Category Archives: Uncategorized

07

Feb. ’13

Tales Inside the Locker Room: Cat Fight!

cat fight

I don’t hate the winter the way most of y’all do as I figured out how to shut up, strip the ego of any kind of fashion sense, and just ride it like a stallion.  I like the hermit lifestyle but sometimes I need to get out so I go to the gym and get on top of those whirlpool jets just to remind myself I am still alive.

The other day in my gym locker bay, these two women were talking and one was saying how she hated that her husband made them go south (Fabulous Turks and Caicos!) in January because when you get back here (Frozen Turds and Caca!) it’s so depressing and you have to go through major adjustment to acclimate back to the shite weather.  I got what she was saying, I have been on a tropical winter holiday or two and know the misery of which she speaks. You might as well just stick it out all winter and go away in April to get a head start on sun damage.  That is what you call smart hockey.

This other woman, however, was not having any of it and she started shrieking how she hated being cold and what an ingrate this other woman was, “I’m always so cold! Even in the summer I’m cold!  You should be happy to be able to go away!  First world problems, must be nice!”  And all the while she’s sashaying around the locker room stark naked, you can tell some kind tension is building up inside her because all two ounces of random flesh on her bony body is shivering in fear as she slaps on some body moisturizer that smells like the bottom an old purse where some hand lotion had leaked and then some spearmint gum got marinated.  And mens, don’t get excited about the visual of a screaming naked woman because the fluorescent lighting in the locker room made this woman look like Gollum with a blond bob.

But the rest of look like Sirens, so keep up the fantasy.

Meow.  That’s me, getting my hackles up.  Mostly I try and practise my Buddhist-ish dogma of modern living which is to let things go, don’t get attached, blah blah, but I am only a human with surging natural lady hormones that make me bitch with the best of them.

First world problems? I’m getting really tired of people not being able to voice their complaints about how they hate the interior colour of their Lexus without having their heads blown off by the mighty gale of farting whitey righteousness.  When was the last time you bought a goat over the internet for a village in Africa?  Shut up and do it here and let the rest of us use all the discontinued pennies to tile our powder rooms in copper splendour.

Mostly I don’t have time for that certain type of skinny bitch that is constantly complaining in a little girl voice: “I’m so cold!”  Because she wants you to say,”You’re so skinnaaaaay, girlfriend! Eat something!” To which she will respond: “Oh, I eat so much!  I just have a really high metabolism!”  Oh right. If her metabolism was so high, she would be hot, not cold. Hypothermic Hanna is that type of woman we all know, when it is the middle of July and it is one of those nights where you can’t sit inside and everyone in the neighbourhood is out on their porch steps drinking beer out of cans, she is huddled on an uphostered lawn chair drinking a glass of Chardonnay wearing some fat woman’s fat husband’s hoodie that she borrowed and she is just “swimming in it!” It is just “so huge!”  Tee hee!

And the menfolk lap this sort of behaviour up, quivering Chihuahua women make them feel mighty and masculine.  And it’s our own fault because we are constantly pointing out so-called fat asses on normal women. We made the skinny ideal happen, not them. We started buying fat reducing cream from a snake oil salesman who disguised himself as a doctor and coined the term “cellulite.”  There’s no such thing, cellulite is just textured fat that you can see on the skin! It’s got a fancy name because the guy was a Frenchman and they have to put an ostentatious spin on everything. They eat snails and other garden garbage.

If we didn’t become so obsessed about we’d save ourselves a lot of money and grief. If cellulite wasn’t a thing we had to point out to men to sabotage other women, they would never have noticed! If we had kept quiet, they’d be all like getting their dicks into the Rubenesque folds of fat flesh like they did back in the olden times and we all could have had our cake AND wieners. Science has proven men like a fatty!

The good news is that men can be brainwashed into believing anything is hot, it’s all about implementing an elaborate reward system involving basic culinary skills and all kinds ego stroking.  And blow jobs.  The bad news is that it’s probably going to more work than it’s worth to train an entire society of men so it might be just easier just to let Victoria’s Secret rule the world.  Sometimes we women are own worst enemies and my awareness of this does not stop me from having an irrational hate-on for the locker bitch who is just a victim of the vicious cycle that has evolved into modern Photoshop society.

Anyway, I don’t even know this woman’s name but I have seen her around for years.  She *bugs* me.  I have seen her a) wear one of those Canada Goose parkas in May b) run on the treadmill for a solid hour every day for past two years c) order a salad and a Perrier on half price wing night at one of those Firkin places downtown last fall.  It was one those random sightings of someone you know from the gym but they might not recognize you because you are usually naked with a towel turban on your head.  Of course she didn’t acknowledge me because her complete attention was on her salad, she was busy picking out walnuts and hiding the goat cheese under the napkin.  Meanwhile her husband, who was eating wings AND sweet potato fries while washing it all down with a pint like a normal person, was ignoring her because he was too busy texting on his Blackberry. Probably with some other woman who has visible cellulite, the forbidden fruit! Yes, that’s the spin we need to put on it!  Sexy, fleshy lumps, and bumps, rock it!

Back to the situation in the locker room, the Turks and Caicos woman was taken aback and started apologizing, “Oh didn’t mean to sound like a Real Housewife, just saying how tough it is to get back to this weather.”  I don’t know this woman personally either, but I know that she has three young kids, one of them she adopted from Mexico! She is saint! And she also drives a hybrid.

Hypothermic Hanna hissed something inaudible, Turks hissed back, and before you knew it:  CAT FIGHT!  Well that seemed to escalate quickly, there must have been a more interesting background story with these two but I didn’t know what it was, I was just grateful (and beyond thrilled! me likey the drama, it’s like real-life HBO) to be a witness and not a participant.  And no, they didn’t actually physically brawl but there were some harsh words and some locker door slamming.  One of those plastic puffy balls for exfoliating was thrown and hit Turks in the face and that’s about when it came to an end.  In the end, Turks held her own with much dignity, but surprisingly, I had a newfound respect for Hypothermic Hanna and her spectacular unbridled meltdown.  You know, you never know what path a person has been on, maybe she is crazy for a good reason.

So after I got dressed (really quickly, I was still wet in fact), Turks had taken off, I turned to Hypothermic Hanna who was slumped on a stool, still naked and rubbing herself with cream (Gollum! Stick with the proper visual, I am still a bitch after all), “I love the smell of your moisturizer, what is it?”

And she looked up actually seemed to be surprised that I was even there.

“Oh, it’s Aveda, it’s essential oils, it’s supposed to be calming.  I’m so sorry for that outburst.  She’s my sister, she makes me crazy. Her fucking perfect life, with her fucking perfect husband, and her fucking perfect kids in their fucking perfect house.”

Oh!  Well that all makes sense now!  Heavy emphasis on the f-bombs, bitter and beaten down, she is obviously the Fredo of the family!  The light was cast, and that was when I took her under my soft downy wing and after she got dressed, we went upstairs and had a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio (yes, the gym has a bar, why have you not joined?) and she told me all about her childhood and how her sister stole all the thunder and got all the good Barbies and she just had a one Midge whose hair she cut off in a rage.  Surprise.

