Category Archives: Uncategorized

03

Oct. ’12

Why This Little Piggy Quit The Market

My parents wanted to move in the Spring.  They just hired a new real estate duo after having listed their house with a feckless wanker for 90 days who begrudgingly took some time out of his fapping schedule to take down his sign and come and get his lockbox and say he was sorry in a passive aggressive way:  “I guess everybody is blaming the market on me.”  Shut. The. Front. Door.

Real estate isn’t rocket science but it’s tricky. It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors and spinning the headlines that the newspapers spout out daily about “The Market” in a way that can get things rolling.  The new agents that they hired seem to have the system down and their game plan tight. When I met them, I didn’t tell them I used to be an agent, but they guessed pretty quickly.  It’s like a secret society.  The truth is that most agents are actually cool and if you see one with his or her picture on a bus shelter, feel free to draw a dick on the side of their faces, they love a good joke.

When my kids were really young and before I got smart and joined a gym that had kickass daycare that I could leave them in for two glorious hours everyday, I hung out at the Williamson Road Rec Centre 3 mornings a week.  There was a room upstairs, hosted by an ancient lady named Alma and we, the hapless beach mothers, would dump our kids with her, throw a toonie in her teacup and head to the gymnasium for an old fashioned aerobics class.  Alma was frail and in first stages of dementia but none of us cared. It was a whole hour for us to shimmy around with out a sticky little cling-on sucking on our tits.

I made fast friends with a woman named Heather who was obsessed with local real estate.  She got me right into it. It was just Before the Internet (B.I.) and we would get all excited for every second Tuesday when the Beach Metro News would come out and the local realtors (who were like celebrities to us) would advertise their latest listings.  We’d go to open houses on weekends and we’d convene on Monday in the line up to get into the rec centre.  We’d come extra early to get a limited spot because lazy old Alma could only handle a half tonne of shitty diapers in a sitting.

“Did you see the house on Willow?  What a dump! I can’t believe what they’re asking!”

“Is that Natasha von Beaverstein’s listing?  (note: names have been changed!)  God, she’s scary in person!  Honestly, I thought she was a vampire, I actually gasped when she opened the door!”

Heather and I both joined the Mayfair on the same day. She had the brilliant idea to enroll our kids in afternoon kindergarten so we could put them in the gym daycare in the mornings and then while they were in school, we could troll houses.  It turned out all the real estate agents were members and would work out in the mornings.  The 9:30 step class was like a red carpet event for us. Real estate agents all had the same kind of look:  Coiffed hair and thong (!) leotards over top of leggings. This was Before Lululemon (B.L.) and it was the hot look, don’t judge. Heather and I wore oversized tshirts and cycling shorts because you can’t take the rec centre out of the girl.

We befriended Dawn in the locker room.  Dawn was a sassy agent with Prudential, she was sexy and glamourous with bountiful hair and boobs to match. She was also desperately trying to get pregnant with her super hot husband. She was interested in us because we had kids, and we adored her because she was an agent. In my mind, her life was perfect but she had her share of problems.  The main one was that she was sick of fucking her husband.

“Ladies, can I ask you a question?” She asked us one day as we were changing into our gym gear.

“Of course!” I love a question.  Seriously, ask me anything.

“Do you still give your husbands blow jobs?” She sighed forlornly as she snapped her thong into place.

Heather roared:  “God no!  I have all the furniture I need!”

Oh how we laughed for a year after that. “Furniture” became our euphemism for all things sexual: “I’m going in the whirlpool to rub out an ottoman,” “That new trainer is cute, I’d like to straddle his Chesterfield,” etc…

As the time passed, Dawn finally became pregnant (and got the worst hair cut ever!) and Heather went off to get her real estate license and stopped coming to the gym altogether. I got a personal trainer and my mojo became an untamed monster, definitely fodder for a future blog post after a few slugs of Bourbon, you’ll want to stay tuned for that.

One day in the locker room, a couple of months after Dawn had her baby and her hair had miraculously grown back to its former glory, she strutted naked in front of me and said, “Well, I got my body back!  Let’s go get our belly buttons pierced this afternoon.”

Alrighty.  There’s pretty much nothing I won’t do if someone asks.  So we got our belly buttons pierced and afterwards, in my mind, it was time for a pint but she said, “Well, it’s back to work!”

“What is it that you do?”  It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, cocktail hour for the moms of the world.  Don’t real estate agents have the same kind of schedule?

“Get your real estate license already!”  she said, buttoning up her Burberry trenchcoat with her acrylic French manicured fingernails. And her hair.  It was blond and shiny, and when she flung it out from under her collar it landed all straight and smooth without those wispy flyaways.  Something snapped in my brain:  “OKAY I WILL!”

So that was the day my real estate career was conceived. By the time I got my license, the internet was a happening thing and I joined Prudential just as Dawn was leaving.  Get this:  Dawn’s super hot husband got dot-com mega-wealthy in the internet porn industry!  They moved to the Bahamas! She had another baby!  The only bad thing I can say about her is that her belly button got infected after the piercing and she had to take the ring out! Bitch!

I learned quickly that the real estate industry is not as easy as it looks.  When we first bought a house, the agents had daily books where they looked up listings and took you to see houses by appointment.  The internet was changing everything, now the old timey agents were sitting in the bull pens playing Solitaire on the computer while the young ‘uns were interwebbing on the go with their Blackberrys.  It was a whole new ball game.

I didn’t know where to begin so I pretended it was like the good old days when Heather and I went poking into open houses and making fake appointments from the newspaper ads. I got some clients advertising other people’s listings in one of those real estate rags that are distributed in the boxes on street corners.  It was how I met the amazing late Shelagh Gordon whose obituary was a beautiful feature story in the Toronto Star earlier this year.  She sold ad space and also played part-time life coach to disgruntled real estate agents throughout the GTA.

“I don’t know how to word these ads!’  I complained to her over the phone.  Back when Heather and I were amateurs, the houses we visited were all lived-in hoarding messes.  You’d walk into an open house, and people were cooking their dinners or a teenager would still be asleep in his room. Houses were homes. We could refer to them by how they smelled:  “The Gangrene House” in East York (where the diabetic alcoholic husband refused medical attention while both his feet rotted) was one of our very favourites!  Everyone was starting to “stage’ their houses to sell and they all looked alike and they all smelled like Glade plug-ins.

“Try and evoke an emotion using words like “cozy and charming,”‘ she suggested.

“If I see another living room painted the colour of a paper bag with two matching Barcelona chairs framing the window, I am going to take a shit in the punchy pomegranate powder room and NOT flush the toilet!  Rage is the only emotion I can come up with!”

“I sooo get what you are saying, it’s like those agents say:  Let’s put some lipstick on this pig and take it town!” she laughed, and it was the first time I heard that expression and it stuck.

And that’s pretty much how I thought of my whole real estate career over the next 5 years, only I was the pig in lipstick.

I did have some good times and really great clients but something wasn’t jiving. The only reason I got into the business was because I loved going into people’s homes and checking out how they lived, I fancied myself a modern anthropologist. There were stories in them there walls.  And I loved the buyers who also had their own stories to tell while I drove them around. They had visions of how they wanted their homes to be.  But as the houses for sale were all looking indistinguishable from each other, the buyers had lost all imagination, they all wanted the same open concept, granite counter tops, and pot lights.  This blueprint made successful real estate agents even more successful and the rest fall by the wayside.

So I quit. I’ve got enough stories in my head to entertain you for a while.

