the page of the neighbourhood you choose to click on. Only one realtor per neighbourhood. It is up to that realtor to go out and drum up local businesses to advertise (for free). Amazing right? The realtors pay a hunk of money for cyberspace but they also have to do all the goddamn grunt work. You know they can do this perfectly well on their own websites and farm all the neighbourhoods they want and prolly get a better optimization of search engines, even organically. Talk about modern day snake oil.

So for research, I looked up my neighbourhood on Google to see where the website would come up (page 6! Much scrolling after Yelp and dozens of other actual realtor sites) so when I clicked on it, lo and behold, there was a picture of some hapless realtor on one side of the page and the other, a coffee shop was having a free refill for every muffin purchase. One fucking coffee shop. Whoa. A cross between Yelp and Groupon? More accurately like if Yelp and Groupon smoked crack all day and passed out on a park bench. The only thing to do here is to just scroll on by, you have no reason to look at that shit.

Anyway, a mixer! What fun. I’m sure to be the oldest bat there based on their youtube video their CEO made about work culture. So fucking fun! He F-bombs on camera as he passes all the employees sprawled out on the bean bag chairs I accurately imagined.

The mixer started at 5:30 in the twee neighbourhood of Liberty Village. For those who live in Toronto, you know what I’m talking about “twee” but if you don’t, the is  chunk of no man’s land west of the downtown core if Disney designed Hipsterland. Old warehouse buildings and brew pubs and cobblestone roads and the usual Stone Henge formation of condo high rises looming over, spoiling the view. It just tries too hard. Luckily I found parking at a Green P! So I used my app at the exact 2 hour mark that the mixer promised to last. If it went longer, I could add more money….see isn’t that clever?

I find the fucking place, I say that with annoyance because there were multiple entrances to the building and some of them led nowhere and even when I got to the right place I was sweaty and dry mouthed, this is my bronchitis witching hour. I’m pretty sure there’s not enough saliva in my mouth to form a hello.

So yeah, as I predicted, I was the oldest person there. And I’m using the word “person” loosely because this is precisely the kind of social anxiety riddled situation where I go out-of-body and become some kind of robotized version of a human lady. I walked in the office and everyone was already mixing, with beers in hand and name tags on. It was loud and people were already yelling. Most of the employees were there, 15 or so. Someone hands me a warm bottle of Stella for which I am grateful because my mouth just made glue. Glurgh.

We mingle for a few minutes. It’s a bro club, there are only 2 women, one of them is the owner, a haughty blond babe, the one I spoke to on the phone, and the other is an Asian girl. She stands out. More on her later. Everyone else is a white dude under 30. There are 8 of us, the potential recruits, 3 women including my old ass, and 5 bro-lings, 4 of them you could easily set free in that fish tank and they would fit in swimmingly. One of those dudes, not so much. He is awkward and talks a lot. He’s telling us about how lucky he was to have a pair of corduroys in his car for the interview because he lives 2 hours away. Oy, can you imagine having to commute 2 hours a day to get to work for 8 and leave at 7? Oh yes, those are the hours, it’s an 11 hour day. You might as well sleep on the park bench outside the building.

One of the women candidates is a tiny, pretty Indian woman, maybe mid-thirties. She’s talking the most and the loudest. She was a dancer and she let us all know it. “I’M A DANCER!” she said swirling around the room randomly. I’m not kidding, it actually happened.

So the CEO dude finally wrangled this mess into order and told us all we would be “speed dating” with the employees and himself. So each of us 8 folk would go from station to station and have 4 minutes to talk about whatever we wanted and then switch. You might think this is weird but I think it’s brilliant and I like one-on-one, not those circle jerks where one person hogs the floor, talking in tangents, and you know that Tiny Dancer had the attention whore qualities for type of shenanigan. There’s more employees than candidates so some of us will be doubled up, the CEO explains, and Tiny Dancer yells out: “I LOVE  THREESOMES!” Oy.

I breeze through the first 3 dudes and do most of the asking of questions because that’s how I’m wired. One guy is British! He’s on Tinder! But he has no time to actually date because he is always at work! Another dude loves working there and even goes in on the weekend! One guy is very good-looking and asks me the first three things I do when I wake up. I’m like whoa. Do you really want to know? We laugh and talk about my tattoo instead. I would totally date him.

The fourth speed date is the CEO, the F-bombing dude from the youtube video. I’m in total date mode by this time and he’s the kind of guy who thinks he’s cooler than he is in an ironic way, somehow, it’s tricky to explain, it’s almost like a snake eating its own tail. Prolly on his Tinder profile, he describes himself as a “geek” because some girl he wanted to smash lied to him in second year uni when he tried to lose his virginity and told him geeks are sexy but she has boyfriend (not really) so they didn’t actually do it because geeks aren’t that sexy (depends on the geek tho). Don’t cry for him, he got’er done finally in third year with her roommate. He really thinks of himself as a cocksmith. But he’s really a garden variety nerd/ hipster hybrid. You know that kind of dude? Not. My. Type.

He’s in his office, not a cubicle, and we say hi and then he says to me: “Sell me this glass of water and you have one minute.” First of all, what fucking glass of water? Oops, he pulls  it out from behind him and sets it on the table in front of me. Jesus Christ, is he really asking this? It’s sooooooooo cliche.

