How To Turn That Frown Into A Raging Boner

magazine6610fbbd27f123650915b7f2e7101dc4303f9d7bPeople are always telling me that men are simple creatures. As a woman, to keep a man in a holding pattern, all you have to do is know how to crack open a beer, make a kickass sandwich, and put out in a timely manner.  Do it in that order and if you are lucky he will stick around for the weekend and grout your tub.  There’s a rule in the “timely manner” aspect of it all.  Ironically, if you put out too early, he thinks you are a big ho and won’t stick around to do some chores. You have to fool him into thinking your vagina is a precious place, like a lush, secret garden that only he knows, or an out of the way fish market in a remote coastal town where the catch of the day is so fresh, it melts in your mouth and doesn’t have that fishy odour.  If your vagina is busy like Six Flags in the summer time, he might want to ride that roller coaster once, but he’s not going back if there is gum on the seat and the floor is sticky from cotton candy vomit.

This is a hard trick for most women and especially those who have birthed out some babies, such as myself.  If I’m going to make a metaphor out of the state of my cooter, I would have to say it’s like an old comfy couch that has been reupholstered in a brand new sleek fabric and is just waiting for someone to park his tired old ass on it and create his own dented imprint on the cushions, I don’t care how he does it. The waiting is driving me crazy but what can you do? All the fish in the sea are gay or married, and all the streetcars have short turned.  THERE IS NO GRINDR APP FOR COUGAR SLUTS…maybe that is this my million dollar idea?

In the meantime, as I wait, I have decided to become proactive but not on internet dating! No way, Jose, it’s too soul crushing.  Every on-line dude says the same thing:  No game playing and no drama.  What does that even mean?  Everybody plays games, it’s how we evolved as majestical text messaging, Grindr app playing beasts.  Your parents met, played the game of courtship, and you were born.  Your mom had to pretend she wasn’t interested in her super cool crush so he would think she was a challenge and he would ask her to the prom…But she was so good at being aloof, he asked another girl, who was the town trollop and she ended up pregnant with had some other baby, not you.  Your mom got really jealous so she ended up going out with her best guy buddy, Duckie, and although he was friend zone material, a brilliant game was being played and she fell in love with him anyway and they got married.  And yes, that is the way “Pretty in Pink” should have played out but it didn’t because test audiences didn’t like it!  But that’s the way these stories happen in real life for everyone else.  It’s all just a big game.  And the drama is the icing on the cake.  Without the drama, there are no boners, haven’t men figured this out yet?

So I’ve been telling everyone I know to set me up with their local divorced dad-type, I think I need my male counterpart so we can understand each other’s trials and tribz.  The problem is that there are two kinds of divorced dudes:  The first kind has not even let the ink dry on the divorce papers as he has already put the light on his cab and has hooked up with the first passenger that comes along who he is going to spend eternity with and get his vasectomy reversed for, etc.  He will jump through hoops in order to remarry because he can’t handle being alone.  This is not the type guy I would like to have sitting on my brand new reupholstered couch, if I was actually fast enough to catch one, he is too needy….and probably a premature ejaculator…no.

Then there is another kind of divorced dad who is a whole other animal, all full complexities and emotional issues. All the damages come out after the age of forty.  Which I don’t have a problem with as I am all about the fascinating case studies. There is nothing simple about these guys, they are up and down drama kings, all in desperate need of therapy.

Case Study #1:  I have a Facebook friend who is not a contender for my comfy couch because he doesn’t know I exist as he is one of those 5,000 friend hoarder-types. He would never bother reading this blog because he is too busy blathering on about himself…yes, I know I blather about myself BUT I READ ALL YOUR STATUSES AND POSTS, whatevs, let me have my little blog.  This dude SHOULD have a blog because he writes a diary as a status. Most of the time he is pining away for his ex-wife and children, which would be sort of noble except that she is in therapy for the fact that she has 8 kids. She hates him, she was probably in an oxytocin haze for their whole marriage while they had all those kids and now she no doubt prolapses when she sneezes. And all this guy wants is to have her back and plant more seeds in her bomb blasted womb.  He’s like a honey badger, just plowing away wherever he wants, and if she doesn’t take him back, he’s going to find himself a nice girl and make even more babies.  The only thing I will say is that there are not enough gingers on the planet and I do love a ginger so maybe he is doing a good deed for the greater good of diverse world population.