I lost track of Heather because she moved to a fancier neighbourhood and doesn’t have Facebook but I found out through her old neighbour that she had also quit real estate.  She works in the designer district on King Street and of all things, she sells FURNITURE!  True story.

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25

Sep. ’12

What Would Patrick Swayze Do?

I have plantar fasciitis which when you tell some people, they back away because it sounds ugly and contagious.  It’s just inflammation of the connective tissues on the sole of the foot. It’s a common ailment amongst runners and fat people which is hilariously poetic because in order to treat it, you either have to stop running or lose weight.  Runners gotta run and eaters gotta eat so plantar fasciitis better heal itself or else you might have to go out and buy $800 orthotics.

My condition came about last month walking the lumpy roads of Rome in flip-flops for over a week and when I got home, I could walk no more.  Now when I get out of bed, a searing pain shoots up my heel and I’d have to tip-toe to the toilet.  I’ve had this before after I pronated my way through a marathon 14 years ago and I know how long it takes to heal…months!  And as they in Game of Thrones, winter is coming.  I’m going to have to wear real shoes soon.  I have ignore it, just shoot me if you see me wearing Uggs this year.

“Mother, you need to go to a doctor!” says my daughter as I hobble around the house.

“No!  Doctors don’t fix anything!  They shuffle you around to “specialists” and you will always end up getting a parking ticket just to find out all you need is an ice pack!”

“Then put on an ice pack!”

“Ugh, I can’t be bothered.”  The Internet says to roll a ball or a bottle under the sole the foot to massage it.  There are half a dozen tennis balls under any given piece of furniture in my house and yet I also can’t be bothered to do that.

What doesn’t kill me only makes me stoic.  Am I a self-imposed martyr?

When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, for some reason I would only get my period once a year in the summer time. When I did get it, it would last two weeks and I would be double over in pain, like there was a burning ball of fire somewhere in my reproductive system. And let’s not even talk about the gushing flow because I know how you hate gruesome bodily fluids.  No doctor could figure it out.  Finally when I was 21, one genius medical practitioner came up with an obvious solution.

“Go on birth control pills, it will fun,” they said.  It would regulate my cycle and I would become a real woman instead of a vessel for some Satanic spawn.  I lasted three months and I became a monster, as though all the estrogen I had been lacking came on at once and you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be there when it did.

Anyway, flash further back to the summer when I was 18 and working at my dad’s company in an office full of menfolk, I got my annual period in the morning.  I ended up stuck in the washroom, doubled over with horrific cramps. My dad had to drive me home.  He thought I was faking it or being a total wimp or something. “This is not normal,” he kept saying, “You don’t go home for something like this.” No this is just really embarrassing, so I ignored the cramps the next day and sucked back the Midol. My dad fought in World War 2 for God sake.

Pain:  Deal with it.

Even though I had a wacky menstrual schedule that no doctor could explain, I was able to conceive much to everyone’s shock and my horror. Of course now that I am old and my eggs are rotten, my uterine lining sheds regularly with every waning moon…hilarious joke, troll ovaries.   Anyway, my  pregnancy went smoothly and my lazy-ass lady parts actually got its act together and created a baby without any glitches.  I did go through the birthing process without any pain management because the roving, moronic intern at St. Michael’s Hospital was an asshole.  Long story short:  He assumed because of the dodgy neighbourhood the hospital in that I was a crack whore and my baby would be born severely underweight and needing methadone. I would have rather experience endless hours of fiery ball-of-hell contractions than have that douchebag in the room.  After I told him to fuck off, he craned his head into the room, “Do you want an epidural?” he asked before my actual doctor arrived to catch the 8 pound butterball that took her sweet time sliding out.  NO EPIDURAL!!!  

Pain: Please stop,  I will pay you.

Fast forward 10 years later to 2003, I’m in East General Hospital having my wrist X-rayed.  Two weeks earlier I had fallen off my bike, trying to get on it after having a few tequila shots at a beach party.  I landed on my ass, and used my right hand to break the fall. I heard a loud crack. I hobbled home, bike in tow and I think nothing of it the next day.  I have to learn how to drive standard because I had just leased a Mini Cooper and I am taking my real estate courses and my Phase 2 exam is in 3 weeks.  It hurts my wrist to shift gears and I keep stalling the car, I can’t find the sweet spot and I am a big mess.

“I think I might have broken my wrist,”  I say this out loud in the ladies locker room at my gym.  It’s a week after I fell off my bike.  My wrist is swollen.  And not to mention what happened to my tailbone, I have to hang my ass 6 inches off the back of Spinning bike seat otherwise I feel like I am being sodomized by a bulldozer.

“If you broke your wrist, you would know it,” one woman says.  Another genius….yes, a light goes off when you break a bone and tells you that you need to go to the hospital.  Pro tip: Never listen to advice from a naked bitch with a towel turban on her head.

When things just got worse, I went to the hospital and got an X-ray.

“You know,” said the orthopaedic surgeon to the daft cow,”you could have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble if you had come in right after the accident, we could have set it in a cast then.  Now we have to operate and reset the bone, otherwise you’ll be in for some very painful arthritis in the future.”

Pain:  Sometimes it knows best, let it speak.

And I didn’t even have the guts to say anything about my aching tailbone, that bitch is just going to have to shut up and behave. My wrist injury actually thrills me.  An operation!  How exciting!

After the operation, and then getting the cast off, I started taking Hatha yoga classes and later Bikram yoga to become more mindful about my body and learn how to heal itself.

A couple of years later, I saw Bikram Choudhury speak in one of those hotel convention halls downtown and teach one of his classes.  During Q and A, some woman, maybe it was me, asked him, “How long does it take for the pain to go away?”  He just looked at her like she was a frog on the highway and said, “When you are dead!”  Oh how I laughed, and then cried.

Pain: Seriously?

Today I hobbled to the gym.  Since I got back from Italy, I have missed all my favourite classes and come in at a different times so I don’t have to see anyone.  I haul myself in the whirlpool and put my foot on the jets.  It hurts so much!!!! I hate being a baby about this. One guy I knew used to whimper and moan about every canker sore and hang nail he had, like he was going to die any minute.  Once he had a splinter that he let fester in his foot and he hobbled around for a month before he would let someone pull it out for him. Dude, I have gravel still stuck in my elbow from when I scraped the pavement on my bike (again with the bikes!) in grade 8.  Grow some balls, I said to myself.

So I got dressed in my gym gear and made my way to the battlefield where I ran into Douglas, my very favourite gym buddy.  Douglas is a octogenarian who routinely plays two hours of tennis after a spin class.  Every day.

“Where have you been, Freddy?” (that’s my gym moniker).

“Oh, I have plantar fasciitis,” I explain, “I’m taking it easy.”

“I had that twice, on both feet. I got it playing squash.  There’s nothing you can do about it, you just have to keep going,” he says.

“But it hurts!”  There is not enough wool in the world to pull over his eyes.

“Suck it up, Freddy!”  he laughs maniacally and saunters away.  Pro tip:  Always listen to an 80-something year old man who can Zumba in the front of the class without missing a beat. So I carry on.  It is what Patrick Swayze would do.

Pain:  You are my bitch. Tomorrow, we spin!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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23

Sep. ’12

Let She Without Noxious Gas Cast The First Grande Latte

Fuck yeah, Honey Boo Boo!

I love the show Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, so sue me.  Last week, TLC was showing a bunch of back-to-back episodes for two hours so  I made someone (who shall remain anonymous) watch it with me.  With his eyes rolled back in his head and his forefinger pressed into his temple, he plopped his arse on the couch, promising “just one episode.”

