Category Archives: Uncategorized

7 Life Lessons From an Old Ho in an Orange Bib

I put customers first, don’t you know. I am so sorry to have neglected my interwebz friends this summer as I have been too busy WITH MY PART-TIME JOB WITH FULL-TIME SLAVE HOURS dispensing paint and arguing with your Polish grandpa why he shouldn’t stain his brand new pressure treated deck UNTIL NEXT YEAR when the enviro-urine otherwise known as acid rain has time to literally eat away the factory coating of the cancer-causing-Erin-Brockovitch-style-lawsuit-waiting-to-happen factory residue that makes the wood so green and fresh looking. And yes, I understand he could be dead by then, but so could we all in this perilous world, accidents happen, any time anywhere. He’s so cute though, your grandpa Dziadzia, I love old people very so much, they are so sweet like children in a way, they just say what they want to say but! he is a such stubborn asshole that I want to throw a 5 gallon pail of Deckover on his head when he dismisses me in this manner: “Let me speak to a MAN who knowsss what he eez doingk.” Whatevs, Mr. Manski, I have been staining pressure treated wood every fucking summer on my parent’s fence since I was a tomboy growing up on Walton”s Mountain IN THE 19-MOTHERFUCKING-70s, but I will find you another sales associate with a penis who will placate your infantile histrionics with his magic wiener wand.

I actually enjoy my job but sometimes you customers are a bunch of savages, take a number and stand in line, what part of “waiting your turn” did you miss in nursery school? After 3 months of listening to your never-ending stories of how your paint just “spontaneously peeled off your walls” and heads up: it’s because you are a dumb fuckwit who will watch cat videos on youtube all day in your office cubicle but don’t have the wherewithal to google: “how to paint,” Oh no, that would be too boring for you with your busy life making your “hard-earned” money. There is a special place in hell for you, and that is picking out paint chips for your Polish grandma’s laundry room in FIFTY FUCKING MILLION SHADES OF BEIGE. Christ on a stick, Babcia, “griege dreams” looks exactly like “oyster puree” which is also indistinguishable to the naked eye to the colour of depression if it was manifested into a tint by Pantone.

Customer shmustomer, I put my hookers first. The one thing I truly love about going to work is seeing my posse, those that work on the Home Depot front, they are the true heroes, not you with your hodgepodge shopping list which includes that “thing on youtube that comes in a spray can and is supposed to repel water” and your fantasies of DIY home repair that include a happy ending because you saw it in a porno movie back in the day when plumbers were Lotharios before the internet nipped narrative structure in the bud, thank gods for that, I’m just saying. My little orange HD family is what keeps me going back. Yes, we are a dysfunctional lot and talk trash behind each other backs, who needs meds for OCD and whatnot, but really at the end of the day we support each other because we have one common enemy and that’s you, your Polish grandparents, and upper management of course.

There’s a lot of young people working at “The Deep.” Sometimes I feel like a den mother to them, I love them all as though they were my own spawn, even that really weird kid with the overbite who kind of just stands, swaying, in front of the pro desk wearing an non-regulation orange vest although I’m seriously beginning think just pretends to work there. And he eats all the brownies in the break room. When people say that young people these days are lazyass hoodlums, they need to come by the HD and see these kids hauling their pants to the ground asses to work at 6 a.m to until 11 a.m. I would be very proud if I were their parents. My kids are good, don’t get me wrong, but they would be nonplussed to get up at 5 in the morning, I would probably have to bribe them with money because donuts don’t work anymore.

Anyway I embrace my little orange chitluns as my own, I want them to nestle under my soft downy wing and pass on my motherly advice to them all. I know people will make mistakes no matter what, but I want them to know they are not alone and I am there to lend an ear. Here is a list because that’s how I do things on this blog:

1. Don’t sweat it, you will make lots of placenta in the future! Random, I know, but one day in the summer one of my favourite girls asked me what childbirth was like, maybe she was interested in knowing for future reference, who knows, so I told her my two tales of push and spew and for some reason, she got hung up on the placenta part and how some people eat it after in the form of pate canapes. Oh, how we recoiled in horror at the idea of that and from then on “placenta” was our code word for “Hey Ho!!” Soon enough “Placenta” became my prison nickname. Then just before the summer ended she came up to me in tears because her really cute and bittersweet Home Depot boyfriend (yes, we are an incestuous family) dumped her just before they were both going to move to Kingston together for school. It’s a typical boy move, it seems. Dude thinks he’s going to broaden his horizons and Johnny Appleseed his way across the TransCanada Highway but little does he know that girl he let go was someone very special and I will bet my donut money that he begs for her back by Halloween but! I hope she doesn’t take him back because bitches gotta duck the punches like a ballerina and move on. In steel toe boots, no less.

2. There is no such thing as menial labour, every job is an opportunity to grow or simply blog about, that’s my story. I know we all bitch and moan about our employment situation no matter what it is but every job has some leverage and/or a lesson to learn. The more assholes in your face, the better you become at snapping the rubber gloves on and lubricating your forefinger on way to your to the top. There has to be a reason that a twentysomething girl named Candi with an “i” moved up to a management position. You just know by looking at her that she must have been conceived by two teenagers from a deep spot in a KOA campground on a dark summer night and then raised by her obese grandmother on her father’s side who wears sweatshirts with airbrushed unicorns and probably takes her dead pets (ferrets and other fine rodents) to a taxidermist where she displays them on top of the fridge. If Candi can do it, so can you, my little hookers! Carry on and don’t forget wear protection, obviously.

3. Take care of your teeth. Sometimes the young people’s’ grooming habits have me going OCD. I can’t even get with the stories in the morning that you “passed out on someone’s couch” the night before. It’s obvious to me that you neglected to brush your teeth and I have no time for that so don’t be proud you drank 27 beers and 4 rum coolers, gross, just gross. The most important thing you can do for your health and looks is take care of your teeth, whatever you might think that nothing bad will ever happen because you are invincible, it’s not true. BRUSH AND FLOSS YOUR TEETH EVERY DAY! And go to the dentist, YOU HAVE A FUCKING DENTAL PLAN, USE IT!

4. Shyness is nice but shyness will stop you from doing things in life you really want to. I didn’t make this up, this was a lyric from the Smiths song from the olden days where I came from that actually stuck in my head and I have used it as a mantra. I used to be a really shy child and young adult, people would forget me really easily even though I am a monster amazon-type. But then ever so slowly I learned to use my voice and let the shit come out. I have a slight stutter sometimes when talking to strangers but instead of ignoring it, I acknowledge it and make a joke of it and they smile kindly, like they are thinking “how sweet, this giant wooden Indian tobacco statue can actually speak.” Most people are nice and they respond to your vulnerability so don’t be afraid to let it show. And by the way, pro tip: most people are quite low functioning and/or self-absorbed that they do not even notice things past the tip of their own dick. It’s sad really.

5. I like your tattoos but I am really worried about those earrings that have turned your lobes into dangling onion rings. That is all.

6. Learn to eat better! You are a young ho, I get it, you can eat what you want and never gain weight but realize that is a one way train ride into Delusionville. One lovely young lady, who may or may not be an exception to my metabolic shift rule, is so tiny and skinny and she eats double orders of fast food in one meal. A couple of days ago, and this just kills me, she had some kind of foot long hoagie (and yes, I am that old, I call a sub a hoagie) from Subway, along with an order of fries from Harvey’s, a portion of food intake twice the size of her head. I watched her eat every bite because I am not joking, her mealtime my porn hour. It happens every single day and I think she may be the exception and she is pushing 25 and still no signs of some kind of Pokemon-style Snorlax transformation. She is simply a goddess and I will let her have that crown of meatballs. The rest of you though, this shit will sneak up on you and you will be all like “what the hell” and stuffing your junk in your skinny jeans pretending nothing is happening but it is. Just a friendly warning. But! Remember I will still love you just the same with your fresh pudge layer.

7. You are not old, I am old, so fuck you. My calming force in my department, my walking human anti-anxiety medication, said to me the other day: “I just turned 27, I feel old.” Ugh, I know, right? But his point is he feels bad because he is over-edcuated and not in the place he wants to be at the stage in life he is in and this is understandable. I remember feeling old and misplaced in my twenties which seems wrong in retrospect but it’s the pressures of modern day society to be “successful,” whatever that means, I still don’t know. I don’t have much advice except to just pursue what makes you passionate and happiness (and despair, it’s a swirly really, let’s not kid ourselves) will follow. I know this might be the lamest thing I will ever say, but nothing makes my heart pound faster than prying open up a freshly shaken can of paint of all the hundreds of cans I open in any given day, and it is not your Polish grandma’s “perogie barf beige.” It’s a deep crimson red, let’s call it “shark attack.” Hooha!

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: advice for young people, haome depot, life lessons, orange, water repellent NEVER WET. Leave a comment

Aug. ’13

Morning Wood and Other Small Joys

“Do you hate it here yet?” I have a fellow in-mate at the Home Depot who keeps asking me this question and I always answer: “NOOOOOOO! I still love it here!” He thinks I am being sarcastic but I’m not. There are free popsicles in the freezer and sucking one back while flopping down on the leather couch in the break room is the highlight of my day. It doesn’t take much to amuse me. Sometimes when I’m feeling subversive, I put my feet up and hog the whole couch. As I lick my popsicle, I check my Facebook and scroll through all the photos you post sitting on docks at “The Cottage” with your “life is good” caption. I never “like” these photos of yours, not because I am jelly stuck in South Etobicoke in my orange apron slinging out cans of paint and stain, I don’t “like” them because I really feel sorry for you. I know what you are really doing up there, chores galore, admit it, and here’s a pro tip from the ho at Home Depot: You need to power wash your deck and remove all the old flaking shit before you apply a new coating of stain, dumbass. And also before you paint your skanky old cabin, you need to get rid of the mould and mildew with Concrobium, bleach might cost less but it doesn’t do the job, you cheap bitch. And patch that roof up so you won’t have mould in the first place. Okay, I am jelly and do hate you a little bit. I would give anything to come up to your happy little shack in Halifuckingburton or even that creepy trailer in Tweed to apply a layer of Thompson Water Seal on your deck and swim in your murky lake for a day off. My summer has been bullshit this year. I have not been swimming once and I have yet to have any sort of cocktail with Pimm’s in it :(.