It turns out her name is Kathleen, but when they were little, her sister couldn’t pronounce it so they called her Kat and it stuck. LOL.

lolcat scratching post gif

Posted by . Categories: go girl, LOCAs gone wild, Uncategorized. Tags: , . 1 Comment

02

Jan. ’13

Every Family Has A Fredo

Unknown

Happy New Year, peeps!  The holidays are a massive bitchfest, aren’t they?  So many elephants in all the living rooms of all the suburban/urban bourgeoisie, thank the gods of groceries that there are enough peanuts wreaths and brie wheels to keep them fat and fed that they don’t notice that they are vulture fodder.  Elephants are too busy being elephantile to notice the other animals and their ridiculous habits.

It occurred to me that this year I am the 2012 Grand Elephant that they squawked about when I finally left the room to give birth to the yule log that was stuck up my proverbial chimney/colon because I forgot to drink coffee on Christmas morning: “If only she would find an age appropriate man….she should go to teacher’s college…she should sell Avon….why doesn’t she do something with her hair?…et cetera…”  They worry about me, I guess.  Every family has a Fredo.

Oh well, I’d rather be a big honking elephant than a meerkat or some other dumbass creature that moves in packs indistinguishable from each other, and dispensable because they are ALL THE SAME… even if they are so cute (stop reading this shit right now and run and go see the film “The Life Pi” now and you will know what I mean).  Don’t kid yourself either, Golden Child, I bet even you have a massive trunk and a curly tail that have been whispered about in by the light of the downstairs beer fridge by your relatives at least at one point.

Anyway, I have resolutions and inspiring thoughts for the new year that you can use too and best of all, they don’t involve cutting out carbs because CARBS ARE AWESOME:

DON’T BE SO HARD ON YOURSELF!

HVVQS

I just spent the better part of the last decade beating myself up for all my mistakes but what is the point in that? Then I made the same mistakes all over again just so I could beat myself up more! I’m addicted to self-loathing! Why not just go out and get a bunch of piercings? Instead, I’m going to do more yoga but not that crazy Bikram because it makes me get all in my head and completely lose my humour and I need it for blogging purposes.  There’s a class called “Restorative” where you lay around for 90 minutes and pull off 5 poses and the teacher, who is actually a crazy bitch who will run you over in the parking lot, comes around and massages your temples with lavender oil and makes you feel like everything is going to be alright, Jesus Christ Superstar-style.  I’m telling you, she is a genius, and when you walk out of the class, you feel like you had a sexy nap by the ocean and dare I say it, you feel like you can conquer the world.  Roar!

PUT A POSITIVE SPIN ON WHAT YOU PERCEIVE AS NEGATIVE!

tumblr_m4r5angyeE1qdtp27o1_400

I know a lot of people are talking about “gratitude journals” and you should write about what you are grateful for everyday and then as if by osmosis, your life will change for the better.  Let’s not kid ourselves, we all know what you’ll have by the end of the year:   A leather-bound book with two pages of tentative chicken scrawl:  “I got a parking spot at the liquor store!” and the phone number for Pizzaiolo on the back. Rather than waste time on a journal that will only embarrass with its lack of entries, why not join Instagram and put all your pictures of pizza slices on there?  When you scroll back through it at the end of the year, you will be satisfied with all the glorious food you have eaten and the weight you gained won’t be in vain.  Social media rocks!  Also with Pinterest  I put up pictures of shoes I want and this ring I love, I want it so bad it hurts:

douchebagengagement1

 

I’m just putting it out in the universe so that in case I find an age appropriate man with a bank account and a human name, he can get me this and I would be ever so grateful that I would take a picture of it on Instagram #diamondsareagirlsbestfriend!

REAPPLY YOUR LIPSTICK AND BRUSH YOUR HAIR!

I know, this seems like a no-brainer but the other day, I dumped out the contents of my purse and 8 tubes of lipstick and an owl shaped lip gloss (and yes, I took a picture of it and put it on Instagram), I realized I only put on slap in the morning so by the time it’s 11:00 (aka, beer o’clock), it has been licked off by my voracious tongue and completely ingested by lunch.  By mid-afternoon my lips are all cracked and gunky, what is the point of that?  Who is going to buy a ring for a woman with meth lips? Reapply, lazy ho!  And if you insist on growing your hair long, stop all this OCD twirling and chewing and brush it once in a while.  Oh, and use Moroccan oil to make it smooth and maybe run a straightening iron through it. Your hair represents the state of your mental health, so pick the french fries out of it before you go out in public.

FINISH WHAT YOU START!

Seriously, I have to finish my book except I have to inject some mommy porn into it.  My friend is making me read “50 Shades of Grey” so I can be inspired.  It’s so embarrassing!  But I will fake it until I make it and maybe it will all work out. So much heavy breathing and nipple clamping, I don’t really get it.  Other than that, I have to finish plastering my roof from that leak I had two years ago, it’s such an eyesore but I just don’t see it anymore.  Although this is why I need a man around, don’t get all in my grill, I do all the other crappy blue chores (garbage, lawn mowing) along with the shitty pink ones (picking gunk out of the dishwasher jets, cleaning toilets), that just for once I need a handy man to impress me with his tool belt.  Why is the universe so goddamned hard of hearing?  Is the universe too busy to read my blog?  She sighs heavily, her breasts heaving up and down like two scoops of Heavenly Hash ice cream.  Just practising mommy porn.

By the way, in India they worship elephants as a symbol of the Highest True Self.  So there, Pinterest this under I WANT:

amazing-tattoo

 

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , , . Leave a comment

13

Dec. ’12

Merry Tips for Christmas Sloths

American-Horror-Story-2x08-Unholy-Night3-300x236I know some of you are all faking it when it comes to Christmas spirit because of the way you grumble and moan about “getting ready” for one day out of the year. Stop, STAHP. Take a page from my book, The Sloth’s Guide to Successful Modern Living, the Christmas Chapter…just breathe and drink:

1. Hang some lights.  I love the Vegas style lighting displays that people put on, it’s never too much.  Unlike those Halloween decorations that people put up in early October where it looks like a dollar store barfed up on their front lawns, a bazillion Christmas lights is always welcomely festive. And it’s never too soon. Nowadays, because all the lights are dim LED, you can’t have enough because of their inherent ugliness, we have slowly gotten used to over the years, more is more.  Lazy sloth pro-tip:  After Freddy told me my single strand of tiny purple lights plopped up on top of a shrub was “lame,” I just kept going back to Canadian Tire every few days and picked up more lights one box at a time and then added to the nest of luminance strand by strand. There is still is not enough!  It is a refined display that keeps growing but as long as OCD Christmas mongers like exist, there is no point competing:

2. Get a tree.  I have two trees.  One is a fake one that I put in the upstairs living room.  It is my anal retentive theme tree that is a wire mesh base, with pink garland, feathers, butterflies, and glittery things that look like fireworks.  I’ve been putting it up for 7 years and putting the same shite on in year after year, I can do it blindfolded.  It is a sloth’s dream, it doesn’t shed, nothing breaks and it packs away easily.  The other tree is real and lives in the main floor ashram, aka. the room with the big tv and the HBO connection. It’s a tall, messy bitch and it sheds and drinks constantly…oh! just like me!  It smells nice though and it is full of all the mish-mash nostalgic decorations of Christmases past.  Sometimes a sloth has to step up her game because as much work as a real big ass tree is, it’s worth it. Here they both are, my pretties:

pink fake tree

real tree

<fake real>>>>>

I know everybody thinks their own tree is beautiful, like their own babies even if their faces are whacked and their heads are lumpy.  I find other people’s trees (and babies) weird looking.  I have a friend who puts up a fake tree, not a groovy one, but the kind that tries to pass itself off as real but is all perfectly uniform and dusty looking.  Her ornaments are all the same theme, those stupid Nutcracker soldiers and white lights, and spaced perfectly apart.  It’s so ugly, I get depressed when I see it. I had a hard time believing her tree brings her any joy so I brought her a fun little ornament I handcrafted, a little hanging voodoo doll to spice up the soldiers, like this:

voodoo ornament

Cute, right?  Well she didn’t like it because it she didn’t put it on her tree, “I like it for the powder room, ” she said. Never mind, different strokes for different bitches. The important point here is that even as a sloth, you can make your own gifts and ornaments.  If it is an Amish enough activity, like sewing a bunch of buttons on blob body, or popcorn threading, you can do it while watching tv.  And the tv to watch is all those shmaltzy Christmas movies on the W Network that are running on a loop for the month of December. Right now I am watching the one where Sabrina the Teenage Witch kidnaps Mario Lopez and pretends he is her boyfriend to make her parents happy and zaniness ensues, a misunderstanding breaks them apart but SPOILER ALERT: love prevails, just like real life. LOL.

3. Bake something. It’s not that hard if you do it in stages.  I find a lot of Christmas cookie recipes require that the dough needs to be refrigerated for a few hours. This is a sloth’s dream. So if you make the dough, wrap it up, stuff in fridge, maybe wait a day or even a fortnight in order to forget about what a chore it all was, all you have to do is pull it out and chop it up Pillsbury-style onto a cookie sheet covered in parchment paper! No mess, lazy ho! I go to a cookie exchange party with a bunch of broads who were an off-shoot of another cookie exchange slash world’s most dysfunctional book club. Among these ladies, there were mini-feuds and petty quarrels and then there was an incident that is now known as the “Battle of Eat, Pray, Love” and that was when I knew I actually had a murderous side.  Best just quit that bitch, I thought. So the new group formed and last week’s gathering was our second year, we call ourselves the “rebel cookie exchange” because we allow squares.  Cookie exchanges are a great way to mix up your stash, catch up with your posse, drink wine and start wearing stretch pants because this is the beginning of the annual Super Big Bloat. Good times.

4.  Don’t shop. I’m over it. My kids are old and they are going to get practical gifts like socks and Canesten.  I am not going to a mall, no way, no how.  I do not want more stuff in my house, I just got rid of a truckload of crap in the summer during my Italian job garage sale.  If they open up their presents and are saddened and disappointed, they will thank Santa Cunt later on when they have cold feet and itchy poonanis.  Ho ho ho.

5.  Drink all day.  A while ago when I was in London close to Christmas, I went to Liberty’s Department store which is like retail heaven.  It was so civilized that they were serving mulled wine.  I didn’t really think I’d like it… I don’t like warmed up booze, what if the alcohol evaporates and all you are left with is some spiked mushy fruit?  It seems like too much work to eat to get a buzz.  But not the case!  This mulled wine was fantastic and! it was made with WHITE wine…this is key to drinking in large quantities.  Red wine always makes your teeth all black and your innards pickle even before you can get properly loaded.

This is an easy recipe that will make use of your old crockpot and some of those temperamental Clementines that you are now probably sick of…seriously, how does a fruit rot so fast? You know it’s over when you’re on your third box and the entire bottom layer is covered in blue moss. Try and salvage some for this. Here it goes:

Set up crock pot to “Warm”

Dump in a box (3 or 4 liters) of white wine, I don’t care what kind, but I bet even Reisling will work if you think about because it’s already sweet

Pour in some brandy or Cointreau (about a mickey’s worth)

Some sugar to taste, 1/4 to 1/2 cup-ish

Add some cinnamon sticks, cloves and Clementine slices (or oranges)

Let it simmer there for hours while you nip and sip all day.

Pro tip:  When you are holiday slothing, always wear clean pyjamas during the high season because you never know who will stop by.  Sometimes Santa hears your plaintive wails while you are watching “The Loneliest Christmas Angel Ever” starring Heather Locklear  and he might send a FedEx man to deliver you a package.  Magic happens this time of year, if you believe.

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , . 1 Comment

08

Dec. ’12

A Man, a Plan, a Canal, Panama

tumblr_m936eyNtu81qdvatvo1_500

I’m in the midst of my first teenage parenting issue.  I’m forcing Freddy, age 16, to get his lifeguard certification. It’s 2 weekends, 10 hours a day, 4 hours on Friday.  In a pool.  I get it, gross.  Public water is the worst: the fear of accidently swallowing one of those mysterious floating seahorse shaped booger blobs, there are always band aids at the bottom, and micro germs you can’t see but you can feel crawling in all your orifices.  He HATES it and it’s only Day One.  As a young child, he was stubborn with a hot little temper when you had to move him from Point A to Point B, but once you got him to Point B, you couldn’t get him back home, he was having such a good time.  He would throw a screaming fit.  I shamed him out of that behaviour and by the time he hit his teenage years, all that was left from his tantrumming ways was a low incoherent grumble and cute little flaring nostrils.

Except for this lifeguard thing.  When he came back last night, his rage was palpable.  His usual lanky,carefree body was all stiff and tense, he looked like he was going to explode, steam was coming out of his ears, he hissed:  “I do not want to go back.”

“But it’s paid for, you have to go.”

“I will pay double to get out of it.”  Yeah, right.

“You need this for your camp counselling in the summer and you can also get a lifeguard job with the city and make $18 an hour.”

“I told you I want to work in a grocery store AND STOCK TRISCUIT BOXES ON THE SHELF!”

“Nice work if you can get it, Freddy, but you are still going to have to go.”  I think I like him all full of rage, he enunciates better, I still can’t decipher most that teenage mumbling.

Of course, I pulled the “when your grandpapa was your age, he was storming Normandy” card.  And the “when I was your age, I had to do things my parents made me do that I hated.”  I went to charm school every Saturday morning.  I would waaay rather have swam in cold urine than sit in a circle jerk with a group of fugly teenage Jewish princesses discussing nose jobs and their Sweet 16 parties. We are all there to learn correct posture and the proper way to sit in a chair without showing off our meat departments.

Anyway, off he went this morning, grumbling something about hell to pay.  Honestly, kids today.

I’m just trying to save him from having an existential crisis like his mama, which brings me to Part Two of the VAMPIRE LIFT from previous post.

I called my mother last week, in melt-down mode.  I need steady job and career path, all this freelance hustle business is for extroverts, not Jungian introverts like moi.  If there were jobs like shepherding or lighthouse keepers in this city, I would be so down (as the kids say:  “down” means “in”, they keep changing prepositions probably to keep us from figuring out what they are up to:  I’m at school probably means they are under a bridge smoking a doobie).  This was our conversation.