Three episodes later, not having moved from the couch, he says:  “That Mama June…I thought she was going to be a daft cow, but she is a really good mother.”

You need to see if for yourself without your hipster judgey-wudgey glasses on, I think more urban haute-bourgeoisie mothers need to take a page out of Mama June’s book.

The plot of the each episode is meaningless.  Mostly the family goes about their mundane business of buying donuts at the Friday auction(!), jumping in mud puddles, participating in child beauty pageants, etc.  Every activity is punctuated with someone having something either exploding or oozing out of a random orifice…and don’t wince and get all high horse over the white trash redneck fart gags.  You laughed at the group diarrhea scene in Bridesmaids, don’t lie.

That’s the thing about families, if you can’t fart in front of them, then who can you fart in front of?  The Honey Boo Boo clan don’t give a shit, they do it on national tv.  That is what makes them superstars.  Which is why this show is on The “Learning” Channel, because we should all learn to clear the snot from our nose and embrace each other for our foibles and follies.  Jesus Hillbilly Christ.

When my daughter was a toddler and I was pregnant with Freddy, I didn’t really know what I was doing parenting-wise because there was no internet back then!  A Starbucks opened up on the bottom of our street so a gang of mothers would park their Peg Peregos on the patio and plunk their Pilates asses on the couch configuration in the mornings after the office worker crowd had left. Their spawn ranged in age from newborn to preschool toddler-types and the topic of conversation was about their children, super boring details about potty training and diaper rashes that at the time were fascinating because I was going through it.  They called themselves “The Yummy Mommies” because they thought they were so hot and their placenta tasted like foie gras.

The YM’s there didn’t really like me much.  Once I ordered a hot chocolate and when I sat  down to the circle jerk, I popped the lid off my cup and spilled a bit on my lap.  But I had to blame someone else because that is what a Yummy Mommy would do.

“Stupid barista over-filled this,” I said.

One of the women scowled at me and said: “We don’t say that word here.”

“What word?”  I’m thinking “barista”…is that like saying “stewardess” instead of “flight attendant?”  Did I miss the memo?

“The “S” word,”  she said.

“I didn’t say shit!  I said “barista!”

“No….,” she put her hand over her mouth and whispered, “Stupid…we don’t say stupid.”  And she petted her child’s ears as though to protect him from the evils of the world. “Words have power” was what they said as they shamed me.

Oh for fucksake, if I weren’t so lonely, I would have left and never come back.  But I had to, or I would have committed murder.

I hung out with those stupid twats during the winter when Evangeline was in her terrible twos.  That was when she refused to wear a winter coat or boots.  I’d put her in the stroller and we’d walk down Waverley Road in the middle of January while she peeled off her coat and kicked off her boots, screaming at the very top of her lungs:  “NO COAT ON!!! NO BOOTS ON!!!!”

The truth was that I didn’t really give a shit if she didn’t want to wear a coat or boots in freezing cold but I had to pretend to care.  Otherwise I would be a bad mother.  I’d stop the stroller and say calmly and firmly (and loudly in case anyone was listening), “Please put your coat, Evangeline, you will freeze!”  I would bundle her up as she squirmed and arched her back.

“NO COAT ON!!!!!!!” 

She ripped her coat off like a Hulk-baby and there would be just no way I could win.  I’d keep it hovered over her so no one would call Child Services.

This sort of fuckery would occur in various forms with her for 8 years. Epic tantrums that would end with me taking her (and later Freddy, who was always so quiet and happy) for a drive in the country as I would fantasize about dumping her on the side of the road and living a peaceful life.  Okay, I did actually dump her once at the dead end street with the ravine in back of Corpus Christi school and drove half a block while she just stood there dumbfounded.  And I will confess to you, it was the greatest feeling in the world, even if it only lasted 20 seconds before I turned around.  Damn guilt.

I could not tell you how many times I pulled out the Yellow Pages and turned to “Adoption Agencies.”  I would say to her, calmly and rationally:  “I will find you another home if you hate it here so much.” And she would be all like, “Right, mom.”  Then as the last resort, I would start to cry and pull out the guilt card and say, “You don’t love me anymore, I’m so disappointed!  Boo hoo!” For some reason, it would kill her to think that I would be “disappointed” and she get all sorry and sweet and hug me.  But that ploy only worked for a short time.  She knew my crying was fake and she woud say:  “Stop with the cock-a-dillo tears, mom!”  She couldn’t pronounce “crocodile.”

The final tantrum occurred one late afternoon in January.  Evangeline, age 8, was obsessed with Harry Potter and found out through the school grapevine that The Nutty Chocolatier on Queen Street was selling magic jellybeans from the movie, the ones that tasted like barf and coconuts.  But it was getting dark and Freddy was already in his jammies and refused to go.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” I said, “let’s clean up the living room.” (not the best diversionary tactic)

Screaming tantrum ensued.  I ignored it and waited for it to pass, which was the current strategy.  And it eventually did. Something good was on tv.  I had won the battle without any effort at all.

A few moments later, the doorbell rang.

Aaaand it was two police officers.

“Ma’am,” one of them said, “There’s been a report.  Someone called and said that a child was being harmed.”

“No, no, no, that was just my daughter having a fit.  She wanted to go to a candy store and get some magic jellybeans.  She wasn’t getting her way so she started yelling,”  I tried to explain but story sounded ridiculous.

“Someone heard it from the bus stop and said they saw you hitting the child,” One of the officers said sternly.  Cops are the scariest people on the planet. You always feel guilty around them even if you are not.

“I can assure you, I didn’t hit her!”  The one time I was actually completely calm and rational is when I get busted.

“Well we are going to have to check for marks.  Both kids,” they said, entering the house.

Of course the house was a giant mess of toys and laundry.  The police took both Freddy and Evangeline in the dining room and closed the door while they checked them over.  I knew they wouldn’t find anything but that was the worst feeling of shame and humiliation ever.  Having cops come to your house to check your kids for welts is not a chapter in any of the “What To Expect”  books.

But as it turned out, the one who felt the most shame and humiliation was Evangeline.  From that day forward, she never had another tantrum or fit again.

She turned into the Golden Child with the most even temper of anyone I know.  But I can’t help but think that if I wasn’t so worried about looking like the perfect mother for the Starbucks circle jerk that I could have saved myself years of grief.

Mama June would let Honey Boo Boo walk barefoot in the snow if they had it in Georgia.  And she wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks.  She is that cool.

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16

Sep. ’12

The Crazy Lady of Box Land

The other day I decided to go to Walmart to see if the commercials were true and everything is cheaper. I like to support local businesses but sometimes I wake up with my hair in sideways beehive, a giant pillow crease on my face, and my tits falling out of the sides of the ahh-bra and I just want to go incognito to Box Land and push a cart through the aisles while I sing to myself and just generally blend in.

I went to the one up in Scarborough and used the back roads to get there. It’s a sunny Saturday morning and I am anxious to get a bunch of crap that I am listing off in my head:  Pop tarts, sardines, canned Coke, etc.

On my way,driving through the streets of suburbia which I love by the way, I admire the little post war bungalows.  Back in the day when I was a real estate agent, I would troll those houses that were for sale and imagine myself living in one, blissfully alone.  You know how people in this town think all that fugly gumwood trim is so “classy?” Well I hate it! I would paint it all out in Benjamin Moore cloud white and the walls Tiffany blue and decorate with 1960s Danish teak furniture from Atomic Age.  My little bungalow would be so sweet and I would be so very happy and complete.