But seriously, this is a dude without any self-actualization at all.  This guy will pine away forever until he cures his misogyny.  IT’S 2013, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KEEP A WOMAN BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT ANYMORE.  Grow up, read a self-help book, and get a haircut. And a vasectomy.

Case Study #2:  I have some friends who heard my plea and invited me over to their house recently for drinks on a casual setup with their newly divorced dad friend.  This divorced dad’s ex-wife has a blog (!) and I perused it before I met him.  This was not one of those blogs that make me jealous with its amazing content because it was crappy, boring stories of children and hair.  I’m not even kidding, it was pictures of her kids getting haircuts but for some reason every post had hundreds of comments, seriously really? That pisses me off seeing dumbass blogs with loads of traffic for no good reason. When I met him, I thought he was very handsome and! he wore plaid shirt which is one of my fetishes left over from Grade 9.  But! All he talked about was his ex-wife.  What a bitch she was. Drinky, drinky, drinky:  “Selfish whore.”  More drinkies:  “What a heinous cunt.”  I told him I saw her blog and said it was kind of silly…I thought we were having a bonfire-style bitchfest where we could all throw a log in the fire, but no, he ripped me a new one for being disrespectful of her journalistic integrity, or something to that effect.

Talk about a whacked out attachment disorder.  You just know he stalks her on the Facebook and in her driveway.  There will be no moving on until a certain someone realizes you can’t find happiness in another person.  In order to move on, one needs to strategize a game plan and this guy is just too addicted to his own misery.  Until then, I probably would let him on my couch, if he could get his mind off his ex-wife for twenty minutes or so, something about him protecting her shitty blog got me all hot and bothered, he’s got some spunk in him.   I ❤ spunk.



One does not simply “accidentally” click on a Japanese porn site, I am going to admit it was my own fault.  Last night, during one of my bouts of insomnia, I took a wrong turn in the internet hay maze and saw a thing or two that were probably best left unseen by my delicate lady sensibilities.  Holy Hello Kitty, Japan! The WTF imagination of it all is limitless which I can appreciate but what is so confoundedly weird to me is that some body parts are blurred and others are not. To pixelate or not pixelate?  If that is your question, I would say you have it all ASS BACKWARDS but who am I to judge? Any time anyone says anything remotely negative about another country or culture, out come the Perpetually Offended Righteous Kony2012 Army (PORKA for short, you will need this later on):  “You can’t say anything bad about the Japanese, that is RACIST!”  So carry on, Japan, you crazy kids, with your creative cinematic endeavours that you can proudly share with the rest of world. I am just going to curl up in a ball now and double up on the underwear and clench my sphincter super tight (just in case).

And so I tossed and turned. I’m so boring, I can’t stand it.  And neither will you, here are my triple thought rotations in the middle night. If I had to suffer through it, I’m going take you with me…spoon with me until I fall asleep:

>Why does everyone get up Lena Dunham’s ass all the time?  I love her so much it hurts. All those haters are all just jealous of her success. (Bear with me, I am obsessed with HBO’s hit tv show “Girls”)

>>I wish they didn’t get those new spin bikes, they are calibrated so hard!  My calves are going to turn into tree trunks.

>>>If I have to rub one out, I’m going to make Colin Farrell my muse.

>Why should Lena Dunham publicly respond to a tweet by Lisa Lampanelli?  So dumb.  It’s those PORKAs at work again, leave Lena alone!

>>Next time I spin, I’m going to just have to keep up the RPM’s and turn down the gears. My fucking calves are so sore, that means the muscle fibres have broken down and are rebuilding themselves up in Hulkian proportions.  I’m not turning that resistance up so high,  I don’t care what he says. I’m not a real woman.  I am a monster.  Hold me.

>>>I don’t get Colin Farrell’s bizarre new hair cut but whatever, I won’t be running my fingers through it in this fantasy…(Let me google that for you if you haven’t seen it yet).