Mother:  “I always told you that you should have gone to teacher’s college.”

Me:  “What?  You never said that, when did you say that?”

Mother (ignoring the question because she actually never said out loud  “go to teacher’s college”):  “It’s not too late you know, you are still young, you’ll have a pension…”  Some more blah, blah, blahs.  The word “pension” makes me sick to my stomach.  I secretly am hoping this Mayan calendar comes through because you know, pensionless.

Me:  “But you need a bachelor’s degree to go to teacher’s college and then you need to actually go to teacher’s college.It’s like years.”  I hate school, at least I think I do, maybe I’d like it now that I am old and can sit still and proactively do kegels or whatever.

Mother:  “You have a bachelor’s degree already.”

Me:  “Oh!  Right!  Huh.  Where is it?”

Mother:  “I gave it to you a long time ago.  I hope it didn’t end up in that fire.”

Ugh, that fire in the old house also makes me sick to think about so when I got off the phone, all I could think was “must get to teacher’s college” because that is how powerful force my mother is, but first I have to find my degree that I completely forgot I had, it’s a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Concordia University.  For some reason I had it in my head that I didn’t finish it and lied to everyone that I did.  Seems like something I would do.

Do I actually want to go to teacher’s college?  Not so much.  I don’t even really like children, they make me nervous, they always stare at you eerily and have no filters and they have no qualms pointing out the hairs you forgot to pluck. Besides there is a surplus of wannabe teachers these days all pension-hungry so maybe not such smart hockey.  But! I could get a teaching certificate  to teach English as a second language, and then maybe can blow this shitty hog town and move Costa Rica or Panama and teach English. The ultimate plan! Fuck yeah!  Let’s go find that degree.

It was in the basement, the first place I looked, bottom drawer, middle filing cabinet.  I consider that a sign from the gods. I don’t believe in struggling to success, in my opinion it either happens freely or it ends in colossal failure.  Show me the path of least resistance and I will you how a sloth can bust a move from Point A to B, Gangnam-style.

I stayed in the basement for a while because there were drawers filled with old photos that I completely forgot about. As an aside, I think my tenant has a cat because I found an empty box of anti-furball cat treats…?  Or is that just something young people are into now? Anyway, I found this photo of me as a young Elvis Presley looking lovingly at the back of my nephew’s head, like I am his spiritual guide, talk about the blind leading the blind…and then I remember it was he who didn’t finish his degree! So finish your degree, Arne, you might need it in 20 years:

me and arne

He’s like, ugh, let’s go grab a drink or whatever.

The same day I ran into David, a fitness instructor at my gym.  David is my Personal Jesus, I love him so much.  He is on my Top Ten Favourite People list, which includes celebrities but excludes people I am related to because there are so many loveable Petersons and I would feel bad if I left Furious Freddy off that list…just jokes, I love my Freddy, I just wish he wasn’t so stubborn and listen to his mama.

David calls me Freddy, by the way, always with exclamation point, like “Freddy!  What’s up?” That day, it was:

“Freddy!  I’m reading this book called “The Plan” by Lyn-Genest Recitas. Do you know what are the four worst things for your health?”

I know this is a trick question and it’s going to be thought-provoking because he’s all excited about it.  Crystal meth is pretty bad, but that’s too obvious.  Self-loathing? Anxiety?  That’s bad for your health, I have those problems, it makes me chew my nails and probably ingest all kinds of bacteria, including my own candida.  If you know what I mean.

“Too much sodium is one,” he says, “Not enough water is another.  And over-training.  Do you know what the fourth one is?  I’ll give you a clue, it’s a not enough one”

I can’t follow this conversation.  There’s always a new plan or some new diet with new rules.

new-diet-tips

 

“It’s not about a diet,the book is about everything,” he says,” The fourth one is NOT ENOUGH SEX.”

Oh, great, I really am going to close over and die re-virginized.

“What if you don’t have anybody?”  I protested.

“That’s what fingers are for, Freddy!” he says.

Oh how laughed.  I’m going to live forever then.  With carpal tunnel and no pension.  Good times.

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , . 1 Comment

06

Dec. ’12

The Vampire Lift

you-ever-see-a-photo-of-yourself


Last week I while I was in the apogee of yet another existential crisis, my friend texted me and asked if I could come to her medical injection spa the next day to be a model demo for a “Vampire Lift.”  That is upside of being a floundering fuck-up, people think about you not because they feel sorry for you but because they know you have the time in the day and the motivation in case they want to practise tattooing fancy fonts on live human skin or the latest techniques in medical spa treatments.  I am so down with being a guinea pig.  I will inject anything anytime. Call me!

“Yes! I want a vampire lift!” I immediately texted back. I had heard of it before on one of those lady talk shows like the Doctors. It’s a PLP treatment and the groovy name “Vampire Lift” has been registered trademarked by some douche doctor who didn’t even invent the procedure so don’t look for it on the menu of your favourite injection spa. He probably googles it and is going to demand me to pay him for blogging about so I’m going to tag it and title and write in bold:  VAMPIRE LIFT.  Catch me if you can.  And bring your magic wand with you.

PLP is not like filler per se, so it’s not about trout lips, but it can be used with a filler for multi-tasking purposes.  It is as sinister as it sounds: It involves drawing a vial of your own old bat wine-soaked blood, then putting it in a centrifuge for a few minutes, separating the red blood cells and plasma. The red blood cells are the shite part, and get dumped, but the golden plasma (platelet-rich plasma, known as PLP) is the stuff they inject into your old battered skin, tricking the cells into thinking there is injury and thus increasing the production of collagen. Young people produce collagen without thinking about it or even knowing what it is or how to spell it. But when you get old, you and your skin don’t want do anything but hang out on the couch under a blankie.  Fuck that tedious collagen production, your skin says, what has collagen done for me lately?  I’m so tired.

Sometimes a lady needs a kick in the sweatpants.  So off I went to the spa which was on Yonge and Davisville. I always forget that you need to dress up before you go to a place that isn’t the Home Depot, otherwise you will feel like a giant awkward wildebeest that had rolled in a dumpster because everyone there is sleek and beautiful, flittering round in spike heels and black pencil skirts. They all seem to be making barrels of collagen without any labour disputes at all.  I am soaking wet from the rain, wearing half pajamas, half saggy jeggings and I had just eaten a 6-inch Subway sandwich and had a black olive stuck in my teeth the entire time.  Whatevs.  In the corner, there is a cheese platter, hallelujah, and I plunk myself down beside it, digging into a wedge of brie with a plastic fork, I work hard for my snacks.  It’s a special event day, and my treatment is going to be in front of an audience.

Another thing I hate about spas, aside from feeling like a circus freak and my arms and legs are on backwards, is that it all your flaws pointed out and discussed so casually.

“What are your concerns about your appearance?” asked the glamourous spa greeter who looked like Veronica from Betty and Veronica.  Me so jelly.  She had one of those shiny blue reflections when the light her jet black hair just so.

This is me responding:  “Uhhh-m, I’m here umm cuz Connie called me for like, the vampire thing like, umm…”

The fugly is just flowing freely out of my pores.

Veronica:  “Is there any area you are particularly concerned about?  What about redness around the cheeks…rosacea?” (Yet another fucking word old bitches need to spell check).