I still have the same fantasy, except with a practical touch!  I would find one with a self-contained basement apartment that I would rent to some young man from a foreign country like Serbia who had a temporary work visa.  In our Bungalow of Utopia, he would fix things around the house.  On hot summer days, I would make him lemonade and we would sit on the back deck that he built with that new kind of environmentally-friendly pressure treated wood from Rona.  He would take off his sweaty shirt and he would be all muscly and tanned, and we would sit in awkward silence, fraught with sexual tension.  He would speak very little English but I would patiently teach him and by the end of the summer, we would have entire conversations.  He would even get my jokes.

Later in the fall, while shopping at Home Depot, on a whim we would decide to buy a hot tub in time for winter! I’m not really community hot tub person, although I *do* take the jets in my gym whirlpool seriously. The ones that people have in their backyard are lame but it is kind of fun to be outside in hot tub in the middle of the winter and rolling in the snow and getting back in all numb and tingly. Milos (that’s his name, by the way) tells me  about the hot tub he had in his childhood growing up in Montenegro and I have to give in, as his face looks like a pleading puppy.  So cute I can hardly stand it.

I always have the longest build ups to any given sex daydream which is what a car ride to the suburbs is all about.  But just as I am about to pull into the Walmart parking lot and finish off this fantasy that get super-hot in the hot tub and then ultimately ends in Milos being deported back to Serbia, I see this woman walking on the street, barefoot.

As I get closer, I can see she is bat shit crazy.  Her hair is sticking out in the back, her pants are rolled up, and she is talking to herself.  Actually, there’s not a whole lot of difference between her and me except I am wearing flip flops and I am in a car.  Seriously, not only was I talking out loud to fictional Milos, I’m actually blogging about it.  That is certifiable.

I blame my neighbours!  It’s because of them and their do-gooding ways that have rubbed off on me that I can’t ignore this woman. They are always helping people in need, especially me, that I have to pay it forward. I am going to miss them when I move into my Box Land bungalow.

So I stop the car and open the passenger window and call out to Crazy, “Do you need any help?”

She is speaking in tongues or in some other language.  She completely ignores me!  But she is wearing no shoes and I feel bad for her so I take off my flip flops and run out of the car and wave them at her.

She stops,looks at me blankly and takes the flip flops and puts them on her feet.

“They are too fucking big!  I can’t walk in these!”  She kicks them off and stomps away, resuming her monologue of gibberish.

Aaaal-righty, then.  I tried.

And at Walmart, a tin of sardines is 97 cents and at Loblaws $1.39.  Pop tarts are also a whole dollar cheaper per box. And I score an awesome deal on Colgate toothpaste and Great Lash mascara so I am ahead of the game.   So really, it was worth the drive to Box Land.  On the way back, Milos and I argue over the radio station.  I do not like hip hop! But I let him have his way because compromise is the cornerstone of every successful relationship.

And speaking of box, from my In-Box,I got another e-mail asking for advice…I love this!  Keep them coming:

I went through my husband’s browsing history and found all these filthy porn sites!  I am freaked out, I feel like he is cheating on me.  I confronted him and he got all defensive and he said he would stop but I think he is lying because he erases his history.  This is not how I was brought up, I don’t know what to do.

I don’t think anyone was “brought up” on internet porn, it’s something you find for yourself, a private exploration.  Men are visual sex pigs and if it wasn’t for internet porn, they would be out on the streets, trolling the malls, going up and down the escalators with mirrors in their hands.  Don’t feel he is cheating on you and most of all, don’t feel you have to compete with these interweb hos.  Typically men do not marry their porn so you don’t really have a chance anyway.  He is googling up the opposite of you. Instead, check out some of it yourself. You can google all the fetish-type stuff you want and you wouldn’t have to waste so much time reading 50 Shades of Grey garbage.  Women read that shit in public! That slays me. As a woman, I enjoy internet porn because sometimes I am too exhausted creating these elaborate Terrence Malick-feature length sex fantasies in my head and I can just get to the juicy bits and maybe learn a trick or two. And if it really bothers you so much, dump him. And send him to my house.  I’ll let him live in the basement.

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06

Sep. ’12

Why You Should Dump Your Blackberry: A Cautionary Tale

My daughter has a friend named Marta who is 19 going on 35.  She is one of those girls’ girls who you want to hang out with and watch “Say Yes to the Dress” while doing your nails.  In fact, I have pilfered her as my own pal.  She is fun and laughs at my jokes.

She is also man-crazed which is refreshing because most women my age are casualties of love and have been dumped every which way and sideways,  They are bitter and jaded as they manically farm their match dot com profiles like the Daters’ Almanac is predicting a drought. They are not out banging for the joy of it.  They want to land a marriage contract.  The so-called lucky ones who have been married for twenty years are also bitter and jaded. To them, men are feckless fucktards and need to live in their own compounds, as far away from book clubs and yoga classes as possible.  I am divorced and my ex-husband is a good guy so I’m not so bitter.  But in the past, my heart has been through the meat grinder by more than one gentleman and used as an emotional diaper genie by one particular baby-man, I still can’t get a hate-on for all the mens.  I have hope!  I may not believe in love but I believe my next great fuck is just around the corner, the 8-ball says:  YOU MAY RELY ON IT.  The Magic 8-Ball has been my trusted life coach since I downloaded the app on my i-Phone.

Marta has been fluffing my wilting mojo all summer  She saw “Magic Mike” on opening day and then had to go to a male strip club in real life.  She and Kasey went to Remingtons on Yonge Street to check it out.  It was nothing less than spectacular.

“Kristin!” she squealed,”They put their pee pees right in your face and they even let you put it in your mouth!”

Now don’t get the wrong idea:  She did not pop one in her mouth (although I wasn’t there…??? Only Kasey knows for sure) but it was her enthusiasm over the fact that you could if you wanted to that made me laugh. As though it would be an honour and privilege, like holding the Olympic torch.  So cute!

When Marta rides in my car, she rolls down the windows and hollers at the boys on the street.  They wave back and howl, roar, and cock-a-doodle-doo.  They are hot, even when they are not.  Her attention shines their inner light.  To Marta, men are prey and she is the hunter.  A shameless hunter, too, she does not wear camouflage.  She is a hot Latina with hair and boobs.  And when the occasion calls for it, more hair and more boobs.  “I have a flat ass!” she complains, as though anyone would ever notice.  And if that was the case, it’s only fair.  “Do not hog all the mojo, Marta,” said the gods as they distributed the body parts, spanking her on the way out of the warehouse.

All men are targets.  Young, old, hairy, bald, fat, thin….She is the United Nations Ambassador of Penis.  “Cute Asian guy is working at Starbucks!” she texts as a head line, “Sikh guy is on the bus!  I tried to take his picture but just got the back of his turban!”

I took her to my manly butcher shop and she giggled until she stopped breathing, “Oh My God, Kristin, that butcher was so hot!  I almost died!”  Not embarrassing at all.

About my 16 year-old son Freddy:  “When he’s older, I can marry him, three years won’t make a difference when he’s 30…LOL!”

Marta and her mom went away for Labour Day weekend.  They left Friday and came back Monday.  Something bad happened with the wonky upstairs toilet and the entire house was flooded.

Even in a serious disaster, when life gives you lemons, Marta can make man-juice out of it.  The work crew that came to clean up the house had a couple of “hotties” on the team.  If something like this happened to me I’d be all like “Fuck!  My Fluevogs! My acid drawings! The Polaroids! ” (I knew that was a bad idea, making baby albums with a Polaroid camera).

But not Marta. No fretting about wet stuff.   Marta made a Facebook friend out of a Persian dude, while subtly flirting with Pakistani hottie on the first day.