There’s a partially finished puzzle on the table. My Rain Man instincts are taking over and I just want to hunker down and put the pieces together. But first I want to set this hipster Glen Garry Glen Ross operation on fire and see how many glasses of water I can sell this Geek.

But I comply. I ask him how much water he drinks in a day? 2 litres (liar). Does he like filtered water? Yes, from a filtered system. OH! Snap! How much do you think you pay per glass? 2 cents. How about if my filter system can save you up to $200 a year? How so? Then I made up some math statistic that my water would come to .04  a glass. I blathered on as my outer-body self hovered over my human lady self and watched me do this and oh, how outer-body laughed. I  downed the last of my warm beer. My minute was up. Ugh.

Next. More bros. We talk about our favourite shows. I don’t have time to watch, one of them says, I’m always here working. But I really like it here, he assures me, why be at home when I can be at work. His nostrils twitch. Huh.

My last speed date is the Asian girl who is doubled up with a bro who is scrolling on his phone. This is extremely rude. So when she asks me a question, I answer her but look at him. He’s completely ignoring me, wearing a ball cap pulled down. I’d like to slap it off his head, go finish the puzzle, THEN burn the place down. The Asian girl is probably the dumbest person on the planet but she’s wearing glasses so she looks smart. This is how our conversation goes:

AG: If a month went by and you weren’t making any sales. What would you do?

Me: Well I understand that you can have off-days or a week now and again but I probably wouldn’t let it get to an entire month. I would want to ask for feedback and further training.

AG: But what would you do?

Me: I understand that you have sales training available her so I would look into it.

AG: (genuinely puzzled by my answer) But what would you do?

Omg. I answered the question did I not? Does she want me to pet her head? This was the point I realized they might not have an office dog but they have an office Asian girl who probably eats less than the average Labradoodle.

After speed dating, we had a group circle time. I almost slunk out but! Someone handed me another beer. These sorts of group discussions are my kryptonite. I am going to shut my pie hole and speak only when spoken to. The only thing I wish is that I Snap Chatted the whole thing because some of it was pure comedy gold, mostly thanks to Tiny Dancer. She’s a snowflake, that one.

CEO: What is your spirit animal?

We go around the room. Amazing that most people are woodland beasts: Bear, wolf, snake, coyote, even I picked an owl, wise and carnivorous. Good answers, good answers. We get to Tiny Dancer. She talks in caps at all times, so it goes like this:  GUYS, GUYS, I’M SORRY BUT I’M NOT JUST ONE ANIMAL. FUCK NO. I’M THREE! FIRST, I’M A BUNNY. (pause). I’M A HORSE (another pause) AAAAAAND I’M A WHITE TIGER! HOO HA! (I swear she said ‘hoo ha” like Al Pacino in “A Scent of a Woman.”)

Okay, at this point I’m looking around the room to find someone who’s eyes I catch so we can roll them together and maybe meet up afterward and have a real drink but no. The dude beside me, the twitchy-nosed employee who spends all his waking hours there, has a note pad, and I’m think he’s going to jot down what a fucking nut bar but no, he starts drawing a bunny, horse, tiger cartoon thing. LIKE HOW CAN YOU BE A WOODLAND, BARNYARD, AND JUNGLE BEAST ALL IN ONE? DOES NOT FUCKING COMPUTE. I can’t hate her for trying and everyone is all enthralled with the explanation of her answer as bunnies are cute, horses are strong, and white tigers are basically unicorns so why not just be cute and say a unicorn which is basically a horse with a horn?

More inane questions, like what would make you work through lunch? What? Mr. Corduroy Pants shut that down quick with his: “I’m on an eating schedule because I’m diabetic.” Good fucking answer, we all nod, then all of us claim to have blood sugar issues as well. But! Tiny Dancer pipes up that she is a foodie! She eats everything! Believe or not! She twirls around and reminds us she is a dancer in case we forgot. But! She will work through lunch so she can afford 3 lobsters instead of 1. Again, I look around the room for a comrade in eye roll and once again, nothing. I’m now dead inside.

The mixer wraps when CEO asks if we have questions. Mr. Corduroy asks what the future of the company is and CEO says expansion! More cities in North America, more countries, and Europe! Also! They are going to target dog walkers. I snort involuntarily. Nobody feels bad about bilking realtors because that commission cash tho….but why dog walkers? He says they are friendly and like to network in their community. Ha! Dog walkers hate people and proof of that is their willingness to pick up dog shit rather than work in a damn office like this one.

Tiny Dancer asks: WHICH ONE OF US ARE YOU GOING TO HIRE? Finally CEO gives her the look I was after, like what an incredulous crazy bitch, and  he hesitates and umms, but she’s persistent: COME ON, WE’RE ALL GROWN UPS, WHICH ONE? You had to love her lack of filter. And who knows, she may have actually been a contender but when she rephrased her question to what 3 qualities were important in a candidate, he said something like trainability, confidence, and drive but seriously folks, look around the room and the answer is under 30, white, and male. Why mess with a winning formula? Right, boys?

Finally, a twentysomething ginger boy asked the most important and pivotal question of the evening: Where is the bathroom? And that’s when I made my Irish exit. Slink right out the door and into the elevator and back in body, old as fuck but happy in my own skin.  So! If you’re looking for a dog walker, call me!