Me, rubbing my nose: “Ummm, well, no, I just like, broke a blood vessel on my nose once, like when I pushed a baby out, the first one…Like it wasn’t there when I went to the hospital, like ummm…when the baby came out then it like, just appeared…like, it probably burst when I was pushing, it took hours, and that’s why it’s so red there, like, on that side of my nose. Also I like my wine, you know, like, ladies like wine, so, like, maybe the little blood vessels break then. I guess I don’t really care like they will always be breaking because I will either be pushing something out, like sometimes when I don’t drink I get constipated so I have to push hard, maybe not pushing out a baby hard but still maybe I’ll be breaking some more capillaries pushing out a hard poop…or drinking more, whatever, I can’t win either way so I don’t really care if they are there or not…”

It’s one of those times where you know you are talking but you don’t know what you are saying. Luckily she let that one go.  One woman’s rosacea is another woman’s drunken diary I guess. Jesus Christ, if I didn’t have rosacea I would look like a dead fish.  She did tell me I would benefit from filler on the cheekbones to pull up the jowls.  Fuck yes, I want that.  That is the secret to Angelina Jolie’s success, people, she has so many injections that she doesn’t need her skeleton anymore. Her cheekbones look like awnings and keeps the rest of her face from getting sun damaged. That is what we call smart hockey.

On we went to the “Injection Room.”  A group of ladies were all huddled by the bed I was about to lie on.  The nurse that was going to do the procedure was Wes, a tall handsome dude, and super-excited to jab and stab:  “We’re going to get those lines on your neck and all that crepey skin around your eyes, and in 3 weeks, you are going to glow!”  He was like Edward Needlehands.  You could tell he was born to stick things into people. It’s always good to make a career out of your passion, says Oprah.

But first they made me stand along the wall and take a “Before” picture.  With her i-Pad, Veronica snapped a photo, and then putting it on a app that should be called “Uglify” she held up my photo….aaaaand it looked like this:

charlize-theron-in-monster

Call me “Monster.”  Okay this is Charlize Theron, which makes me feel better because the spa photo would have ruined my day if I wasn’t already so filled with anxiety.

“This shows where all the sun damage occurred and where she will need treatment and what will be most beneficial for her in the future,” she is holding up the i-Pad to the group, who are all surprisingly not vomiting. Wes,in the meantime, was gleefully drawing blood from my veiny hand.  Someone in the audience pipes up, “What about her nasal labial folds?’  And that’s pretty much enough of that story I want to tell.

No, it didn’t hurt. It’s a tiny needle and a lot of quick pricks and it’s done in less than 5 minutes, that’s what she said.  I left the spa looking a little swollen and puffy with a slightly bruised ego.  The next day I woke up and everything was smoother than normal, at least on the outside, still turmoil on the inside.  And two days later my skin feels almost slippery, not its usual cat tongue texture, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my bank machine where I usually glare at myself in disgust, I actually thought hey! I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! And witty and bright!  Collagen is back from vacay and pumpin’ up the volume! Although when I close my eyes I still see the monster in the mirror and my existential angst rages on.  If my skin can get its mojo back, maybe I can too?

What’s it all about, Alfie?  Ugh, that’s the tune that runs through my head when I get like this. This is a two-parter post because I need to tell you about what my mother said, the book David is reading, and what I found in my basement.  Who is David? Just settle down, you’ll find out tomorrow, in the meantime, my rosacea is calling and wants me to break some blood vessels Pinot Grigio-style whilst I centrifuge (word of the day) my thoughts.

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , . Leave a comment

27

Nov. ’12

You Got Me Dickmatized

I got 99 problems but a dick ain’t one.

I’m going to be solving some of YOUR problems further down this post but first bear with me, I want to talk about “Liz and Dick” which I watched on Sunday with ardent interest. I simultaneously read the tsunami of barf on Twitter but I really don’t think it was all that bad, so sue me, and I will argue that Lindsay Lohan was the perfect choice to play Elizabeth Taylor.  Liz was as hot a mess as La Lohan back in her heyday, so it was like a film within a film, wrapped in crazy. Real Liz stole husbands and turned into a fat, sloppy caftan wearing drunk coaster.  As an actress, she wasn’t really all that by today’s standards.  She was either breathy or shrill and over-acted like she was in a high school play.  She wasn’t even that hot, she wore a fuckton of makeup and for Godsake, people, her eyes were not violet, they were blue with flecks of brown. It’s a trick, I tell you.

I don’t know why I had always been under a rock when it came to anything to do with Liz Taylor, I guess I was too cool at the time to be interested in her “iconic” movies like National Velvet. I hate horses, I’m not afraid to rub my own vagina. Her kind of glamour was tacky to me. Diamonds and all that shit make my eyes glaze over in boredom, even to this day. By the time I was old enough to care about all things Hollywood, she was getting married to that mullet dude, Larry Fortensky,which was a supposed scandal because he way younger than her and Cougar Movement hadn’t really been invented yet.  I guess she should win my respect because she was a pioneer for the likes of moi, giving old bitches hope for fresh bone. She was also an awesome fag hag, and a truly great humanitarian that will become a whole other biopic, starring Madonna, duh.

It’s not just Liz, it’s Dick who I am really grooving to. My only knowledge of their story together was basic: They met making “Cleopatra,” they got married, divorced, and then remarried.  How romantic.  Oh, and he bought her lots of jewelry, including this honking ring bling:

That was her “everyday” ring, the Krupps diamond, that she wore to glue on her false eyelashes and toss back the cocktails.  The Taylor-Burton diamond was a pear shaped Cartier diamond that she wore as a necklace that cost him over a million dollars. Jelly?  Don’t be. Red flag.

Never trust a dude who buys you a million dollar diamond.  Think about it.  Do you think a normal guy cares about accessories?  Aside from an engagement ring that he supposedly spent 3 months salary on but didn’t really because he got it at Costco and the same Marquise cut (yuck) diamond would cost five as much at Tiffany’s so be happy, bitch, he might buy you a present now and again. Perhaps a pair of opal studs for your birthday, a charm for your bracelet on your anniversary, or if he is away on a European business trip, he might pick up a pearl necklace at the airport duty-free because he feels slightly guilty that he went to that massage “spa” in the hotel lobby and paid the extra 20 euros for the cabeza.  All these are good reasons for giving you jewelry but he if, out of the blue, feels the need to buy you the biggest motherfucking diamond in the world, then it’s not about you, it’s about him and the headlines it’s going to make. Classic narcissist.

Narcissists are very charming, good-looking, charismatic, and when they set their sights on their prey, they will do anything to get it.  That was Dick when he was starring with Liz in “Cleopatra.”  And she dumped Eddie Fisher (seriously, Liz, what the fuck marrying him in the first place?) and he dumped his long-suffering wife who was the mother to his daughters, so that they could bask in the glory and beauty of their love, blah blah blah, drunkity ever after.  Insults, jealous rage, blow ups, and hot make up sex. Good times.  Oh, and they lived on a yacht for some reason.  Taxes or something, make a note of that, maybe the taxman can’t swim.