“Kristin, dilemma!  The Persian is cute but I think I like the other one better.  He’s really tall and I’m pretty sure there was chemistry…but the Persian asked for my number…Oh God…what do I do?”  She brought a bag of flood soaked laundry to my house.  She is basically homeless.  And this is her concern.

“I don’t know…tomorrow is another day,” I said, loading up the washer,”By the way, you know I never use a dryer, I hang everything.”

“Oh, my God, Kristin, I hang dry everything too!”  We are laundry sisters and penis-loving soul mates.

The next day, Marta went back to her house, where the workers were pulling up carpet and taking down walls.  Pretty much the entire house was wrecked!

But:

“The Pakistani guy added me on BBM!”

Apparently while she was pretending to retrieve something from the basement where he was tending to the flood, he leaned over and asked her for her code. That is a significant step in social media mating rituals and only Blackberry people understand it. There was definitely chemistry, he’s 25, single, going to school and has a job…in other words, the Holy Grail of young men.

“You have to see his BBM profile, I’m coming over!” she texted.

It’s a twenty-minute bus ride.  When she arrived at my house, she was not happy.

“He deleted me from BBM!  He added ME!  And then he deleted me some time between when I left the house and got off the bus!  What.The. Fuck????”

Evangeline was reading the Hunger Games and did not even attempt to answer, she put her face into the book and completely ignored the following two hours.

Me:  Maybe he accidentally pressed a delete button…

Marta: You can’t do that by accident!  It’s step-by-step process!

Me: Maybe there was a glitch in the system.  Sometimes Twitter has glitches and you unwittingly unfollow someone…

Marta:  There are no Blackberry glitches!  I’ve never had a glitch! The fucking douche deleted me!  He added ME first!

Me:  Calm down…I am Googling and there are entire forums dealing with people who accidentally delete BBM contacts so it probably happens all the time….

Marta:  Those people on forums are mentally unstable!  Unless you are sleep walking you don’t “accidentally” delete people!

And so, like two dogs devouring a bone, we picked apart every detail and analyzed every nuance until our eyes started to roll into the back of our heads.  I am so down with that kind of thing, I never get bored. I can come up with a plausible scenario for every douche move that any dude can ever pull.  It’s actually a curse.  Normal people say:  Dump his ass!  But I say:  Maybe he had a bad childhood.  And then I will make up an entire biography from birth up until the time the toilet overflowed.

I conclude this is why you shouldn’t have a Blackberry. As if Facebook isn’t enough of a scourge to our modern communication, worrying about friend requests, liking statuses, deleting friendships, it’s all so terrifying.  BBM is a mystery world to me, like a secret underground social network of Masons….it can only lead to bad things. And Blackberry doesn’t have a Magic 8 Ball app so how are you supposed to manage your life effectively?  Best to dump that thing and switch to an iPhone or Android where all you do to waste time is play games.

And Marta is Marta and she has already moved on, of course.  Hunters gotta hunt.  And that is why I love her so.

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29

Aug. ’12

What Would Helen Gurley Brown Do?

A couple of weeks ago, when Helen Gurley Brown died, bitches everywhere were left without proper guidance to the art of modern living! Sad day for all the single ladies! One of my favourite websites, Regretsy (check it here) had nice tribute and April actually had an audio of HGB reading a chapter called “Plain Girl Power” from her 1962 bestseller, Sex and the Single Girl…how to bag a man even if you’re not that pretty! Her wisdom lives on 50 years later.

As it turned out, over the summer, I have been receiving some e-mails from you readers actually asking for my advice! I’m going to channel Helen Gurley Brown and share these with y’all and I’m sure you’ll want to keep the letters coming.

I enjoyed your last post of your trip to Italy. My husband and I are planning a trip there in the fall for 10 days and I’m wondering what to pack! I’ve heard the Italians are very fashionable and we don’t want to look like tourists!

First of all, don’t kid yourselves, you are going to look like tourists even if you are in Prada head-to-toe. They know you are not one of them. And they will be dismissive of you no matter what. Somebody told me that the reason they are rude is because they assumed I was an American. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think Italians have colony-envy and actually embrace American culture, hence their penchant for bandanas and cowboy hats. Remember, they are one of the only European countries that didn’t do such a good job raping and pillaging other countries in other continents.

Men in Italy all look the same so if you want your husband to blend in, make sure he packs collared shirts and does not wear shorts! I think a man always looks sleek in a Lacoste polo shirt and dark washed Levis 501’s. The colour of the polo shirt will determine whether or not he is gay or straight but it’s okay to be both so I’m not going to tell you what is what. Italy is full of men who seem gay but aren’t or they are but no one cares…it doesn’t seem to be an important label. So let your husband wander, it’s his vacation too.

As for you, you will probably over-pack and pay no heed to this formula: Take the number of days of vacation (10) and divide by 3, which rounds down to 3…and that is the number of outfits you should pack. Yes 3! You will only wear your favourites anyway and you can wash out the pits and crotches at the end of the day. You need 1 fancy outfit and 2 casual. I trust that you know that casual does not include yoga pants but you can wear those as pyjamas and on the plane if you are taking a night flight. Also for plane and trains, you need one of those voluminous sweaters that every woman has in their wardrobe so that you can wear it backwards as a Snuggie. I did this and people looked at me with envious glares. Also pack a swim suit and don’t fret about what you look like. Very old ladies in Italy wear string bikinis and all men wear Speedos so if you worry about if your tits are falling out or your ass is slung low, don’t, they only care about what you packed in the lunch box. And pro-tip: Always have a sandwich with you, it’s the accessory of choice all over Italy.

As for shoes: Pack 3 pairs. I wish I could say snowshoes because navigating your way through cobblestone roads is madness. Italian women are typically bow-legged so their centre of gravity allows for high heels but as for you, tourista, fuck it and wear Birkenstocks. Glue gun some Swarovski crystals on a pair of white ones and you are a fancy bitch, Italian style.

If you forget something, you can buy it there. I forgot to pack a hairbrush and used my fingers until I finally bought a comb on Day 8. I had a couple of dreadlocks in the back of my head. Hilarious. Just remember to bring sunscreen because they only have it for babies which is thick and goopy and I do not recommend it (especially if it gets in your dreadlocks.) Italian adults use brown tanning oil as though it was 1972. Good times. Have fun and always do as the Romans do!

I am in my first serious relationship and my boyfriend is sleeping over. I have a hard time falling asleep because I am nervous of what will happen in the middle of the night! What if I fart?

This is an ageless question that women both young and old fret about. Sex and the City addressed this issue when Carrie let one slip in bed with Mr. Big and then she died of embarrassment….they did an entire episode based on a fart. If I could bank all the farts that have exploded in front of me by men, I would be able to power a city block during prime time. I have to tell you a cautionary tale about this one dude who would casually fart away on my couch during pre-coital warm up, then go to the bathroom with the door open and blast some more farts, and then seep out yet even more farts in the bedroom during sexy times. He would fart the way normal people breathe. And he wouldn’t acknowledge it. I never knew how to react so I ignored it. After awhile I could understand his farts, like they had their own language. Tiny little farts meant he was frisky (which was most of the time), the giant ones meant he was bored and needed a joint, and the sharp, tight ones expressed displeasure which would happen when he watched tennis on tv. To this day when I see Roger Federer, a Pavlovian fart reaction will fill noxious fumes in my olfactory organs. Poor Roger Farterer, which is how I forever will think of him.

Then he went on some stupid colon cleanse, which of course made him even gassier if that was at all possible, and one day he farted out my name, beckoning me into the bathroom while he was curled up naked in the tub. He wanted me to hold the hose while he gave himself an enema. And that was when I realized that farting can lead to heavier bodily functions. And I was out the door.