However, I may have been breathing in dust for two months but! I have lost weight without trying and I no longer have insomnia! I have been saving money because I am always at work and can’t spend money! It turns out it’s not what you make, it’s what you don’t spend that counts. Who knew?

I have made peace with my lot in life and have even learned a thing or two at the Depot:

1. I have developed a Poker Face. When I first started, I was afraid that people would think I was a fraud because I knew nothing and would run to Paint Jesus for every question a customer had. Seriously what is up with all your convoluted quagmires like: “How do I glue a piece of velvet on porcelain?” “How do I build a cat tree but I don’t want to use nails or staples?” “When I open the can of paint, there are bubbles…is there something wrong with it?” Just when I think there are no more crazy-assed questions, someone comes up with something more insane than the last one so guess what I do now? I MAKE UP AN ANSWER USING LOGIC…who knew I even had any? Don’t want to use staples or nails because your cat’s paws are so delicate, use a tube of No More Nails. It’s glue so the cat will probably be mid-scratch and fall on it’s ass when the carpet rips off the wood but whatevs. Do people even google anything anymore? The bubbles in your paint could be the farts from a drowning rat that got caught in the can at the factory, here’s a complimentary stir stick so you can twirl around and see if there is a rodent corpse in there. And if the porcelain you are going to glue velvet onto is a toilet seat, then better use something waterproof like marine glue. And then tear it off using Goo Gone because that was a really disgusting idea in the first place.

2. I have developed thick skin. Every so often, there is a certain type of man who thinks he is Mr. Handy Plus but is about to embark on a project that is so majorly wrong that when you advise him that it won’t work, he yells and calls you a stupid idiot and could he possibly talk to someone who knows, like Paint Jesus, who for some reason gets twenty dollar bills slipped into the pocket of his apron on a regular basis. Yes, Paint Jesus is hot and knows everything but even I know you can’t put wood stain on pre-primed pressure board trim because it doesn’t even have a grain, for fuck sake, but try telling that to the crazy old Chinese man who screamed at me, insisting a can of Minwax “Mission Oak” was just what he wanted to finish his home improvement project. Go right ahead, sir, Paint Jesus gives you his blessing. “Who gives a fuck?” is actually what he said. You maketh your mess and buy more paint to fix it up. No problem.

3. I have developed a crush. This happens to me in any given situation where I am confined to a place for a lengthy period of time. Even back in the day, when I was in real estate school and stuck going to classes for what seemed like an eternity (but was really only 3 weeks) at that 80s relic hotel “Inn on the Park,” I took a shine to this weirdly elfish looking dude in my quadrant of seating. I liked him because he used to dig in his ears with his pen when he thought people weren’t looking. But I was and I could relate because I have the same ear fetish or affliction depending on how you look at ti. Other than that, he was really kind of revolting in every other way which makes me wonder about myself a little bit. If I was in solitary, I would probably start lusting after a wall spider or the hand that pushes my lunch in my cell. I think I think I develop these crushes as a survival mechanism, it gets me excited to go to work in the morning and slightly more motivated to beautify, especially making sure those eyebrows don’t get too long and curly because that is what happens when I’m not paying attention. Here is how I developed the crush in case you want one too: He said ‘hi” to me while I was squatting in the caulking aisle, fishing for rogue silicone filler. I said “hi’ back. Then I saw him again the next week in the break room, and he walked by me on his way to his locker and said “hi’ and I said “hi’ back. Even though I remember what he was wearing each time and that he had shaving cut on the right side of his neck, I thought nothing of these causal exchanges until I saw him in the men’s washroom, that door is always wide open for some reason, and HE WAS ZIPPING UP HIS FLY and we locked eyes for maybe a half a second longer than appropriate for someone who has just freshly packed away his man meat… aaaaand I was smitten. But! He is a rare sighting and I AM NOT STALKING HIM even though I can’t help but check his schedule because sometimes the binder just flies open to his page and it is hardly ever the same as mine….sigh…..sooooo:

4. I have developed another crush. What can I say, it’s a big place and why confine oneself to one person? When the representative for Behr paints walks into the Depot, it’s like a sex bomb explodes. Some people just have it and it can’t be helped. It’s the power of the Mojo at Home Depot. *SIGH* So what if he’s married? It’s harmless flirtation, so…..

5. I have developed a way to hone my own fading mojo. On any given day, at 7 in the morning, there is a line up of contractors. These men are hung-ray and it is the crack of dawn and they are holding hard hammers, if you know what I mean. This area is located right at the entrance where you have to pass by to go to your department no matter where it is, although if you were a shrinking violet, you could take an annoying detour around building supplies and ignore what is known as the “Morning Wood Runway” altogether. But this is what makes the early shifts worthwhile in my world. You know that Robin Thicke “Blurred Lines” video that everyone was all freaked out over and you had no idea why until you realized there was an unrated vevo.com version and then you watched it 700 times so you could learn a thing or two because you wondered: Why is it there are 3 perfect naked women and only one of them stands out? It’s what I will call the Emily factor, that is the brunette one as if you didn’t already google that. Well I have watched it 700 times and analyzed it so you don’t have to: It is all about eyes and body language. The girl can’t dance worth shit but she has the Power of the Mojo, the other two I couldn’t pick out in a line up 10 seconds after watching the video for the 701st time. What does she do? She struts while she twirls her hair. Try doing that as an old bitch in an orange apron and safety boots but guess what? The impact of a steel toe boot on a concrete floor makes everything shake even without hardly trying.And I already have that OCD hair twirling thing down pat. Work that runway, sister, a lumber yard of morning wood, what more could a ho ask for? Life is good, bitches.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: go girl, Uncategorized. Tags: Blurred Lines video, Home depot, mojo, morning wood, Robin Thicke. 3 Comments

Aug. ’13

Habanero Hottie is the New Ebony Mistress

There’s something about working at the Home Depot that reminds me of prison. I’ve been watching that Netflix show “Orange is the New Black” which I love, love, love and if you don’t know what it’s about yet, get on it now. Women in prison, what could possibly go right? It is so good, I’m on the second round of viewing. I don’t get it when people say they “don’t have time to watch tv” and you know who you are. I have a 40ish hour work week where I can’t even cheat on that because I have to punch a timeclock (this goes against my nature) and I have managed effortlessly to watch 13 real hour-long (no commercials on Netflix, yo, this is the new world and me likey) episodes in 3 days, settle down and keep up and stop picking weeds from your garden. Jesus, it’s not that hard to sloth.

Anyway, the Home Depot. like my new favourite show, is also a community of orange-clad motley weirdos who only have each other to bond and form cliques with. Who works at the Home Depot? Everybody and anybody from every walk of life and in spite of the rigorous screening process they take to hire you, there is no typical Home Depot ~~inmate~~ employee. The one thing they have in common is they all shuffle around in their steel toe boots with a kind of quiet disgruntled resignation, and some less quiet than others. Those are the “rude ones” you guys complain about on internet forums. It turns out they are not rude per se, they have just done hard time, probably a half a shift of pack down right before a power hour and a quick Harveys lunch. You try doing that grunt work, bitch, and see if you can smile and gives two shits about some kind of crack you need to seal to keep the ants out of your filthy kitchen. I’m not like that yet, by the way, I am all sunshine and helpfulness even though I don’t know what the fuck I am talking about because I have never even used a caulking gun. Why don’t you hire people to do things anyway? Honestly, I can’t imagine what makes a person wake up on a Saturday morning and say to themselves: “I am going to the Home Depot and pick up a kit of 2-part epoxy acrylic floor covering and paint my garage.YOLO!” Do you even understand how to do this? This is something you need to google, you don’t just ask some Home Depot ho with a training badge on their apron if you need to prime first. It is hard! It is science and artistry combined! Hire someone and go watch Netflix. That is my one piece of advice as a Home Depot associate to you dumbass DIY-ers with too much time your hands.

Back to my analogy, just like in prison at the Home Depot, the weak ones will be exploited. I’m sure every department has a scapegoat, the one where teamwork just doesn’t apply. It’s the one fellow employee you do not help because he/she has been a douche/douchette and you overlook the greater good, like stellar customer service and product waste so you can gleefully watch them make a mistake and then have reason throw them into the fire and toast marshmallows over their corpse like a primal savage. It’s the social behaviour you learn in kindergarten that applies in every group scenarios I am sure. Our misfit is a middle aged Indian man named Anil whose name has become synonymous with blundering asshole. I hated him at first because he 1) laughed his microcephalic head off when I made minor rookie mistakes in training and 2) he once douchefully pushed me aside when I was in the middle of filling an order on the computer. Also I enamoured by Indian people and I especially think their accents are the most charming of all but his voice has a grating quality that needs to be silenced with duck tape.

Last week, now known as Blue Monday, he took an order for two gallons of “Laguna Beach” that contains 3 ounces of cobalt pigment which is a shitton of deep blue FYI..,It could go along way filling up pails of Boothbay Harbour, Alaskan Wildflower, Cerulean Blue, et cetera. As an aside, I really want to be the one who names the colours, I would be much more creative. Blue Balls, I would call a colour just to see if anyone would notice. Well wouldn’t you know it, he forgot to put the second can under the dispenser so we were all covered in blue days because he failed to clean it up and oh, how he laughed that high pitched crazy-assed cackle when the puddle started dripping off the counter onto the floor. This is a typical Anil day.

Behind his back, this how we talk:

“He doesn’t listen to women.”

“He doesn’t listen to men either, don’t kid yourself.”

“He doesn’t listen to customers which is why he makes so many Oopsies.”

“Apparently his family died in the tsumani but when he told me the story, he was laughing though, so he might have been lying.”

“He always laughs, that’s his M.O. and that’s an awful story, now I feel bad for him.”

“Don’t feel bad for him. He keeps throwing my water bottles away.”

“No, I definitely feel bad for him, why would lie about his family?”

“Because he lies about everything, he doesn’t even punch out at lunch.”

“That’s just fucking horrific, I am enraged now.”

“I can’t believe he forgot to put the lid on the can before he put it in the shaker.”

“What a feckless maroon.”

“I still can’t believe he forgot to put the can under the dispenser.”