They both got bloated, somebody fell and got paralyzed, I’m not sure who because I was reading the Twitter feed, but I think it was Dick’s brother (who was his father figure and Voice of Reason) and they divorced and remarried.  That’s the thing about narcissists, they get under your skin like ticks.  So Liz took him back, even though he was a big embarrassing baby about losing two Oscars, but he gave good jewelry which must have made her feel important. It’s sad really.

But at the end of all that mess, I thought if I were to get a diamond ring, I would like one that didn’t rip pantyhose or get mangled in a toilet paper wipe down, maybe something kind of Asscher cut in a deco setting…anyway, just saying.  On to your problems.

Thank you for writing to me and giving some blog fodder!  Remember, I am not a therapist, marriage counselor, or child-rearing expert, so take my advice with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila:

My wife and I are both in our early 40’s and have been married for 7 years, our son is 5, and I the last time we had sex was 4 years ago. He was born in 2005, and I think we had sex maybe 3 or 4 times afterward. It was short and quick each time where as before the baby we would make love everywhere and all the time. It just stopped one day, she said she had a yeast infection on our anniversary when we got her parents to babysit our son for the weekend when we went to Niagra Falls.   A week turned into a month, and now the months have been turning into years, four years!  What should I do? I am at the end of my rope.

Oh, the proverbial rope! With it’s frayed edges and slippery grip. It’s so hard to hold on especially with all those itches to scratch.  All those numbers! You’re making me do math, luckily I am more Aspergery than you.  If you are in your early forties, married for 7 years, it means you got married in your mid-thirties. Hasn’t anyone ever told you about 35 year old women?  Some science journal and a Time cover has deemed it that their 35-year-old eggs are still considered reasonably farm fresh and it is a fast train to Barren City after that.  Fact. If they have baby fever, they will marry any thing with a front fly in order to reproduce.  Of course you boned like rabbits before the baby, she was trying to get pregnant.  Those 3 quickies you had after the baby was born were called mercy fucks to keep you in a holding pattern.  Good news:  Since it’s been 4 years since your last encounter, your sperm donor duties are probably not in demand.  Let go of the rope, bro!  And get ye to the nearest oyster bar!

I hope I am not being too harsh but I’ve seen it this before, time and again. People are just taking to long to procreate because they have careers and such that they need to nurture first, that’s why you are chosen over the hot bartender she used to bone in college and probably should have had his baby in the first place because his masculine badassness was probably better for evolution and the sake of humanity in the long run. Swing that desparate rope in any direction and it will inevitably land on the head of the nearest dumbass whose dick is pointing due north. And yet! still a better love story than Twilight.

I’m still obsessing over Liz and Dick. They had the sense not to procreate. Here’s a classic scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf:

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , . 1 Comment

21

Nov. ’12

The Sinner’s Guide to Successful Modern Living

 

I am Sinner, hear me roar.

This week I am on one of my boring austerity programs where I don’t drink.  It’s just like Juiceless January but only a week long. It’s not a “cleanse.”  Please, this lady is clean as a whistle. Don’t hate me because I am so boring.  I just like to torture myself once in a while with depravation because I am a card-carrying Glutton and I need reign it in once awhile otherwise I will go off-balance and miss out on my other favourite sins.  I will be too fat to fuck and too drunk to follow the plot of this season’s American Horror Story Asylum.  Let me explain.

As you know, the Seven Deadly Sins are: Gluttony, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Pride, Greed, and Wrath.  Whoever made this up was not thinking of a progressive society.  Supposedly these are all traits than can lead to the degradation of humanity, blah, blah, blah….According to lore, each of these sins has an opposing “virtue”  which are in order from the above: Temperance, Diligence, Chastity, Kindness, Humility, Charity, and Patience. They all sound like trippy hippy names. Most of these so-called virtues are self-imposed righteousness, and at least one of them is not worth having, and you know which one I mean.

I do not personally grapple with any of the so-called “Seven Deadly Sins.”  I think they are best when performed in tandem for the most effective results.  For example, I am never more content and in tune with myself when I am practicing the art of sloth and gluttony, or “sluttony” as I like to call it.

Sometimes one sin can lead to a chain reaction of sins and virtue which can be hilariously tragic:  I have this Facebook friend who is rocking his 50’s as a retired rich bastard.  Every day he diligently posts pictures of different women who hanging out at his house, drinking wine without their tops on, wearing only thong underpants.  The chicks are all half his age!  And he is so proud, just like a peacock!  So we click the “like” on the photo of the Asian girl with the face of a 300 year old vampire who is sitting uncomfortably on one bony ass-cheek on top of his piano, not because she is hot, but because we are kind…and jealous as fuck that he can afford a hooker every night of the week!  All that outside validation must make him perform like a boss, even though he probably most definitely has erectile dysfunction. It is all so awesome.

Gluttony vs. Temperance:  I have so much praise for Gluttons, I don’t know where to begin. Gluttons are more fun, hands down. If you win an all-inclusive vacay, you want to take a glutton with you because they will show you a good time. Gluttons are troopers who will never say no to ice cream, even if they are lactose intolerant:  Oui, c’est moi. I love the word “gluttony” because it sounds like “glug” which makes me think of beer. Beer is a beautiful beverage, and if you are going to be a glutton, an ale cleanse is the way to go to freshen everything up, hangover prevention and cure all in one.  Gluttony also sounds like “gluten.” If you are someone who is full of temperance, you are probably on a gluten-free diet because you think it makes you bloated.  It doesn’t.  You are bloated because you are a gas bag.  GTFO and deflate outside.

Sloth vs. Diligence:  Modern day sloth is synonymous with tv watching.  You really think should be doing something else but have you seen what’s on HBO?  The last decade has produced some pretty awesome shows and if you are one of those people that says: “I don’t watch tv,” you are a fucking liar and/or a loser.  “I’m so busy, I don’t have time.”  More lies.  It’s always those “I’m-so-busy” people who claim to not watch tv, who are the ones who know the names of every Real Housewife in any given city. If Anderson Cooper has time to watch Honey BooBoo, then you have time to watch American Horror Story Asylum, preferably with me so we can talk about it afterwards. Did you know you can multi-task while you watch tv, Busy Bee? That is why God invented ironing boards.

Lust vs. Chastity:  Okay, lust can lead to a lot of stupid things like a wardrobe full of leopard print, stained furniture, miscommunication and a few sessions with a therapist who has to explain to you, ad nauseam, the difference between lust and love.  I still don’t get it, but whatevs, maybe one day I will have an epiphany…until then I’ll be clearing the pipes with battery operated devices. It still counts. Dry spells scare me so much that I think I am going to shrivel up, close over and die re-virginized. What would be the point of revering Chastity? Tits on a bull.  Even Chastity became Chaz.

Envy vs. Kindness:  If I wasn’t so jealous all the time, I would be dead.  Seriously, jealousy is what keeps me my breathing reflex functioning. The seething green vapours keep the air passages clear.  Envy provides motivation. Sometimes I stumble upon another person’s blog, and it’s so good that I get all my hackles up that I want to make mine better. Whenever I have crush on someone, it inevitably turns out he is married or has some hooker fetish.  The level venomous jealousy that surges through my system could kill cancer cells.  This is just natural instinct that people need to have, not sin per se, in order to progress and propagate. Kindness is for pussies. Darwin’s law goes like this: See, want, turn green, kill that bitch in the way, and get.