Seriously, they should ban farting. It’s no joke. But if it happens to you, it’s best to just giggle and excuse yourself. I’m sure your boyfriend won’t even care, he will even find it endearing. And remember no little toot that you emit from your tiny little rosebud can ever be as bad as the image of a naked man in a tub with a hose up his hairy ass.


I’m seeing a married man and he says he is leaving his wife in the future but he is staying for the kids’ sake, they are still in school. I’m not sure what I should do.

There’s actually a mathematical formula for this conundrum:

Time (number months of your relationship)

Multiply number of Brazilian bikini waxes he has asked you to get

Divide by number of mysterious hang up phone calls you have received by a blocked caller

When you get that number, then add a million years….and that is when he is going to leave his wife!

In the meantime, why can’t you just enjoy being a mistress? You don’t have to wash his underwear or watch him chew on his whole grained cereal in the morning.

This is how they roll in Rome, no judgement!

Hope I have been helpful and I leave you with Carrie farting in front of Mr.Big, if she can do it, so can you:

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01

Aug. ’12

Yard Sale Olympics

This: and That:

Awkward Adam Driver from HBO’s “Girls” and Olympic Gold Lurch Michael Phelps…they are brothers from another mother and father, separated at birth!

And I’d hit them both!  They both fall under the “ugly-sexy” category which means sometimes off-beat looks are actually hot.  Especially if you are a tortured artist or a freak of nature with out-of-whack ability-enhancing proportions that allow you to be a glorious god-like male specimen sponsored by Kelloggs!

I have to admit, I’ve been watching very little Olympic coverage. But I have been watching my HBO channel and finally got around to catching all the episodes of “Girls” which I am obsessing over. It’s the twenty-something version of Sex and the City but more “real.” Boyfriend Adam (played by Adam Driver) is my summer crush.  He had me at the Golden Shower, I am not kidding, if a man peed on me I would take it as a sign of true primal devotion.  The show is genius, and the creator, Lena Dunham, is who I want to be when I grow up. You probably don’t need HBO to watch it, that’s just me, I’m still an old-fashioned pay-for-cable gal…No doubt you have the wherewithal to stream it off the internets from some magical website that doesn’t require a credit card.  I hate you.

I’ve also been training for my own summer games which is drinking on the porch.  And I have to be in tip-top form for next week’s trip to Italy.  Will definitely be doing Olympic caliber drinking.  Wine is cheaper than water!  And I am on a budget!

I had a yard sale on Saturday to fund my sport where I sold whatever I could take from my parents’ house and my high-heeled hooker shoes and handbags.  And jewelry!  Which an elderly lady bought in lump form before I had barely set things up.

“I will take it all, dear,” she said, her gnarly hands grasping through the nest of beads and baubles.

“Are you a reseller like on eBay?”  I asked.  I actually don’t care if someone profits off my stuff, I just need wine money. Fast.

“Good Lord, no, dear.  I keep it all myself,” She kept stuffing the jewelry box and her eyes had that manic look like Betty’s when there is a pizza delivery man on the street.

“You mean you’re a hoarder?”

“Yes!  Yes, I am!  Do you have any perfume?”  She grabbed a beaded evening bag that I had just pulled out. I had many of my beloved handbags still under the table and I moved myself in front of them so she wouldn’t have access, essentially cockblocking her from doing more damage.  If they could only talk, those purses would have stories!  There is a L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani that took me through the phase 2 real estate courses and made me feel like a professional moneymaker.  There’s a black studded one with a shiny silver lining that was my trademark during the epoch of my mojo.  It carried many different shades of red lipstick and a lucky tampon which is till in the inside pocket.  They need good homes and to be taken out on the town like a lady, not stuffed behind the toilet on top of a litter box.

She was sweet though, and the beaded purse suited her.  I found her a bottle of half drained Kate Moss eau de skank and some really foul patchouli from Lush and she put it all in her shopping cart and headed off to another yard sale. The one down the street was heavy on drugstore paperbacks.  #Winning, hoarder-style.

I got rid of a lot of stuff but still have enough left over for another yard sale this Saturday.  When I told all my customers that I was funding a grip to Italy , they got very excited and bought more and even threw in some extra future euros in my change jar.  Some even came back and for once I am thrilled to have size 10 shoes because the cross-dresser down the street had a field day.  Sashay away, Bruce!  I’m hauling out some boots this weekend, so come on down!

I hope everyone is having a great summer, next week I’ll try and post from Italy if I am not too jet-lagged, but in the meantime, here’s my latest obsession:  The MELONA Bar…they are out of this world but I inhale them, not like this kitty:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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25

Jul. ’12

Searching for Gak

I had a couple million dollar ideas this week.  One of them is that I’m going to write a book of erotica…and keep reading because I’m going to add a steamy example of my titillating prose at the end of the post that you won’t want to miss.  It’s so hot in my head right now, I’m sucking on a popsicle.  Seriously I can do better than that 50 Shades of Shite.

But first, as not so much a million dollar idea but a 20 buck bargain, I am offering a service to help you men who are dating on-line with your lousy profiles.  Check out the top of the page and click on “The Dating Whisperer” and see what I am offering.  I am serious, all you cyber dudes could use a tweaking.

As you know, if you follow this blog, I hit it out of the ballpark on my first on-line date last month.  Even though I wasn’t looking for long-term love, I got exactly what I wanted because I listened to my instincts and didn’t pussy-foot around, so to speak. Make your needs known!  I cannot stress this enough. I’m not on any site currently but I have getting daily match-ups mailed to me from Match.com, which is a serious site, not like the one I posted on that I treated like a boner tracker.  I am fascinated by the buffoonery out there…and I’m not making fun of you fine fellows, you are all worthy of finding love!  But here are just 3 of the fatal mistakes I found in just one daily mail-out:

1.  “Rex59…age 53, is looking for women between the age of 30-39.  Wants kids!”  Um, are you fucking kidding me, Rex59?  You are 53 years old and you want kids? When you are 60, they will be calling you “Gramps” in the school yard.  They will laugh at you when they find out you are a father of a kindergartener. You are not Warren Beatty.  Either go to Thailand or broaden your search to women your own age.  Your sperm really should be contained and you should accept the fact that your ship has sailed.  Of course, if he were a client I would be much nicer but still firm.  Men like that make me mad and they need to know their place in the world.

2.  “TravelMan….I love to travel but (in caps no less) I FIND EUROPEANS TO BE GOVERNED BY GREED!”  Okay, what is that all about?  First rule, never lock the cap key on your profile, it makes you look insane.  Also you love to travel but you hate the people?  I mean, I get it, I hate some people, too, but not in lump form.  Why not simply say:  “I love to travel, but there’s no place like being with the one you love at home.”  This is killing two birds with one stone, you express your love of travel and your hatred of foreigners is carefully concealed in romantic sentiment.  #Winning.

3. “I’m looking for someone who is down-to-earth and doesn’t play games.”  Oh my God, that’s all of you.  And here is the truth:  There is no such thing as a down-to-earth woman, all of them are crazy game players…that is how we roll.  We retain so much water that half the time we don’t even know who we are.  Accept the fact that if we like you, our demons will come out, and you will be subject to our perplexing riddles, nonsensical jargon, and mood swings.  Learn to tune out and take a how-to cunnilingus course at the Learning Annex.  It will help us out a lot.