“Everything is still blue.”

“When I went to the bathroom this morning, there was blue in my poop.”

“Oh my god, TMI!”

I don’t care what the other inmates say, I still feel sorry for him. What if he really did lose his family and he smiles the way primates do to diffuse a threatening situation? That is why I smile at work, I am actually deathly afraid of you customer-types. What if you are like that old lady who seemed so cute and harmless in her motor scooter wearing a fright wig that looked like Golde’s from a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof? How comically sweet was she motoring down the aisle until she started spraying black lacquer Rustoleum all over the place and screaming: ‘I DO NOT HAVE RUST! YOU WHORE! YOU SOLD ME THE WRONG CAN OF PAINT!” Oh, and how I grinned from ear-to-ear my primate smile as I darted down the hall to hide in hardware only to curl up in fetal position behind the WD-40 display. Please shoot me if I become one of those self-entitled old ladies with a temper that could out-do a toddler on a sugar high. What if all of Anil’s weird and socially inept behaviour is because he is lonely and hurt inside? What if he lives alone in a one room basement apartment all the way in Scarborough? It makes me sad to think about him beyond the orange curtain. I mostly took this job as a stress-free distraction that I wouldn’t bring home with me at the end of the day with me and bonus: lifting up all those paint cans is like hours spent at the gym that I don’t have to bother with because all the men at the gym are married and what a waste of time that is. All the men who shop at the Home Depot are married too, by the way, so much for any collateral benefits. As my daughter astutely pointed out: “Single men are too lazy to paint.”

But I am really obsessed with Anil, I try to imagine his life and why he is the way he is. Yesterday, he was setting up a can of paint under the dispenser and it was obviously askew and ready for disaster. One of my fellow in-mates nudged me and pointed it out before yet another accident was about to happen and he whispered “Shhh, don’t tell him.”

The colour was “Raven Feather.”

“ANIIIIIIIIL!” I screamed, “The can isn’t under the dispenser!” And the disaster was diverted. I’m not a hero, I just didn’t want to be pooping out black for the next week. And oh how he laughed at what could been known Black Tuesday. I hope he doesn’t think I like him.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: Home depot, household tips, Orange is the New Black, paint. 3 Comments

Jul. ’13

The Wedding Bell Blues

Last weekend was the much-anticipated wedding of my tenant that I told you about if you were listening and yes, I wore Spanx after all 😦 . But have I ever told you that all 3 of my downstairs tenants (including my ex-husband, haha) have moved away to get married? Why don’t I rent it to someone I might want to marry down the road? Or at least a teflon dude like George Clooney who is dedicated to “bachelorhood” and will never leave me? I am using my air quotes because I think George is actually gay (c’mon people, his pussy posse is a beard brigade) and a so-called confirmed “straight” bachelor is a unicorn that doesn’t really exist in the real world. All those trollop-type men who you think will never settle down will inevitably end up married one day,trust me. Those are the type of dudes who surprise you and marry the nanny of the kid they accidentally fathered with the woman whose birth control “failed” while they were casually dating for a few weeks. So, so, so “romantic.”

Anyway, I can’t control who answers my ads on Craigslist. The internet is a jungle, we all know that. Which brings me to exactly two years ago, my tenant at the time, who had bounced no less than 6 of his rent cheques in less than a year told me he was sooooo sorry he would have to leave because he was saving for a house for his future wife even though all they did was fight over the phone, what a mess, seriously. Some couples you just can’t root for. He gave me less than a month to find a new tenant but to his credit cleaned the place so nicely that my photos on Cragislist garnered a plethora of responses. I had a choice! But also I had to worry about my neighbours because they are righteous sisters who have my back and I want desperately to please them. So in my inbox pile was an email from a young man who was living in Africa working for a charitable organization and coming to Toronto within a month to work at the head office. Ding, ding, ding, jackpot! Nothing my neighbours love more than posting stories of third world problems on their Facebook pages. So I rented it to him, sight unseen, never meeting him in person. The ladies next door would have to love him. And his cheque cleared so at least I loved him.

He moved in and a couple of months went by, he kind of kept to himself,we thought he might have been a socially awkward hermit. It wasn’t until Halloween that he came to one of put porch parties, which are usually an impromptu gathering in summer where copious beers and wines are drunkity, drunk, drunk until someone falls over. But Halloween is always a special event and we asked him to join us. It turns out he wasn’t an introvert teetotaler at all, he drank a bottle of gin and entertained with stories of drunky times in Africa which is actually party central, who knew? At one point he fell off the porch. Aaaand he had officially assimilated with the people of Dixon Avenue.

Little did we know at the time, the neighbours’ youngest sister was at the porch party and some sparks were flying between her and my tenant. For a couple months following, they started secretly seeing other. It wasn’t until one of the other neighbours outed them after seeing her come out of his apartment every morning at 6 a.m. that their jig was up. Isn’t it amazing how things can go on under your nose, literally, and you can’t see it? So romantic, no air quotes or sarcasm here. Some couples give me faith in the system, they are really a sweet pair. Also see how Craigslist can be used for good not just evil?

You know how I sometimes blather on Dorothy Parker-style about how I don’t believe in marriage, blah blah blah, it’s for fools, blah blah blah, one of them is lying, blah blah blah, somebody’s gonna get hurt real bad, blah blah? Well nobody cries harder at a church style wedding than moi. There is something about a bride in a white gown and a groom in a sharp suit that chokes me up, I get that way with bag pipes too, don’t know why…One of my good friends got married a few years back AND had bag pipes at their wedding, I almost melted into the floor. Also a little secret: I LOVE all those bride dress shows on TLC, isn’t it hilarious that they air all those shows on Friday night for all the single ladies to weep into their cats’ backs while drinking the entire 1.5 litre bottle of French Cross?

Weddings are awesome. Another dirty secret: I sometimes plan one of my own as a diversion from the rest of my fantasy regime. Here it is, indulge me while I turn into Bridezilla:

1. I need a groom of course, and here he is:

Louis CK! I would never be bored with a man who takes selfies in front a urinal. And he is at the top of my 10 Hot Ginger Men list, which is my most popular post on this entire blog. I know I talk about Idris Elba a lot, but I think it is just his character in “Luther” that I am in love with. I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FANTASY AND REALITY. Don’t you worry about me. Louis, call me!

2. The Ring! Yes, I want a ring! Now that Kat von D doesn’t need it :(, I WANT IT:

It has tiny little skulls holding up a diamond! If it had little owls I would like it better but this one will do.

3. The Dress. I know, it’s all about the strapless but I would be afraid my tits would pop out because my sweater puppies are now old hounds now and they can’t be trusted because gravity. I would go for something like this cleavage/leg showcase and no veil, please, I am a lady of a certain age and that would just look dumb:

NOT THOSE SHOES! Ugh fug! That’s where my “something blue” would come in, I’d wear these:

I know right? Wicked.

4. I would want my hair like those staid house bitches on Downton Abbey with jewels and feathers in it. It turns out that when my hair is in an updo, I am not compelled to twirl it and stuff it in my mouth, OCD is in check, I’d just have to keep my hands busy elsewhere:

5. I would have a winter wedding, so no sweating, no itchy nipples or thighs rubbing together and making slapping sounds…smart, right? Also February is a dull month with nothing going on but Valentine’s Day which don’t worry, I wouldn’t pick THAT day because that would be a douche move: “Look at us getting married on Valentine’s Day! Our love is the most beautiful and sacred of all!”

Let’s go for the end of February, maybe the 29th so we’d only have to celebrate our anniversary every 4 years because when it comes to actual marriage, less is more.

6. I would get married in a hotel, maybe the Gladstone because it’s so hipster, and everyone could drink and conveniently flop there when they got too bloated to carry on. I would feel embarrassed having a church wedding as I was raised agnostic and adopted my own religion where I have interpreted the “7 Deadly Sins” as virtues. Heathenism I think it’s called. I would want the “Teen Queen” room because it’s all about me and my needs, oh my God, Rob Lowe, I’d still hit it:

7. And finally, you’d all be invited and my wedding song would be this one…it makes me cry a little:

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: George Clooney beard, Kat von D engagement ring, Louis CK, the Gladstone Hotle, wedding dresses, wedding hair, weddings. 6 Comments

Jul. ’13

Where Does the Time Go?

Dogs don’t care about time, they just live in the moment.

I haven’t worn a watch since the days of Swatch-mania circa the late 1980s and I stopped wearing them altogether when I had a collection of 10 of them that all needed battery replacements at the same time and would cost as much as a new watch to revive them again. “Fuck that shit,” I said and never looked back. I don’t even need a watch anyway: a) my cell phone is so connected to me it has amalgamated into my DNA AND it has a handy clock on it and b) I always know what time it is even before I check the time. I have a finely tuned intuition clock that wakes me up 5 minutes before my cell phone alarm goes off because I so fucking hate/fear/dread that noise, I will do anything not to let it permeate my ear drums. My subconscience has my back and will wrap up that dream plot early and jostle my bladder to force me up so I don’t have to hear “Marumba” at 5:30 a.m. However, sometimes my subconscience is a douchebag and wakes me up every 15 goddamn minutes just in case I start dreaming of Idris Elba and his dick actually works this time and doesn’t turn into a lizard and run away. Why do all my sex dreams end with some kind of surreal erectile dysfunction?

Anyway, now that HAVE AN ACTUAL JOB, I am now much more aware of time management. Also I bought a non-Swatch watch because I keep my cell phone in my locker so I’m not tempted to finger fuck it while I’m on the clock. I think that is a major no-no, nobody should pay you to play Bejeweled Blitz, you are your own idiot on your own time. Anyway Before Job (B.J. as we will call it), I would lovingly milk out my chores, spacing them out so that each task would cover a certain amount of units of time, like in “About A Boy” when slacker Will (Hugh Grant) explains how to while away the day:

Now I motor through my errands like I’m yanking out rogue eyebrow hairs. For example, today being my day off, first thing this morning I drove Evangeline up to her job at her swanky private school day camp, Bayview Glen, then went to the car wash and got “the works” while I filed my toenails on the bench outside (relax, no one was there), then went to Loblaws and twirled the aisles, came home and powered mowed my lawn and the neighbours’ and ALL THIS before my morning poop. Seriously, it was 10 a.m. and I was ready for cocktail hour and was going to sit down with y’all and blog about my childhood friend coming to visit me last weekend when the phone rang and I actually answered it.