Pride vs.Humility:  This is a no brainer, it should be the other way around! Modern day people celebrate pride in colourful parades like Gay, St. Patrick’s, and  Caribana.  Even that one at Easter, not the bunny one, but the one where they re-enact Jesus carrying the cross has bling, hunks, and dancing girls.  The one year I saw it, Pectoral Jesus was wearing his red velour robe open and he had been clearly working the gym and the tanning salon.  And why would you want to get all sad sack and dour about it? Mass pride is a good thing, it creates solidarity even for the outsiders.  Even if you are not gay, you are gay for the day (or the whole weekend)!  Kiss me, I’m Irish (no, I’m not, I’m just drunk)!  Let your light shine, ignite the jealousy in others so you can inspire them to rise above mediocrity.  Just don’t be so smug about it or you are in danger of the truly serious sin of Douchebaggery, I’m looking at you, Bieber.

Greed vs. Charity: This one sin versus virtue where the latter wins. Donald Trump is greedy.  Ellen DeGeneres is charitable.  If I’m going to lay on the couch like a sloth with my hands down my pants, I would rather watch Ellen than Celebrity Apprentice. That is all.

Wrath vs. Patience:  If jealousy is the pilot light that ignites ambition, then wrath is the fire that burns it into fruition.  Angry people get things done, not the so-called “diligent” busy bees who don’t watch tv. They are too busy blowing the smoke up their own asses.  If you want results, ask a pissed off person with a bee in their bonnet.  They will make the earth move. Patience only leads to deeper frustration and unless you enjoy living a life of limp limbo, then sit there like a Buddha.  Pro tip:  Wrath and Lust make excellent bedfellows.

And speaking of sloth and Ellen, this little video never gets old:

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Leave a comment

07

Nov. ’12

A Hooker’s Guide to Riding a Buck

I don’t have a single pair of goddamn socks that match and the ones I am currently wearing have a hole in the big toe. I have to ask myself, would I rather spend 12 bucks on a trio pack of MacGregor anklets or a bottle of wine? Duh. I am a poor bitch, I have priorities.  I will let things go because I don’t want to spend the money. Come over to my house and check out my decrepid tiles in my pink and brown (!) bathroom and the spot above my stove where I had a leaky roof last year.  This is why I need a man.  I would totally be a handyman’s best hooker if he had drywalling skills.  I have lots to offer so if you know one, send him over. I give scalp massages and I have recently mastered the fine art of fried chicken (pssst:  the secret is BRINE, Martha Stewart was right as usual).

No one really looks at your socks, seriously why have Sponge Bob on them?  A couple of weeks ago, my family had one of those big dinner birthday parties for my dad up in Newmarket, and a quick shout out to the best Chinese food around:  Cynthia’s, link here,  crispy and greasy, that is divinity in any kind of cuisine as far as I am concerned.  Anyway, on our epic drive back my nephew had to swing by his place to change his socks.  He was wearing some funky striped pair that would not go with his suit that he had to wear to work that night:  “I will be fired for sure!”  If I didn’t have all the patience in the world for this boy, I would have stopped at a dollar store and bought him some plain black socks. Then came my realization: Every sock you own should be all the same, no exceptions…if you lose a sock or one gets a hole, you have a match somewhere in your drawer.  In fact, there should just be only one universal sock that everyone owns. And no one should be fired for wearing striped socks because they shouldn’t exist in the first place.  

I’m too cheap to buy new socks so the holes will have to rule.  Mostly I am a happy camper at the dregs of the 99% and I am committed to poverty so I will write a book.  I need to be poor and riddled with anxiety in order to be creative. If I was rich and happy, all I would do is yoga, shop, and get massages.  But as a poho, there are things I can happily cut back on to save a few bucks that I will share with you:

1. Bras and Underwear:  Sure, I used do the Victoria Secret thing, matchy poo pink half shelf decollete push up bra with pink tap shorts.  I truly believed that God was in the details and even what couldn’t be seen was divine until I realized that no, it was Satan messing with the lingerie. Don’t bother trying to match these things up. Aside from the fact that no one cares, you are only setting yourself up for failure. While your lilac bra sits in the drawer, your lilac panties are in the dirty laundry, you are poned.  Where is your leopard bra?   It’s in your gym locker, and its matching thong got caught on the stick shift of some dude’s tractor in the summer when you went on that winery tour.

From the bottom up, I wear cotton underwear from Aerie,it’s always on sale!  And most importantly, they are as absorbent as a thin Tena pad as I am little leaky when I put a key in the door, and no, that is not some innuendo. My bladder is an evil troll, it holds everything in for hours then bursts when it is 10 feet from a toilet. So annoying.  Moving on up: Lately all my plain black bras are on the last hook so until they snap, I don’t care, I fucking hate buying bras, it’s the worst expense ever!  Some of them cost $150!  I am just getting those kind from a box when there is a 3 for 1 Bay Day sale. Besides, no one is looking at my tits 😦 because everyone is so annoyingly politically correct these days.  Dumb asses, stop looking at my face,there’s errant chin hairs I sometimes forget to pluck, you’re just making me paranoid…I do not hoist these sweater puppies up in itchy lace and skin stabbing whale bone for my health. Sigh.

2. I cut my own hair!  My hairdresser doesn’t read this so I can say it:  I have been trimming my own bangs!  It’s not hard, you have to angle the scissors vertically and snip away.  It’s best to do it while you are drunk, ironically. because it’s the sober precision that makes it look unprofessional.  Also I dyed my own hair last month.  Fuck, I know, that is some poor shit but whatever. I covered up the side silvers and created a diversionary path of bleached highlights along the temple and then dumped a box of Garnier Nutrisse Intense in the reddest shade they had over the whole thing.  And no, I am not paid endorse this product, I really like it and it doesn’t smell bad and it makes my hair super shiny and it is now my crowning glory as long as you insist on looking at my face, dummy.

3.  I troll the grocery stores.  This is tricky business.  I am not a couponner,by any means.

It is annoying and boring for some people, but for me, it is the thrill of the hunt. I know the price of everything and stock up when there is a sale. The key is to not get carried away and end up with some blind ambition to “eat better” and then you end up with odd Dr. Oz endorsed miracle food items that you have no idea how to incorporate into your regular menu.  Fucking coconut oil taking up valuable counter space, chia seeds = mouse food. And slightly off topic:  Have you ever actually bought bananas for the purpose of them to rot so you can make banana bread and that is the time when your family and various interlopers devour them before you get a chance?  First world problems, ho, I got ’em!

4. I put garbage on my face. Dear Lord, my favourite thing to smear on my face at night  is Elizabeth Arden’s Prevage.  It looks like melted silly putty and smells like old money and feels like the jizz of a sweet prince and when you put it on at night, you wake up and your skin feels all smooth like buttah and you just want keep touching it and you can’t believe it is your face. It costs $200 for the pump bottle.  That is just crazy.  Every so often if I am playing smart hockey, I collect enough points on my Optimum card and I get that bitch for free at Shoppers but if I run out, I am stuck. Luckily, I am girl’s girl and I will talk the shit out of a cosmetic sales ho and they will give me handfuls of free samples.  Although it makes me feel a little sick inside as I have bomb shelter war hoarding mentality, I take a break and use household garbage instead: rotting avocados, rancid yogurt, I even smeared the guts of the Halloween pumpkin on my face last week. It is what they do in Europe, I say to myself.  You can convince yourself to do anything if you believe Europeans are doing it on purpose.  Don’t worry, I rinse it off and it’s as good a glow as I’m going to get.