These are just a few points and I wish everyone who is on these site luck because it is brutal in the real world.  I think most people are governed by the fear of being alone, which keeps them in bad relationships and that is really sad.  I like to believe that romantic love exists but mostly I believe in lust.  Although I do like to entertain the idea of “soul mates” as I think they exist somewhere in the ether.  I like to imagine that I met mine in the early pre-historic days when fire was hot as a trending topic.  My cavehunk, Gak, discovered my secret Gspot when he chewed on my ear as he was pulling on my hair (Yes!  I like that!  So sue me!)…I’m kind of sad that in this life I haven’t my soul mate, although we are probably all messed up in some time continuum under-lap what with one us dying early of consumption or being killed in a war.  Not to mention how diluted and polluted the soul pool has been getting lately, maybe parts of Gak live in every man, which means I better get busy.

So here is my pre-historical cave erotica, put some batteries in your pokey and grab a tissue:

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

The tribe from the north had been coming to Nitsirk’s village since she was a young girl to teach her people of fire and hunting with sophisticated new tools. And occasionally they took a young nubile woman or two back with them to make babies.  Diversity is key to keeping the pack strong and progressive.  No one really knows how much time passes but Nitsirk remembers first seeing Gak down by the river when she had just become a woman and had spent her 5 hellish moon waning nights in the woman’s cave, sitting on a pile of blood soaked leaves and clutching her cramping belly all the live long day.  When the older women told her that her time was up, she went to the river bank to wash herself.

There was where she first laid eyes on Gak, a young cavebuck from the north. With a spear over his muscular brown shoulder, he stood tall and upright. He was unlike the boys in her village who were still hunching around making patties out of buffalo dung and covering them with dried leaves and setting them on fire in the front of the caves for the elders to stomp out with their bare feet. They would grunt and guffaw as the elders growled “OOONGA BOONGA!!!” their feet covered in flaming fecal matter.

For a long while, she just stood and watched Gak.  He was wading knee-deep in the river, completely focussed on the spawning fish.  He would arc his back, muscles flexing, and lance the spear in the rapid water.  He missed each time, but his face remained patient, a vision of strength and virility.  His hair was wavy, dark and shiny in the sun, showing tinge of ginge, and just stopped above his shoulders.  His village had sharp cutting tools and their haircuts were stylish compared to men her tribe, where their heads looked like they were carrying lumpy nests filled with burrs and twigs.  He had not yet grown a full beard like the older men but his chest had dark hair that trailed down to his belly and all the way to the top of leather loincloth that was barely covering his bulge.  Occasionally some flesh would pop out, reminding her of a live eel her father once made her hold after he caught it.  She was both terrified and excited as it squirmed in her hand.  Gak’s dick slip was no different, she desperately wanted to hold it and stroke it just like the eel’s slippery body.  Just then, he turned around and saw her.

Something about him made her feel shy and awkward and so she hid behind a bush until he left, empty-handed with the spear over his shoulder.  It would be several moons before she would see him in her village again.

Thank Gork for older sisters!  Nitsirk’s eldest sister, Sluk, had been one of the nubiles taken to the northern village for fornication and conception.  One fresh day during blossom time, she came down for a visit, bringing shiny new things like a hair brush made out of boar bristles (who knew?) and perfume that she had made from the glands of a muskrat and the petals of bluebells.  She also had a swollen belly and her breasts were the size of the gourds that grow in the fields when the moon is orange.  Nitsirk’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Me have baby,” Sluk said, rubbing her rounded belly, “You need makeover.”

Before she could grunt anything, Nitsirk’s sister sat her on a rock by the river and started to brush her hair.  She had long flowing russet hair, much different from the others in her village.  Her skin was also much paler and she would get pink if she stayed in the sun for too long.  As her sister stroked her hair, pulling out burrs and little bugs, she closed her eyes and held her head back.  The sun felt good, not too hot as the warm season was still early.  The trickling sound of the river was intoxicating as she pulled her shoulders back and let her deerskin sheath gape open.

“Gak like bazoongas!”

Nitsirk was startled.  She opened her eyes and standing in front of her was the boy that she had seen by the river.  He was even bigger and stronger than she had remembered.  He was smiling right at her, looking at her chest.

Instantly she blushed.  Her breasts had completely fallen out of her deerskin.  For the past while, they had been a source of shame for her.  Since her first red flow, they had grown so huge, they couldn’t contain themselves in her sheath.  They would sproing out the sides or pop out the front.  There simply was not enough elk hide in the village to cover them up.  The boys in the village would point and grunt and guffaw, just like they did when they burned the buffalo crap.  So puerile.

But Gak just stood there, smiling and staring.  Gak had seen many breasts of many village women before, some were long and pointy like tusks, others were shaped like tree mushrooms, flat and droopy. Tits were tits and Gak’s big veiny member would harden to the sight of all of them but Nitsirk’s breasts were unlike any others.  They were pale and swollen, the nipples were hard and pink. He wanted so badly to touch them, squeeze and pinch them. They reminded him of the time when as a little boy, his father made a large balloon out of a honey badger’s intestine and he and his brother played with it all day…bouncy, bouncy, squeeze, squeeze.  Then his brother grabbed it and threw it off a cliff, and they both watched it sail into the chasm.  Gak cried because he had never seen anything so beautiful.  Until now.

“Gak, this is my sister, Nitsirk,” Sluk said, putting down the brush, “Gak’s brother made my baby.  You two should totally…”

Gak didn’t wait for Sluk to finish her sophisticated sentence, he grabbed Nitsirk’s hand and said, “Let’s go hunt fish in river!”

“Oinga!” she said, eagerly, which means “yes” as playing hard to get was not a concept back then.

Nitsirk stood up pulling up her sheath to cover herself.

“No leave bazoongas out!’  Gak ordered, “Those will feed my many babies and Gak will get some too!”  (Editors note:  Sometimes you can’t control the embarrassing things your soul mate will say or do which is what makes him so cute).

So Gak and Nitsirk went “fishing” which turned out to be a euphemism for “fucking” which is what they did on the first date in those days, before the “rules” ruined everything.

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That’s the teaser, you’ll have to stay tuned for the rest and buy the e-book for your Kindle.  I’ll let you know when it’s done!  And Gak, if you’re out there, and you know who you are, call me!

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17

Jul. ’12

Generation Eye Roll

I went to see “Ted the Movie” the other day, in part because I like a darkened movie theatre in the middle of summer but mostly because I miss my son Freddy.  He’s at camp up somewhere outside of Sudbury for the entire summer.  He’s on a wild river trip with no toilets or showers.  I sent him a care package of cured salami (not spicy! nobody needs a ring of fire in the woods!) and Mio, those fruity droplets that flavour up the water that they have to drink which is probably straight from the river and tastes as freshly foul as fish jizz.

Freddy and I love our Family Guy rituals and the other day our favourite episode came on, the one where Stewie and Brian are locked in the bank vault. It is pure comedic genius with existential ramifications. I got all melancholy for Freddy.  He is a teenager, but he is just like owning a pet cat.  He comes down from the roof when he is hungry.  He languishes on the couch during certain tv shows, then he disappears as quietly as he came.  He doesn’t shed at least.  Unlike my daughter who is more like a pet dog with maintenance issues and leaves trails of lint and wadded up Kleenex balls.

So I went to see “Ted” because it’s Seth MacFarlane and I love him. Even though a talking teddy bear might seem like a kid flick, there is “adult” humour and 6 seconds of GFN (Gratuitous Frontal Nudity…oh how I miss the 80’s cinematic masterpieces like “Losin’ It” and “Going All The Way” ).  I kind of snorted once or twice but I didn’t really laugh and I’m pretty sure as a LOCA, I wasn’t the target audience.  I told my 18-year-old daughter about it (she is the smart one and would not go see this movie with me) and she said, wisely, “Adults these days are like giant children.”