It was a strange number but I was feeling reckless and turned out to be Evangeline calling from the school’s medical office. She was having one of those heart palpitation thingys that I have not told you about but is an actual symptom of anxiety, she is okay now, thanks, but I killed more than 2 units of time picking her up and then popping into the butcher shop for Tamshire bacon. The butcher asked me if I was going to see “Pacific Rim” this weekend because my boyfriend (Idris Elba) is in it.

“I’m an old woman, I don’t have time to watch monsters and robots fight, there’s nothing in there that I can grasp and then take back with me for later use,” I said. It’s true, since watching that wretched mess, “Inception,” with my beloved Leonardo DiCaprio, I will never waste another second sitting through a summer blockbuster again. I have my warm laptop and I have my hot torrent of “Luther” that will satisfy all my needs. I have no problem watching shows I love over and again and yet I’m reluctant to try new things. I think this is a symptom of becoming a curmudgeony old person. Oh well.

Another 3 whole units of time were frittered away watching “Boogie Nights” this afternoon.

“That was a weird movie,” said Evangeline.

“Don’t you think Dirk Diggler is cute?” I felt bad because she wanted to watch “Breaking Dawn Part 2” (I know, right? Barf-oh-barf, why has she not outgrown this?) and insisted upon “Boogie Nights” as I hadn’t seen it since it was in the theatre in 1997, holy cow, where does the time go? and I had a fond memory of Mark Wahlberg but I couldn’t quite remember why.

“That was a prosthetic, I’m pretty sure.” That’s what she said.

Huh.

******************************

So now I’m here, better late than never. Last weekend Val, my oldest friend from my childhood, came to town from Boulder to visit for a few days. We grew up in a tiny town in Quebec, Mont St.Hilaire, a unit of time “south” of Montreal. Although, let’s address this first, I’m talking to you, Montreal, this is something that has been bugging since I was literally four years old: Why is your sense of direction so fucked up? Is your compass drunk? Check the map: The “South Shore” is actually east. I don’t want to make a big stink out of it but come on, people please, you have enough problems with your cracked pavement, sinkholes, and collapsing bridges, LOOK AT YOUR MAP, BRO: Boucherville and Longueuil are on an east shore and NDG is south so why do you call it “west?” And when you say Laval is north, it’s actually west. It’s sad really. LOOK AT IT:

And between y’all and me, if you address their whacked due north system it to a Montrealer, they’s be all like “Baaahhhh-waaahhhhyy” then mumbling something incoherent. So there is really no point in arguing. They do make good gravy, though, I will say that.

Anyway we grew up off that map somewhere to the right, let’s not stress out about this again but it really does bug me, we looked at the sunrise and then the sunset when we were young savages trolling the orchards and in through the trees in mountain and knew even then something was off-kilter. We spent all our waking non-school hours together and made up a language that only we could understand. We lived outside in a tent in the summer and an igloo in the winter and terrorized the neighbourhood in bare feet and feral hair with our never-ending pranks that I had completely forgot about until she reminded me. I now am actually embarrassed decades later. Take note: I am embarrassed. I know I am all TMI with my sex dreams and you probably think what could two re-adolescent girls do that was so bad, you are wrong. You’ll have to buy me dinner and maybe I will tell you one of our dark deeds. In the meantime I am asking the gods for forgiveness and ask to absolve me by cutting out wheat and sugar that is not alchohol-based from my diet. That’s how the gods roll, right? Quebec-style. Give some shit up, then you are golden like a pancake smothered in maple syrup. Plus I am killing two birds with one stone. That Wedding is just over a week away and I don’t want to wear Spanks in July!

Anyway, Val moved away in Grade 9 to Toronto during the mass exodus of the late 70s and we only had snail mail and the occasional visit, Then we grew up and older, I moved to Toronto and spawned, she moved to Boulder, had her family and we kind of lost touch until the magic of Facebook, of course. And if you think I am all about talking shit and over-analyzing to death then put the two of us together and we did not sleep hardly at all the first night. THERE WAS NO TIME! Oh, how we trolled the internet, checking out each other’s friends and exes, scrolling on Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and even that big fake titted bull, LinkedIn. We had to control ourselves because some of our crazy pranking instincts were starting to kick in. We are old now and have mellowed out because wine. Too old, too tired, and that’s okay, most people now have call display and they can track down your pubic hairs through DNA testing, so it’ s just as well.

What was interesting was it was like no time had passed between us since we were kids, there was no feeling of being strangers. I am lucky to have someone like her in my life but I wish she lived next door again because I just don’t have the time figure out how to Skype. I know, your grandmother probably does but I am lazy that way.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: lady boners, LOCAs gone wild, Uncategorized. Tags: About a Boy, Idris Elba, Pacific Rime, time management, units of time. 2 Comments

Jun. ’13

How To Tell Someone They Are Making A Huge Mistake

Wow, I feel like I haven’t blogarrhea’d out a post in eons, not because I’ve been lazy…okay, maybe a tiny bit lazy, Freddy and I are power-watching, or Bluthing, all 4 seasons of Arrested Development before he goes away for the summer. But I have also been busy flying my broomstick in the west end of the city. I’m going to have to change the title of this site to “my toronto WHEEEE”…you know the “EH” stands for “east hoods,” right? It’s not that bovine Canadian colloquialism, “eh” that every patriotic hoser uptalks at the end of every sentence whether it is a question or not, because I never do that….eh?

Anyway, I have a job in the west end and more on that later, I signed a confidentiality agreement that I read as assiduously as an Apple licensing agreement when downloading the latest version of iTunes,in other words not a single word of it passed through my retinas, so I don’t want to blab about it too much in case I say something that taints the orange halo. When I say “west end,” I am not talking about twee Trinity Bellwoods, half-gentrified Parkdale, or that contrived, trendy, boring dump, Liberty Village. My new job is in deep, dark Etobicoke! Do you know how long it took me to learn how to spell it? So many syllables, where do put the emphasis? For those of you out-of-towners who read me, you say it like: uh-TOE-buh-COH…the K is silent, like all good k’s should be. Etobicoke is the stomping grounds of our mayor, Rob Ford, and where I work, dollars for donuts, he will walk in one day for a weed whacker or a propane tank and I am going to just DIE star-struck. I mean it, the more shenanigans the mayor gets into, the more I love him and I love him more intensely each day as he is such an amazing gaping goatse of an asshole, but in an entertaining way. So delete me or whatever.

I thought I hated the west end and it would be a drag to get there because in my old age I have developed a fear of highway driving. Every time I’m on a highway, I keep thinking my mind is going to snap and I will spazz out and steer my golf cart into a giant truck. That’s another thing, my little first generation Scion XB drives like a toy car and velocity is not its thing, so when Precious gets to the highway speeds, there is a definite sensation that her wheels are going to pop off, especially when she hits those thrill bumps at Humber Bay. So I take the Lakeshore/Queensway and I love it. I am a mellow city driver and stop lights don’t get me down and time is my bitch, I like to waste it doing the most mundane things like sitting in traffic. Also I have discovered all kinds of cute stores and restaurants along the way, like THE CHEESE BOUTIQUE off of South Kingsway. My sister told me about this place, it’s rooms full of cheese, chocolate, and pepperoni. It’s like a culinary museum where everything is for sale and melts in your mouth.

It’s a whole new world for me and fuck knows I need a change, you can set your watch by my east end activities. I am super-stoked about my job. I get to wear steel toe safety boots, so I found a cute pink pair at Mark’s. gonna put the “ho” in Home Depot. There you go. The other day when I was walking to the training room from the paint department, which is going to be my beat, I got all choked up and teary eyed, not because I was sad but because I was so overwhelmed with a relief and gratitude. Weird, right? Everyone there is so nice, I’m just not used it. I’m used to being invisible. Even the training has been fun. Don’t you just hate being in a conference room with out a bunch of motley strangers and then being forced to do that thing where they go around the room and everyone has to say their name and tell something about themselves…like what? I have nothing to say about me, ironically, and I live in absolute fear of these types of situations. I hate saying my name out loud and always have the impulse to say my name is Ginger. At The Home Depot, which I can’t stop habitually pronouncing “DEE-poe,” as “duh-POE” emphasis on the last syllable, they find it funny and my unbridled enthusiasm charming. Instead of circle jerk introductions, we partnered up, cracked open a box of Smarties, chose 3 colours each, and asked each other 3 questions from the board which matched each colour. Important inquiries such as what is your favourite tv show and what would you do if you won the lottery? Then we got to introduce our partner and tell everyone what we learned about him/her. This was genius because in less than 10 minutes and with just 3 questions, I got my partner, George’s, entire life story including his phone number. I am going to rock this job.

Also there is a Bier Market next door which is one of the better chain restaurants. After my third(!) and final interview last week, I met Jesus there for a pint. Not THAT Jesus, MY JESUS, JESUS OF THE JUNCTION, the name of my screen play, don’t steal it. This Jesus has always got something going on, he needs me for “free” therapy which costs him a minimum of 2 pints, sometimes 3…or when he is completely needy then we have 4. Trust me, it’s a bargain, he is such a hot mess. He is 43 and dating a 20-something-year-old like he is entitled even though he barely has a job, you know the type. He lives in his married sister’s basement for free but babysits her kids whenever she needs him. This is a pretty awesome set-up because when they are at school, he spends all his time at the gym or the tattoo parlour getting his ink touched up. He does have the most beautiful mermaid tattoo on his forearm that I am jelly of except that she is wearing a seashell bra, I would have had her sans bra but with strategically placed flowing hair, or not. Who cares about a nip slip on a tattoo? It’s so badass. But Jesus does because he doesn’t want to “shock his mama.” That is just so hilarious.

He can’t sit on a patio in the sun because one of his arms, the non-mermaid one is freshly scabbing over with blue and red flakes of skin. It’s some big mess based upon the “Red Wedding” from “Game of Thrones.” Gross. So we sit inside at the bar on the only nice day of the summer so far. Whatevs, I actually care about the weather. The sun is bullshit anyway, I like this whacky cold summer. But let’s get right into Jesus’s problem du jour.