Some things I will never skimp on.  I need pedicures, wild boar bacon, and HBO.  I am a hedonist, gluttonous sloth like that and that is a whole other future blog post.

Until then, here’s an entertaining clip from Russ Meyer’s “Eve and the Handyman,” I’m serious if you know one, hook me up:

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , . 1 Comment

25

Oct. ’12

The Enlightened Old Bat and the F-Bomb

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

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

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

And fuck Cameron Diaz.  Here she is in Esquire:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am bat, hear me roar!

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

17

Oct. ’12

In Praise of Sluts

It must be tiring to be a self-appointed conscience of the universe.  Judging the world from such lofty heights must take a toll.  So to those post-mortem critics of Amanda Todd’s tragic story, you have my permission to get off your high horses now.  Careful getting down, horses spook easily so if you get hoofed upside the head, consider it part of the hazards of your job, Judge Dickface McCuntington.  I’m specifically looking at you, Justin Hastings, but all you others can take a break and go back scrolling through 9gag.

I’m not an expert on bullying or suicide but I do know what it is like to be a teenager.  We didn’t have the internet back in my day but we had sluts and assholes and everything in between.

There was a girl, let’s just call her Sally, in my high school who was part of the crowd I hung out with.  She was ruthless. As soon as you let it be known that you had a crush on someone, this bitch would magically swoop in and pussy-block you.  And even before you could uncap the concealer stick to cover up the zit cluster on your chin, she would be holding hands in the hallway with your beloved, wearing his plaid lumber shirt like it was the yellow jacket in the Tour de France.

I’d say that I don’t know how she did it, but I do.  She had a massive sense of self-esteem which was unusual in a teenager.  She thought she was all that and a bag of chips, washed down with a can of Pepsi.  It was that kind of delusional thinking that made her go out and pursue a career in modelling.

“But you are only 5 feet tall!”  I exclaimed when she announced that she signed with an agency.

“You can be petite and be a model,” she scoffed at me. Petite!  She was a stump!  If she was 5 feet tall, half of her height consisted of her oddly formed banana-shaped head.  People go on about Sarah Jessica Parker’s horsey face but her equine sister was living a parallel life and going to high school in Quebec. In spite of her weird proportions, she walked like she owned the planet.  Having taken ballet in kindergarten, she maintained the posture and the stride, holding up her carriage as though her A-cup inverted (yes! they poked inward!) nipples were something to behold.

Of course nothing came of her modelling career because attitude like that doesn’t come across in 2-dimensions.  But those sort of set-backs never seemed to get her down.  She even starred in one of the most embarrassing moments from the history high school.

In Grade 9 during lunch hour one Spring day, we were all sitting outside by the moat, which was a hill in front of the school with a muddy stream running through it.  Some cute older boy was teasing her and pulled off one of her shoes in a tousle match that was just too nauseating to watch so we pretended we didn’t see so we couldn’t help her as they slid down the hill, entwined and giggling:  “Help me!”  Seriously we were hoping she’d just end up in the mud.  However, while she was making her descent downward, she was sliding on her ass, trying to get her shoe back.  As she slid, a big white blob started coming out on the back of her pants.  It soon became clear it was a gigantic-assed spent Kotex pad, the kind that required a belt that only an obese bedridden woman would have worn.  Oh how we laughed, and I don’t care, I am still laughing 30 years later.  So what?  It was my crush she made out with in front of my locker every day for three weeks.

Anyway, after she retrieved her shoe, one of us (not me!) took our sweet time telling her that her pad was hanging out, the bitch just dusted herself off and tied a jean jacket around her waist and strutted into the washroom.  And that guy who wrestled her down the moat asked her out, of course.  Just like Cinderella.

Her home life was so strange that if I described it to you, you’d think I was making it up.  She was the middle of 7 kids.  Her mom was obese which was not all that common back in those days.  She would fashion sarongs out of bedsheets and lay on the couch, supposedly “studying for her masters” while she barked orders at Sally in particular:  “Clean the main floor!” Maybe that’s why we had compassion for her, we saw her as some kind of real-life Cinderella and we didn’t completely hate her for snatching our menfolk. Although we all harboured a grudge with her at some point, we were still her friends.

Sometimes her mom would get dressed and waddle out of the house and hitch a ride on the school bus and make him drop her off at the mall.  Of course this was mortifying to Sally but she would staunchly defend her mother, “She lost twenty pounds on the banana diet!”  How can you tell?  She can tie her sheet up in a second knot.

Her father was the true horror of the family.  They had a female cat that they refused to get spayed and she would get pregnant twice a year.  Sometimes Sally would come to school with scratches on her arm, “Missy had her kittens!  Come over and play with them!”  You’d have to make sure you got there within two weeks, otherwise Papa Kittenkiller would have already bagged them up and dumped in the river.  This was normal to them.

But Sally painted her family life as something entirely different from what it actually was.  We saw her parents as villainous, macabre characters from a fairy tale, she portrayed them as a successful engineer and an intellect with European flare.  It was sad really and the fact that she commit patricide and/or matricide was a testimony to her fortitude.

This is probably how she got away with fucking our boyfriends behind our backs.

Unlike the girls in Amanda Todd’s life, we didn’t gang up on her and beat her up. Boys didn’t call her a slut either. Are some people prone to bullying?  Maybe they possess a kind of vulnerability that threatens us so much that we have to hate them because it is something we don’t want to see in ourselves.

And by the way, why is it that when a man (or a boy in Amanda’s case) cheats, it is the woman who gets vilified?  Here’s what I have to say you, little sisters:  Get used to it.

“Cheating” seems to be an innate sense of entitlement that men are born with, as the Jay McInerney writes in The Good Life:  “..all men need four things: food, shelter, pussy and strange pussy.”

Personally as a 40-something woman, I’d much rather be strange pussy than the regular pussy.  A friend, who is my age, said the other day, “If it weren’t for married men, I would never get laid!” It seems to me that most modern people get married just to placate their fear of being alone. Maybe women need to take a page from Jackie Kennedy’s book and learn to practice the art of Buddhist detachment.  I don’t know, I’m just telling you what I see. I like to say that all the men my age have died in the war, hence my penchant for 25 year olds.

Oh, and back in high school, I got called a slut because they couldn’t figure me out. I did wild things like strip in the orchard and run through the bonfire. If I had the internet back then, I would have been one of those gone wild girls on reddit.com.  I’d streak, I’d moon, I once even answered the door to a pizza man stark naked when I was 15!  I can tell you, I didn’t do it for validation. I felt empowered, the opposite of vulnerable.  I am a naked beast, and like Amanda Todd, I need to be loved.  But fuck off if you can’t take a joke.

I am slut, hear me roar!

Posted by . Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: , , , , . Leave a comment