Depressing thought.  Generation X is going to need Generation Y and Z to change their diapers sooner than they think.  Having said that though, I can handle stunted teenage behaviour in a Mark Wahlberg-like guy who likes to hang out with a teddy bear and smoke pot all day.  Good times.

Then my daughter and I went to see Sarah Polley’s “Take This Waltz” with the other big bear, Seth Rogen.  In spite of what I’m about to say, it’s a thought provoking film about a woman coming into her own, having to make a life choice between two men, her bear husband and hipster neighbour.  It’s actually remarkably similar to “Ted” in a way.  This time the infant was played by Michelle Williams who dresses in giant toddler outfits and says things like “I wuv you” to her lover who she routinely has threesomes with…that is “adult behaviour.”  She made me mad.

“Why does every man love Michelle Williams?”  I ranted in the parking garage, “Like in Blue Valentine, Ryan Gosling worships her. RYAN GOSLING FOR GODSAKE!”

“Just in the movies.  Oh my God, Mother,” says Evangeline with a massive eye roll.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s a projection of who she is.  Men love feckless doughheads who talk in baby lingo.  She looked like she was dressed in Garanimals!”

“What’s Garanimals?” asked Generation Y, who grew up in Baby Gap.

“Cutesy toddler outfits!  I refuse to believe an artist hipster would be attracted to her, especially after she pissed in a pool and caused a public fouling.  Like she is the only fish in the sea. There are hotter chicks in the world.”

“Oh my God, Mother, don’t take it so personally.  And have you not seen her in “My Week With Marilyn?”

This is me:

I will never see Michelle Williams playing Marilyn Monroe.  Generation Y doesn’t get it.  One does not simply “portray” Marilyn Monroe.  A pop culture icon is best left to the drag queens who are able to capture their essence with a heaping helping of camp and hyperbole.  Although who better to play the helpless little girl persona of Marilyn Monroe than Michelle Williams?   Or “Mi-Mi Wee-Wee” let’s call her from now on.

My giant hate-on went from the parking garage and all the way through traffic on Bloor Street.

It turned out we were both bothered by this movie.  This how I expressed it:  “What an annoying cunt she was!”  But Daughter Generation Y explained it as:  “Her self-imposed  nobility keeps her from giving into her desires.  The depiction of her marriage was cloying with their constant game playing. Even when she chooses to leave, she runs away, impulsively and it doesn’t take long before she reverts back to the role of the little girl. The infantilization of her character is prevalent in modern society.  It’s quite pathetic really.”

Thank God I’m gonna have someone to change my diapers in a few short years.  We bantered until we got to the Bloor Viaduct, which always make me think of one thing and it’s not jumping.

“Let’s go to the Dairy Queen!” I said, “I haven’t had a Dilly Bar since the age of acid wash!”

“Why didn’t you keep all that stuff, Mom?  Then I wouldn’t have to shop at American Apparel. And no, I don’t want to go to the shitty Dairy Queen.”

And  I rolled my eyes.

Here is the Take This Waltz trailer:

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05

Jul. ’12

The Bailiff, The Banker, and The Breakdown

After last week, I feel like the long-lost fifth cast member of Sex and the City, the dysfunctional one whose sexcapades end in extreme embarrassment. I will let you know what happened but just promise to not get all “too much information” squeamish. If it can happen to me, it could happen to anyone. And if I had to live it, then you can hear about it. That’s my motto.

As you know from the previous post I had, in internet dating-speak, “a casual encounter” with a young buck, aka the mocha pheromone bomb. I was trying to find a cure for insomnia. Anyway, Boss had a super freaky tongue that could reach down to his Adam’s apple. And he wasn’t afraid to use it and! he was super talented…just like that guy on Sex and the City who eats the fig that they nickname Mr. Pussy. Now I don’t want to make you jealous, but you should be because it was mind-blowing. He could teach a course at the Learning Annex. It was a combination of tongue action, finger placement, and pressure. Forget what you read about how to pleasure a woman in Men’s Health, the master was not spelling out the alphabet on my lady parts. He was working magic, we can call him the Pussy Wizard or Whisperer since mine is so inconsistent and unruly.

At one point though, he asked: “Do you have a piercing up there?”

“Oh my God, no! Who would pierce up there? That must be the G-Spot. it is supposed to be hard and ridgey!” According to Cosmo.

“Wow, then it’s super hard and super ridgey, Cougar!”

“Carry on then!”

Two days later I went on my own finger patrol and was like, what the hell is this? And I pulled out my Diva Cup that I had completely forgot I put in earlier that day of the date! A Diva Cup is that awesome thing that modern-day ladies are using instead of tampons. It is a shot glass made of medical grade silicone that is inserted up the vagina and has this tail-like thing so you can pull it out. It’s not completely easy but once you get used to it, trust me, you will never go back. I slipped it in that morning to see if I still had residual flow and neglected to take it out.

Anyway, I realized with complete horror that dude was feeling the Diva Cup and he must have thought my G-Spot felt like a petrified lizard carcass. I cannot let him go through life thinking I had a dinosaur fossil embedded in my canal. So I called him.

“Do you know what a Diva Cup is?”

“Yes! Those are peanut free, I eat them all the time,” He says. He is one of those young ‘uns who is deathly allergic to peanuts. And he is confused.

I explain what happened and that I’m not a freak and not to worry, it’s sanitary, blah blah blah. Oh how we laughed. He took it pretty well but disappeared into the ether nonetheless. Not that we didn’t expect that. But the cougar is on the prowl now.

On Canada Day, I took Betty for a walk on the boardwalk and followed a big black dude around like the Pied Piper. He had a massive snake (a real one!) strung over his shoulders. The snake kept flicking its tongue at me and at one point, it slithered down they guy’s back and hung its head down and yawned right at Betty, who was completely oblivious. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I tore myself away and went home and tossed and turned that night, as per usual.

And then as quickly as the mojo was resurrected, it was shot down again. The next day in the mailbox was a letter from “The Bailiff.” It seems I had owed some property tax from last year in spite of all my attempts to have it come out of the mortgage, it didn’t happen. It was one of those snafus that is my mostly my fault but means a trip to the bank to cry a river of tears in front of my favourite mortgage specialist, Adrian. He is a super handsome Goan man with nicest smile. He knows how to coddle the hot mess that is me.

But Adrian wasn’t there! He was on vacay with his family! Instead I got whisked away into another man’s office. He had a commanding way about him, like he could be a motivational speaker or a professional magician. I showed him the Bailiff’s letter and told him that I might cry because that’s what I do with Adrian.

“Don’t worry, these things happen, we’ll fix it,” he pulling up my file on the computer. He starts scrolling through, which is the worst feeling in the world, a financial colonoscopy, I’d rather have him probe my butt at this point.

He checks out a few things, we have some diversionary banter and laugh at the font that the bailiff uses as a letter head: Ye olde tymey Shakespeare type that might have seemed important and threatening 400 years ago but looks really dumb in 2012. After we go through some payment options too depressing to talk about, he turns to me and with the most earnest facial expression and says: “Kristin, what can I do for you that will make your life better?”

And that’s when I try and swallow the lump in my throat and fight back the tears. I can’t speak of course, but I really want to say, “‘How good are you with your tongue?” But I start to cry instead. And it was good. And after what seemed an eternity, he gave me his card and I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling fan.

And here’s the original Mr.Pussy on Sex and the City:

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