Jesus’s younger brother, Hector, is getting married at the end of the month. It turns out EVERYBODY, family and friends, hates the guts of his fiancee. She is a “conniving cunt,” his words, and is after him for his business which is a fish market, The Fish Monger’s Cunt, name of the next screen play, don’t steal it. He went on a big rampage about her that we don’t need to repeat but suffice to say, this is one of those women that give bitches a bad name.

Jesus asks: Should somebody tell him, before he gets married, that we all hate her? Or do we just let it happen and watch the inevitable train wreck?

What do you think, people?

I am of two minds on this sort of thing, having been in and seen people in destructive relationships. On one hand, you can’t tell someone NOT to be with someone because they won’t listen and they will resent you.”Love” makes people not just blind, but deaf AND with the judgement of a drunken teenager. Ages ago I used to be in a circle of couple friends (“couplings” *barf* I know) where the dude was funny, smart, and handsome but his wife was this super-ugly, chinless, pear-shaped militant vegetarian twat with no humour or redeeming qualities whatsoever, and yet I was the only one who vehemently hated her. I am convinced the others in the group just put up with her because the guy was so nice, but no, they seemed to actually like her. I had to scratch it up to one of those mysteries of life where I am the outsider and everyone else is in the Twilight Zone. But when EVERYONE hates the person, that is meaningful and maybe someone should say something. If you don’t, then some day, maybe not next year, but in two or three, Hector will wake up from his oxytocin fog and look at the woman he married and shriek whilst biting off his arm: “WHY THE HELL DIDN’T SOMEONE WARN ME I MARRIED A COW?”

I think it’s up to Jesus, the best man.

So the burning question is: How do you tell someone they are about to make a huge Bluth-style mistake?

1. The passive aggressive approach. You tell a story as though it is an Aesop Fable and you hope the person understands it is about them. Like Jesus could watch Arrested Development with Hector, specifically an episode that depicts Michael’s disdain for George Michael’s homely girlfriend, Anne, and he could turn to his brother and say something LOL-like: “This show is so much like our family, if I were a character, I would be Michael and if you were a character, you would be George Michael.” And then hope he gets it. But he won’t, because people are stupid. And Jesus is totally GOB anyway, so that point would be moot.

2. Get even more passive aggressive. Send him an anonymous note like: YOUR FIANCEE IS A COW, DON’T MARRY HER. SIGNED, A FRIEND. This will probably never work. People believe anonymous notes are written by embittered cat ladies or hermit men who have enough equipment in their sheds to build bombs. BUT! At least it plants a seed in their dumb heads.

3. Tell him gently. Simply say: “Hector, I think you might be rushing into this and if you want to back out, it’s okay.” And you have done your due diligence, although probably far too mild mannered for it to have any impact that when he does end up chewing his arm off, coyote-style, he will completely forget you said anything at all.

4. Just tell him straight up. I am a fan of this one and have been known to point out many loitering, flatulent elephants in any given room. Say it in language he can really understand: “Hector, usted está haciendo un gran error, tu novia es una vaca, todo el mundo le odia.” And there you have it. Brutal honesty is super scary and sometimes you will have diarrhea afterwards but it will be a great relief, trust me.

5. And if you chicken out: Get your friend to work it into a blog post and send him the link, and if he gets past the first 5 bloated paragraphs then he gets the message and if he doesn’t, it is out there forever living in the ethers of the internet where you can access it in 10 years and say: “I TOLD YOU SO!” Oh, and anybody else who knows somebody who is about to make a huge mistake, you can send this as a cautionary tale. You’re welcome.

This is about fixing a broken heart and I am OBSESSED with this video:

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: Arrested Development, I have made a huge mistake, weddings. 2 Comments

May. ’13

Diet Tips for Drunkards

I like to play this game: Would you rather have lunch with Rob Ford or Justin Bieber? Obviously, Mayor Rob Ford…right? I don’t hate him as much as you people, my fellow Torontonians, as his shenanigans have increased traffic flow to my little blog with google search terms like: Ass-grabbing, fat mayor of Toronto who ate the gravy train while smoking crack and eating KFC. My fertile imagination could never fathom creating a character so amazing. I would actually love to hang out with Rob AND his bro for an afternoon of drinking beers, eating wings, and shooting the shit. Good times. So much fun would they be, unlike the Biebs who would probably pout and slouch in his leather diaper pantaloons, scratching the scabs off his stupid tattoos and never looking at you in the eye whilst he complains about his greasy chicken fingers. He is 10 gallons of menstrual berry douche water poured into a 12 ounce can of Red Bull. I have an irrational hatred of him that far exceeds your somewhat rational disdain of our corpulent mayor.

So judgey wudgey are people. So what, a little a crack. Obviously he’s not doing so much of it that is it detrimental to his physique. Seriously, people, do you really care that Rob Ford’s brother, Doug, was a hash dealer in high school? WHERE DO YOU THINK THE HASH YOU HOT-KNIFED IN GRADE 10 CAME FROM? Your mom? No, it was distributed from the drug lords in South America to the good citizens of your hometown, the people who ran small businesses like car washes, chicken shacks, and nail salons (watch some Breaking Bad, people) and then funnelled to enterprising youth like Doug Ford who sold it to ALL of you so you could get high in a kitchen party on Saturday night. And guess what? He didn’t have to get up at 5 a.m. to deliver the Globe and Mail like you did to make thirty bucks a week. THAT is what I call smart hockey.

I saw this picture on Reddit last week of Rob Ford and his jubilant politico cronies that made my heart cry with Jesus-like compassion and yes, even love. Look at those bitches clapping and laughing like the prom scene in Carrie and then to left there is Rob, all alone, sullen and out of place…I just want to take him under my soft, downy wing and wipe the stress sweat from his forehead and introduce him to Smashbox Photofinish green primer from Sephora and take him to my favourite restorative yoga class where the smell of lavender essential oil candles cuts out the wafting fetor of SBDs. And THEN we can go out for a bucket of chicken because fuck yeah, KFC is awesome:

I want to squeeze all the so-called evil out of him! I do so much love a fat man. AND I don’t care what y’all with your righteous lawn signs say about bike lanes and no casinos, I think he had a valid point on both of those issues. Casinos bring in both revenue AND Tony Orlando! Also your visiting relatives from Minnesota will have something to do like play slot machines while you go biking on the Martin Goodman trail to Cherry Beach to get a quick blowie in the high grass. Which brings me to the point that bicycles are all very well and good for subversive traffic but if you are going to share the road with cars and trucks, you better follow the rules of the game, Pinko.

Here’s a quick rant before moving on to diet tips: As much as we want our city to be green and bicycle-friendly, it is not designed that way. The weather is shite most of the year and guess what, granola bar? There are cars and trucks that need to go places. Also as part of our transit system, on some of our busiest roads we have big lurching, slow-moving manatees, otherwise known as streetcars, that clog the arteries of traffic. Why does this antiquated system still even exist? This is not Tennesse Williams” New Orleans, this city is bigger than Chicago. They are awkward and mismanaged. When they are stopped you can’t pass them, when one breaks down, they all go out of service, lined up and hogging an entire lane of roadway. As a driver of a car, you have to be stealth like a ninja to get anywhere downtown. But noooo…they want more bike lanes to add to the combobulation of traffic because cars bad, bikes good.

I used to be a courier and rode a bike for a living. Never once in those days did I think I was equal to a car. One false move and I could be hurt or killed and so I rode DEFENSIVELY, with the understanding that drivers in vehicles have blind spots and other important things to focus on than my dumb, pimply rashed, lycra-clad ass. The other day, while I was driving in back of a streetcar on Queen Street East, just west of Broadview during rush hour, the fat fucking manatee streetcar hissed and farted and if you’ve ever seen Toronto streetcars, you know this is the special sound of a streetcar driver stopping the car and running into a Tim Hortons for a slash and then picking up a coffee which is by all means their right and no one should begrudge anyone of a donut, but it also means you can pass the car and go on your merry way. So I went into the right lane AT THE PACE OF YOUR GRANDMA IN HER WALKER, and slithered by the streetcar and then stopped at a crosswalk where people were crossing, I am not a dick, I did not run them over. I hear a knocking on my car and a cyclist rides up to my left and yells into my open window; “You cut me off!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you,” I said, which was true as I was watching out for pedestrians in front of me.

“You cut me off when you changed lanes, you should check for cyclists!” The cyclist is one of those ubiquitous sinewy middle-aged men who buys trail mix at the Carrot Common, you know the type. He participates in triathalons even though he has sloping lady shoulders and is probably a shite swimmer. He is laughably dressed head-to-toe Tour de France ensemble while his ugly navy blue suit waits for him in his office at his boring finance job. The only joy he and his shriveled testicles get is biking to work, obviously. Here’s a pro-tip, Captain Gear Geek, when you are out riding with the big boy cars, how about slowing down with the traffic when it is coming a halt and ANTICIPATE what the car in front of you is going to do which is obviously to pass a stopped streetcar. This whiny little asshole enraged me to the point where I wished I had knocked him over crushed his $5000 bike with my dainty Scion tire, but he sped off, weaving through traffic and over the bridge before I could even form the letter “F.” Entitled white man privilege motherfucker.

End of rant.

Last week from my Facebook newsfeed, I worried less (as in not one fucking iota) about crack-smoking Rob Ford than I did about GMOs and Montsanto and the Frankenfood causing diseases with all the pesticides, etc. I read all the stuff people were posting and really began to get freaked out. Wheat is one of the scariest deviations of genetically engineered food out there. I am not an alarmist type but this really bothers me. So I decided to cut out wheat for a few days last week to see how I would survive. Also what the hell, I will give up other things like fructose corn syrup. And Oreos. And cut back on cheese. And who am I kidding? I’m ON A DIET because I have a much-anticipated wedding to go to in 8 weeks and I need to fit into something in my closet and I want to look hot on Instagram in the context of an old lady cougar. I’m going to be wearing my disco shoes.

I hate when people talk about their weight and diets, it’s so boring. Hearing people go on about how many weight watchers points in a burrito, gluten allergies, master cleanses, etc, makes me want to force feed them globs of lard after I have duct taped them on top of a medical scale. When I was a teenager, I had cultivated an eating disorder that lasted a few years until it got tedious and unrewarding and I realized no one else really cares what you weigh, in fact they like you better fat and happy. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR DAILY CALORIE COUNT SO SHUT UP.

Because of my teen anorexia, a few rounds of disco diets in my twenties, and following the Zone a couple of times post-babies, I am awesome at dieting. It’s not rocket science and I read up on all the current new “facts” and it’s just hilarious. You are no longer just a plain old fatty anymore, instead your diet is causing “inflammation.” LOL! I just figure if you give up a bunch of shit that you were normally eating, then you will lose weight but no, they have to constantly put out new spins so you keep buying the latest books.

“You know giving up alcohol is key,” said Jesus (not that Jesus, my Jesus, Jesus of the Junction) when I told him I am relinquishing wheat for the sake of humanity and not having to wear Spanx in July. Jesus trains with a kick boxer and watches his carb intake like a little girl.

“Fuck that, Jesus, I give up alcohol for a month every January and sometimes in August and I can tell you, I will lose a quick couple gallons of water bloat but I will make up for my misery in ice cream. I need to focus on a cause and make myself believe I am doing something for the greater good like creating a better environment for our children and their children’s children,” I explained, trying to be earnest about my one woman wheat boycott, “Not drinking is dreadfully boring and inevitably leads to binge drinking and then a melancholia that can only be described by the Smiths in the song ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.”‘

“Alright then, you have a point,” Jesus conceded and then went on to talk about himself and some 24 year-old girl he’s been banging who he met at the gym, apparently she is on some Paleo fuckery diet and went from a size 10 to a 4 eating like a cavewoman, woohoo! He is such a perv to be dating someone 20 years younger but I listen to what he has to say and pay enough attention to realize that dried up berries probably fermented into alcohol that our hairy relatives enjoyed and therefore this diet will work for me.

Here are some pro-tips on how to lose weight and keep on drinking like that crazy mofo Rob Ford, he should go on it with me. I HAVE MY VICES AND I AM GOING TO WORK AROUND THEM SO HERE WE GO:

1. Your liver is not a mulit-tasker, it’s a man, it only processes one thing at a time. In order to avoid metobolic mix up, don’t eat when you drink. Plus you will get drunker faster. Win win.

2. A Caesar (or Bloody Mary if you are an ignorant, deprived American) makes a nice light lunch.

3. Don’t drink fancy cocktails made out of sugary mixes like margaritas and Bellinis, otherwise you will drink your way into Type 2 diabetes and that will be the end of that.

4. Instead, mix vodka with club soda and lime.

5. Drink a bunch of water every time you have a cocktail. Hahahaha, you will totally forget to do that so leave a bottle of water by your bed and try to remember to drink it before you pass out.

6. Beer also makes a nice light lunch but don’t drink that shite cloudy wheat beer because GMOs….and it’s crap.

7. Remember that drinking lessens your inhibitions and makes you break open the Goldfish GMO crackers when you pass by the pantry. Do not do this! Eat a carrot! Pro tip: If you encase a walnut in a Medjool date, it tastes just like a brownie…sort of. Close enough.

8. If you have a hangover because you drank too much and you must have a greasy breakfast because you are dying, then skip the GMO toast with the eggs and bacon and eat maybe half the home fries, this way you will avoid most of the “inflammation” that white carbs cause. By the way, inflammation is just a fancy term for bloat but makes you feel less ashamed. “I am inflamed because of all the GMOs,” you can legitimately say in order to avoid the cycle of self-loathing and feel like a victim of environmental toxicity instead of merely a pig.

Maybe that is Rob Ford’s problem: He is simply inflamed with GMOs. When you think of him that way, he is much less of a monster. All of us are inflamed, just some of us are more so. To paraphrase Morrissey: Some pigs are bigger than others.

Put that in your crack pipe and smoke it.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: diet tips for alchohols, Doug Fprd hash dealer, Rob Ford, Rob Ford crack smoking. 5 Comments

May. ’13

A Hooker’s Guide to Writing a Resume

I think we can all agree that job hunting is the worst thing ever. I’ve been on an aggressive blitz this week for the past couple of weeks and I can tell you, I’d rather walk naked through an Abercrombie and Fitch CEO board meeting than write a resume and cover letter. Why is it that I can write a blog, tweet a tweet, and tell you all about my precise level of moistness for Idris Elba but I can’t even bullet point a single skill I obtained as a real estate ho? I don’t even know the proper job title is. I forget how to string words together. And I would rather give good old fashioned blow jobs under a desk than create a profile on LinkedIn. I just can’t with that site.

On Monday I had a phone interview where I paced back and forth on my back deck like a wild cat while I answered the questions. This is why I can’t have an office job, I can’t sit still on a chair. Even when I write these blogs that take up half a day, I’m moving from “half lotus” to “boat” and then to my own personally patented yoga position that I call “snake laying an egg-” don’t ask.

After stuttering and forgetting the word “customer,” I managed to get a second interview where I had to go to the actual place which is in Etobicoke, which means I have to QEW it, which is the highway where all the exits have like sounding names. “Islington” and “Kipling” look exactly the same, at least to me. I got off the wrong one, of course, got lost, then got very sweaty, and arrived ten minutes late. It didn’t matter, I had to wait 40 minutes for the interview because the woman wasn’t even there! And then when she arrived, I had to follow her to a remote office, even more sweaty, dry mouth, and out of breath because of 3 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS, I answered a bunch a questions clearly and concisely, with only an occasional nervous bit of too much information rambling. The interviewer woman, who was probably 35-ish, did NOT get my sense of humour so I was able to keep it dignified. HOWEVER, at the very end, she asked for two forms of ID which I was told to bring and I actually had because I am nothing if not always prepared.

“What do you need it for?” I asked, thinking it is a good sign.

“We need to run a police check,” she says.

Fuck. This has happened before when someone googled me, which of course is not a police check per se. A woman with the same name as me got arrested in Toronto three years ago for terrorism during the G20 shindig. It turned out her crazy husband was the one building bombs in their swanky Forest Hill home, unbeknownst to her, but she still went to jail and made headlines. People thought it was me even though her first name is spelled “Kristen” not “Kristin,” but you know how thorough folks are with details ಠ~ಠ….not. Oh well, hopefully the police don’t use google. And if I get this ridiculous job, it will be blog fodder galore, I promise, maybe it will even have its own anonymous Tumblr. A police check takes a couple of days and then a THIRD interview, she said. It’s jaw-dropping really, I’m not going to even tell you where it is because most of the people who work there look like they are from the island of lost misfits so if I don’t get it, I’m going to volunteer to be the next experimental monkey that gets launched up into space.

If I could really be me, and not the boring version, and could write a resume my own special way, it would go something like this:

1. Data Entry Clerk at Pratt & Whitney Canada. This is the summer job I had at my dad’s company during university for 3 years. I still remember my badge number, 27642, because I had to type in hundreds of times a day, along with payroll and shittons of mysterious engineering data that went into a giant box of a computer that was the size of an ensuite bathroom. This was the 80s, you could probably fit all that crap in an iPad now and all the women that worked in that department are probably dead from carpal tunnel-related cancer. There were twenty ladies in the department, a hummer of hens, all clucking their dentures while they clacked on the keyboard. And smoking all the while. Women can sure multi-task. Martha, Shannon the Crazy Bitch, and I were the summer students whose papas swung us these soul sucking jobs. Martha and I, forming an impenetrable love club, kept our spirits up by gossiping, and Shannon kept jealously accusing of being “lezzies” like we cared. Martha had the best stories because she had a bazillion boyfriends and she was a total sex goddess. She liked me because I made her laugh so hard that no sound would come out so we would stay out of trouble that way, her laughing silently and me squirming in my seat imagining what it was like to bang a Jamaican man on a dance floor.

We lived for the two weeks in July that was called “Plant Shutdown’ because it was then we had to work the four to midnight shift and not have to go in at 7:00 a.m. with our dads. One of us would get an Oldsmobile (ALL the Pratt & Whitney drove those!) and after our shift at midnight we would hit the local brasserie and drink until 3 a.m. Good times.

But the best EVER time was that Tuesday we got out extra-early at 6:30 in the evening because the big clunky computer spontaneously farted out an explosion, and she had the brilliant idea of taking the Oldsmobile over the bridge and into the CITY which was Montreal, FYI. Her Jamaican boyfriend, Winston, was taking a summer class at Concordia, and was shacking up in an apartment in NDG with his cousin, James. We could go over there, order Chinese, drink some beers, then head back home at midnight and her dad would never know she hijacked the car downtown.

Here’s how it went real time, play-by-play:

7 pm: We arrive at Winston’s apartment. Winston is a BIG STRAPPING black boy on a football scholarship, hotter than hot, of course. Martha gives him a big goopy kiss. James, his skinnier but also cute cousin, is also from Jamaica is speaking Patois to set the mood. It should be noted that it is July and they are not wearing shirts and they were sweat-ayyyyy. They had already ordered the food. They give us a beer and some egg rolls. Oh yes, and of course, a big giant doobie is passed around.

7;10: Still eating and not yet finished the first beer, Winston puts on some reggae music at maximum volume.

7;15: Martha and the cousin James are “dancing rub-a-dub” which looks like this: The guy is standing against the wall and the girl is grinding her crotch on his upper thigh. Hands are everywhere.

7:20: I am grinding my crotch on Winston’s knee. His fingers are sliding around in my ass crack.

7:25: Martha’s clothes are on the living room floor and she is in another room. With James.

7:30: I am stark naked on the couch with Martha’s big giant Jamaican boyfriend on top of me, pulling his pants down.

7:31: Okay, now I am freaked out. I HAVEN’T EVEN FINISHED MY BEER AND THERE IS A NAKED BLACK MAN ON TOP OF ME. How did this even happen so fast? This is what happens to me when I smoke weed, I get paranoid. I manage to slither out from underneath him and he is a perfect gentleman, he hands me my clothes. I apologize and flee like a scaredy cat. Believe me, I wouldn’t do that now. Flee, that is.

7:45: I am at my friends’, Kingsley and Mark, apartment a couple of blocks away, and telling the tale what just happened in the timeframe of a tv sitcom and oh, how we laughed. Also, as it turns out, I am wearing Martha’s bra inside out.

SKILLS: Knowledge of DOS, data entry, and Rub-A-Dub wizardry

2. Busser at Le Select Bistro. This was my very first job in Toronto. I had to bus tables, make cappuccinos, and keep the bread baskets full. Everyone, the owners and the customers, thought it was cute to have hanging bread baskets over the tables and I would constantly get yelled at by the customers: “THERE ARE CRUMBS IN THE CREAMER!” Where I wanted to say: ‘IT’S FROM THE FUCKING BREAD BASKET, MORON!” But I didn’t, I politely apologized got them some “fresh” cream, all right.

SKILLS: Revenge

3. Assistant Manager at Parachute in Yorkville. This was a store that sold the quintessential eighties fashion victim-style clothing. It was one of the funnest jobs I ever had. In fact, I’m going to lazily link from the archives to a whole blog post I wrote about it, it’s that epic.

SKILLS: The fine art of fag hagdom, how to pose in the mirror like a supermodel

4. Receptionist at a head shot photo studio. I do not remember the name of this place! I remember my boss was named Joe Black! I remember I was reading Martin Amis’ “Money” when Carole Pope came to pick up her photos in and said; “Martin Amis is so nasty and that is why I love him!” I remember trying to process that statement and not really understanding how anyone could like anything “nasty,” I was that dumb and naive. But I was starstruck so I pretended to agree. Carole Pope was one of my all time lady heroes.

Skills: Satire, also I got good at quitting jobs.

5. Bike Courier for Sunwheel Bicycle Couriers. I delivered important documents in the era pre-fax machines for a year with gusto and tenacity until one day, I crashed into the back of a parked truck climbing up Yonge Street because I wasn’t looking. I bashed my head and stabbed my leg with a wheel spoke. I finished my deliveries, bleeding and concussed, riding a bike with a wheel shaped like a Pringle chip. Like a boss.

Skills: North and South, East and West, developing an innate knowledge of where toilets are located.

6. Shopgirl at Holt Renfrew. I sold pantyhose to rich Forest Hill and Rosedale women, who, when they got a run in their stockings, would always bring them back for a replacement. I know, right? You’re thinking what cheap cunts, HOWEVER, the pantyhose industry is a diabolical business because a single pair at Holt Renfrew cost $7.95 and they would only last a day. Do that math and then tell me these ladies are cheap. I wore Donna Karan opaque tights for $19.95 and they NEVER ran, in fact, more than 25 years later, I still have 3 pairs. So I pushed these babies to these grateful women and was top in sales during the winter season.

Skills: Up-selling, talking the talk, making animal sculptures out of spent pantyhose

7. Painter. I painted with this dude who did Marbalux faux-finishing in Italian wedding halls. What a hot mess. I did that until I was 8 months pregnant and then I couldn’t bend over. I actually loved that job and learned a lot, no joke. Painting is all about patience.

Skills: Fucking use a good quality primer, fucking never use alkyd when latex will do, fucking use actual painter’s tape, not dollar store masking tape for a clean line, fucking take down the light switch covers, fucking wrap the brushes and rollers up in cellophane so they don’t dry up, and fucking don’t sit on someone’s white sofa when you have hunter green paint still wet on your ass.

8. Stay at home mom. I had two babies and raised them to be fine upstanding teenage citizens. Both of them are really smart and I drank like a longshoreman while I breastfed them, hahahahahahahahahaha.

Skills: Herding, hoarding, humility

9. Real estate sales. Helped people buy and sell homes. That’s where I started this blog, hoping to help my career and promote community and neighbourhood spirit. Instead I went off on a tangent and ended up telling you stories of how I a rub-a-dubbed a Jamaican man one hot summer night, hahahahahahahahahaha.

Skills: Resume writing

REFERENCES AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: Jamaican dance, jobhunting, jobs, rub-a-dub, writing a resume. 5 Comments

Apr. ’13

Paging Dick Power

So yeah, Spring finally showed up, yay! So yesterday I walked around Leslieville in the blinding sun for a couple of hours while Mike the Mechanic changed my winter tires and performed some other tender loving things to my precious box that is a Scion XB, filter and oil change, et cetera. I window shopped and drifted into some stores, taking street #selfies because that is my hobby. I went to get a drink at one point and I stopped dead in my tracks because parked on the street in front of The Pumps was the car of a dreaded ex-fuckarrhea. It is bad enough running into an ex-lover-type in a controlled environment but most horrifying when you are off-guard, TAKING PICTURES OF YOURSELF like a douchette in front of THE BONE HOUSE because you think it would make a funny cover for your fake on-line magazine/dumb blog. I looked around but I couldn’t see him BECAUSE THE BULLSHIT SUN WAS BLINDING but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see me wherever he was so I took a quick shot (it was too bright for the letters to show up! Damn you, sun!) and stealthily headed back to the mechanic shop. I don’t really care if he sees me, looking like crap with #nomakeup, as time has healed that particular wound into an invisible but tiny, jagged scar in the bottom left hand corner of my calcified heart that I sometimes pick at when I go too far deep-sea diving into the ocean of #sadz, which is hardly ever, but I would just HATE running face up into him and if he was with his new generic wife and then it would be all fight or flight flustered. Since I am entirely made up of chicken shit and apple cider vinegar, I would probably say something rude while running into traffic. Thank Hayzoos there was no encounter and the only person I ran into blocks away was my little soul sister, Ania, who works the front desk at my gym, and she was on her way to her shift. We squealed with glee when we saw each other. Isn’t it funny when you have a sparkly connection with someone who is from a whole different generation? I could have even given birth to her if I was prolific enough to have boned her father when I was 21.

“OMG! Your hair is so shiny!” (that’s me).

“Your hair is so shiny, too!” Her.

“You’ll never guess what I use!” Me.

“I bet I know…” Her.

“APPLE CIDER VINEGAR!” Both of us in unison. Apple cider vinegar a frugal lady’s best beauty secret. We laughed, high fived, and then went about our ways. And then I tripped over a streetcar track because I was wearing flip flops. THAT is the first sign of spring as far as I am concerned.

Last weekend I downloaded all three seasons of the HBO-comedy series “Hung.” José, the butcher, recommended to me last week as I am a power-tv-watching champion and I finished Downtown Abbey (embarrassing) and American Horror Story, Season 1 (awesome). I’m IMDB-ing “Hung” for you so you can check it out but if you are too weak to click, I will give you a quick synopsis: Ray is a forty-something high school gym teacher/coach who is divorced with a twin teenage son and daughter, moves into his parents sweet retro cottage-style home that he inherits but doesn’t insure. There’s a fire and enough damage that he has to live in a tent in the backyard which is by a lake…OMG, I love his little house, even half wrecked, it’s like real estate porn for me! You can have your Downton Abbey drafty mansion but give a tiny bungalow and I will be a happy lady of the cabin-with-the-screened-in porch. SIGH! Anyway, he has to build it back himself but because he is poor American teacher in Detroit, he needs to supplement his income! He has an awkward one-night stand with Tanya, a hippie guest poetry teacher who happens to be in one of those Learning Annex-type business development classes he takes to figure out how to make more money, and he ends up fucking her again (even more badly) because HIDDEN CHEMISTRY… somehow they decide his GINORMOUS dick is his shtick that he needs to market. Ray becomes a man ho, and Tanya is his lady pimp. They call themselves HAPPINESS CONSULTANTS. The synopsis sounds far-fetched but it’s played out brilliantly and makes you think it’s all very plausible. At least I do.

I spent the entire weekend watching all three seasons. The weather outside was shite so I stayed in my jammies and took to the bed. JUST ONE MORE EPISODE, I kept saying, I neglected to shower, ate raw food, I was so consumed in this show. Not since the “Breaking Bad” 48-hour power-watch of January 2012 have I gotten so lost in a tv screen. Last year I wanted so badly to make crystal meth in my basement with my tenant who loves Heisenberg even more than me. He would be Walter and I would his Jessie, this landlady don’t give a fuck. Buck the system! It didn’t happen though, he had better things to do like build a back deck, so don’t go calling the DEA or the RCMP or whoever. The only dodgy thing in the basement is a nest of snakes and I never want to go down there ever again.

NEVER MIND THE METH, NOW I WANT TO BE A LADY PIMP! Specializing in that untapped niche market of men servicing women. Why is this not a popular thing? I have no idea. I’m going to brainstorm some ideas with you, so stifle your judgements while we go through this.

Now on “Hung,” Ray is played by Thomas Jane, who is a handsome All American JCrew-type rocking his forties. He is like a unicorn because he will bone a woman of any age. We all know that in real life, a forty-something man who looks like that always has that arrogant self-entitled pickiness where he would only bang twenty-year bikini models. Let’s face it, women that young are not going to be paying customers. Disgruntled wives, cat ladies, and cougars with their mojo on overdrive with some money to burn are the ones who would pay for the service. I know I would if I wasn’t making up this business plan. But I think if I am going to have some man hos working for me, they would have to be in their twenties just based on boner power, willingness, and stamina. Let’s not kid ourselves, it’s a young man’s game.

And does a man ho have to be well-hung for this career? In my humble opinion, NO! Now that I am old and have seen a variety of penii, I don’t really care about the size. Or girth or whatever the fashion is of the moment. They all have their own personalities and stuff to bring to the table. The penis needs to be demystified if I’m going to be peddling it.

First of all, you can’t tell just by looking at a dude’s hands or feet what size he is. It’s like sometimes when you know a guy and go to his house to meet his dog (not a euphemism) and you think he’s going to have one of those cute Lab/Shepherd crosses and it turns out he has a frightening looking Chinese Crested and you are completely repulsed and you really don’t want to pet it. Or you expect a Jack Russell and you get a Great Dane. Now I am speaking in metaphors: The truth is that as majestical and horse-like a Great Dane is, they only have a life expectancy of 8 years as do other giant breeds, whereas a Jack Russell will be jumping around like a puppy for twice that long. Just saying.

Helmets versus Rockets. If a North American man is of a certain age, born in the 1970s or earlier, he is more likely to be circumcised than not and women of the Sex and the City-era are used to this helmet look to the point where they would shudder in horror if they saw an uncut one. This infuriates me. In praise of rockets, I like me some extra foreskin. Since I was a toddler, I had tactile OCD habits and I would carry my blankie around and run my fingers along the satin edging until it completely wore out. Uncircumcised dicks are an OCD girl’s best stress toy, they remind me of these fun snake water tubes where they slide up and down in your grip and you never want to let go. So. Much. Fun.

I know men have some insecurities about their dicks for whatever reason and they just want approval and for a woman to look at it and say it is the most magnificent thing she has ever seen. For me though, the first time I see a man’s dick, I am going to be shocked no matter what. I’m never prepared for the strange colour, the bulging veins, the shock of pubes or even lack of pubes. But then I gradually get used to it and then it will grow on me. It’s never going to be a love at first sight scenario so just be patient and introduce it gently. The only dick that doesn’t scare the beejezus out of me is my Remainder Man’s (you know, my strictly platonic male friend I go on about ad nauseam who parks his trailer in my backyard and takes me out for beer and wings and cuts down my shrubs, blah blah, etc). Before he became civilized and had all the fun whipped out of him by his heinous girlfriend, he had the most hilarious habit of pulling out his penis in public and slapping it on top of the bar like a floppy eel. I know you’re thinking how vulgar, what about the children, he is a pervert and should be charged with public indecency, etc…Relax, hardly anyone saw and his dick is so friendly and non-threatening, you just want to pet it. In fact it reminds me of my wiggly little dog, Betty. So cute.

So for my Happiness Consulting business (shhh, not lady pimp, this is legit), I would have to hold auditions. Must have dick power but I am more interested in finger and tongue action, those are the gateway tools into a woman’s pleasure zone. So dudes, if you are up for a new career and want to pay of your students loans in a hurry, you know to how to contact me…and ladies (you know who you are), I’ll keep you posted and in the meantime go get a bikini wax and here’s a cute puppy to put you in a happy mood and you know I’m just kidding about all of this, right? #notreally #callme

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: does size matter, HBO Hung, helmet vs rocket, lady pimp, uncircumsised dicks. 2 Comments

Apr. ’13

Brace Yourselves, Spring is Coming

I’m sure you’re not surprised but Miss Contrary, aka moi, is not even remotely excited for spring. It’s not that I like the cold but I just don’t care for all the brouhaha and chores that go into April. Let’s not forget you have to do your taxes, rake all the garbage from your front lawn, get your winter tires changed, clean your front hallway of tiny Pomeranian turdlets that have petrified into the tiles and created a texture that kind of blends in with the slate so maybe just scratch that…and then the worries! Worry about your spring wardrobe, worry about your garden hose (fuck, yes, I worry about my garden hose all winter long, I don’t even know why), worry about what happened to your missed period in March (shut up, it’s coming), worry about North Korea, worry about that garter snake your neighbour saw slither into your basement in the fall and if its going to be waking up from its winter orgy slumber with all its snake friends in a big giant pile of snake salad underneath the pile of crap that didn’t sell at the Italian garage sale. Cannot deal.

Also I have had enough rounds of spring fever to know that where there is hope, there will inevitably be major disappointment.

Yes, spring is exciting, there is definitely a natural mojo boost from extra sunshine, not just those annoying rogue beams that peak out from sides of your drapes when you take to the bed to watch endless hours of Downton Abbey on your laptop. It’s time to get outside, lazy ho!

The warmer weather brings out the people from HBO hibernation and everybody wants to sit on a patio. The pressure is finding the right patio with the optimum possibilities. The perfect patio has all the best sidewalk traffic, with a parade of motley humanity that will keep you entertained. In my neck of the woods, the Beach, it’s all same old year after year: An endless stream of boring ass couples with their ugly strollers and their purebred dogs who lead the way like majestic protectors of their boring ass masters. Why so loyal, dog? You want to say, break free and chase some squirrels and run to the lake and roll in some dead fish. I used to be one of them, my husband and I, and my custom slip covered Peg Perago double stroller…our Shiba Inus used to get loose and bolt every chance they got which was HILARIOUS! *sigh* Was that fun or a pain in the ass? Snap out of it…now I am a crusty, single old bat with just one lunatic mutt who dive bombs for every crumb and canine anus that passes by. Definitely not hilarious. I need new hood and a new game plan, that’s for sure. I have some ideas (which doesn’t include dog training) that I am going to implement this spring and I’m going to share them with you and feel free to comment some pro tips of your own because I love hearing from you:

1. Last post, we discussed the art of flirting and I got a lot of feedback in my in-box. I’m going to read a book, the sequel from the classic “Men Are From Mars, etc” and it’s called “Mars and Venus on a Date” and perhaps we shall discuss it in a future blog post (if I actually get around to reading it). Meanwhile, I feel a million dollar idea coming around like we need another take for the disillusioned souls who have had their heart ripped out and shat on, something like Men Are From Uranus (obviously) and Women Are From Pluto (because that’s a planet that doesn’t even exist and you know how we’re supposed be all like difficult and stuff, *eye roll*). Anyway it’s real time right now and I am back at the same place with Refat, the very same bartender who was ignoring me last post and now even though the place is packed, he came running up to my table which is in the same spot as before. “Can I help you, Miss?” The power of cleavage. “I’d love a pint of Stella Artois, Refat, please!” I know, I sound like one of the dumb cunts on “Downton Abbey” ordering a footman around but I have been fervently watching the show in marathon sessions and it’s given me some lessons in poise and lady manners.

2. I need to find a new crush, speaking of Downton Abbey. One of you wrote me last week and said “I think it’s awful that you would flirt with a married man. I take offence to that!” I apologized profusely because I am stupid but the more I think about it, the more indignant I get. I was married once and I let ridiculous bitches flirt with my husband which only gave him a mojo boost and therefore more cache, and it was beneficial for everyone. So fuck you, I will practise flirting on your husband whoever he is and you will put on your big girl pants and suck it up. Anyway, it’s just FLIRTING and I’m really not that good at it. My current crush, who is tits on a bull when it comes to flirting, is of course married, but to some hooker who runs a tight ship, a lady who most probably has her man’s balls in a vice grip. Men love that type of woman for some reason,I know it’s true because there are entire Tumblr blogs devoted to macerated nutsacks. Anyway, I told my crush I watched an entire season of “Downton Abbey” over the weekend. And he said: “Downton Abbey is a really good show.” Oh… I know, right?. And I, incredulous, said: “But Downton Abbey is a girls’ show.” And he replied, chest deflating: “Well I’m not the one who puts it on.” And then he went about his business with his head down whilst my lady boner wilted to thirty percent of its capacity. I might still carry the tiniest of torches because cute! But! if somehow I find out he is watching “The Bachelor,” which I suspect he is, I will never look at him the same way again. So I need a new crush, one who watches hockey and maybe some reruns of Seinfeld while he is unimpeded to scratch his free wheelin’ balls in front of the lady he loves. Bitch, please, it’s that simple.

3. Laura and I went out on Friday night to see a bar band. We went to Dora Keough which is a pub-type place full of wretched professional drunkards. She and her friends go out regularly and they know how to swill the beers and shake their hips. I am a day person, a vodka drinking hermit, as you know, a reverse vampire who wears pyjamas at 5 pm. Laura is “taking a break” from men because of their tedious game-playing ways. But me, I am always zealously on the prowl, I scanned the room: “Everyone here is a circus freak!” And before y’all accuse me of being a stuck-up picky bitch, I am hot for Louis CK who is a balding, chubby, ginger hunk of cerebral sexiness. So don’t bust my balls if I have a certain standard. Anyway Laura, who is all off the men and not paying attention to anyone but the band, gets asked to dance by a young dude! He is bat-shit crazy but still…we have decided that Laura has some kind of magical powers. a mojo so fierce and fine-tuned that we need to scrape her armpits of her pheromone debris and chemically recreate its essence and we will be rich, I tell ya. To which I ask this question: Would you rather be really rich or have Laura’s sizzling hot fucking mojo? I pick the mojo. The most valuable commodity in the world, in my opinion.

4. It’s time to buy a new vibrator. Just saying.

5. It’s also time to exfoliate. Even though I appear a little bit casual at times (read slovenly), I am massively vain when it comes to skin care. I think if you are a lady of a certain age, you simply have to buck up and get procedures done. In my opinion, you don’t have to spend a shitton of money on skin care at home but where you should drop the big ones is at an aesthetician who doubles as a nurse just as a side job. You need a wand wielding bitch who can shoot out laser beams into those gaping pores and rejuvenate with medical proficiency. Don’t get me wrong, at home I put rotten avocados and honey on my face while I watch my Downton Abbey, but there comes a time for professional restoration. Save your pennies, get some Fraxel or a Vampire Lift, but until then and before you enter another yoga class, get ye a salt scrub even if its from your kitchen cupboard and rub it all over your ass because scaly skin is gross.

6. I’ve been taking some #selfies (don’t judge) for recreation and going all around with the iPhone lens and noticed my Hello Kitty tattoo has changed shape 😦 and even disappears at certain important angles. Ugh! This means a fitness goal of some sort which is something even my lazy ass can handle. For some reason I like the gym (three words: hot tub jets) and if I change my time that I go, I might be able to find a new crush, hence killing two birds with one stone. Snap!

7. I’m going to make a scotch egg. Labour intensive, yes, but my lazy ass enjoys a culinary challenge. Check this out, you will looooove it, it is all about eggs but is sexier than “Game of Thrones.” I’m in love with Heston, is he gay or just British? The scotch egg is around the 12 minute mark but you are going to want to watch the whole thing and maybe make your own mayonnaise, yo. And THAT is not a euphemism.

8. I need to finish watching “Downton Abbey.” I took a break because I was missing something. I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw “Game of Thrones” and I realized it was it was the soft core gratuitous porn of HBO. A lady needs a little porn now and again but maybe my brain doesn’t have to be marinating in it. It’s all about balance. And patience. Speaking of which, once again Refat is completely ignoring me, even though I am stroking my decollete with my fingertips. What the hell?

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: go girl, lady boners, Uncategorized. Tags: Downton Abbey, flirting, scotch egg, spring fever, spring tips. 4 Comments

art of modern living

vodka, good times, urban tales, insomnia

Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Brace Yourselves, Spring is Coming

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