>Ugh, I can’t handle all the righteousness on the internet, no wonder I ended up on Japanese porn.  I have to stop reading the comments on Jezebel and most of all, the stupidly written articles on xoJane. PORKAs are offended by the “n-word” no matter the context, be careful saying “vinegar” because they have sharp ears.  Like it or not, the derived term “nigga” has become an indissoluble part of the popular vernacular of hip hop culture.  You can’t put a stop to the evolution of language just because Oprah said so. It’s going to be an uphill battle trying to fight that one.  Best of luck there and enjoy your new Lil Wayne download.

ricky gervais gif

>>I think if I keep spinning, I need to add another yoga class.

>>>I bet Colin Farrell would make an awesome husband.  I don’t care what anyone says.  I love that he befriended Elizabeth Taylor in her last days.  Although I wonder what that was all about?  Is he a Cougar-izer?  Was Elizabeth Taylor even a considered a cougar in a wheelchair?  Is there something beyond cougardom?  I hope so.  Sigh.

>Why can David Duchovny say:  “Nigga, please!” on Californication and no one cares?  He’s a whitey, but! he is a man so that gives him some leeway as per the unwritten law according PORKA. That is my theory. Women have a much shorter leash when it comes to saying outrageous things.  If they are allowed to say anything at all.  Without offending anyone.  Fuck that. Being a woman sucks a big giant pulsating cock. Also is it because Lena Dunham is a young woman that she is considered “misguided by privilege?”  I don’t get it.  Aside from owning a gun, isn’t “privilege” part of the American dream, why begrudge her for it?  Her parents are artists. Again, I don’t get it.  Didn’t they do a lovely job nurturing their daughters in the arts? I wiki’d them and her sister goes to Brown and is a poet. We need artist-type people and great shows on HBO. So what if her life experience inspired her to create a show about a struggling young writer in Brooklyn?  OOOOOH hear the PORKAs cry:  I’m just so blinded by the whiteyness of it all! When Edward Burns came on to the scene with his auteur-style films about his life with his equally blinding whitey bros in New York, no one busts his ass about not being racially diverse.  And oh my God, if the characters aren’t too white, then they are too ugly. That thought just makes me sad which makes even madder and I don’t like it when people say bad things about Lena Dunham. Why do I even care?  Because Lena Dunham a trailblazer. She is my hero and she is only going to get better. LENA DUNHAM IS THE CUTEST GIRL EVER.

>>If I add another yoga class, I should probably go back to Bikram but I’m scared. It’s so hard and I’m going to have to look even more inward than I already am, my head is already stuck so far up my ass that I can hear AND see the ocean and catch some fish while I’m there. I wonder how my blogger friend in Kansas City is doing on the 30 DayYoga Challenge? Maybe still snowed in? CALM DOWN, STAY OFF THE INTERNET, YOU WILL FIND OUT TOMORROW.

>>>I wonder if Colin Farrell is a douchebag modelizer like Leonardo diCaprio? Colin Farrell has a son with Angelman Syndrome and he seems like a great dad, and he also has a son from another mother…you know if a woman has children with different fathers, she is considered to be on the totem pole of ho, how high up she is depends on how may different tree branches are involved.  Dude plants his plethora of seeds in more than one orchard and he is like Farmer Awesome.  Let me bake you a pie out of your fine fruit, sir.  I’d like give Colin Farrell a piece of my pie, that is for sure. Sweet Jesus, pie, forget the euphemism.  Ugh, I wish I could make crust like my mother.  So flaky and tender.  I should do something with all those blueberries rotting in the fridge, I knew i shouldn’t have bought so many.  STOP THINKING ABOUT PIE AND GET ON WITH SEXUAL FANTASY ALREADY, GODDAMMIT, OR GO TO SLEEP. Thanks, Japan, all I can think of now are tentacles.

>>>>I need a cat.

cat and dog gif

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Timing is Everything According to Cupid

Kristin Peterson blog

Well, well, well…this has been a bullshit winter.  Weather-wise, IT’S SO COLD! I’ve been wearing the same thing every day for the last two months.  I find when I’m so cold, I don’t even care anymore…about anything, except for you people, my internet lovers.  And fried chicken.

Valentine’s Day came and went! I don’t care at all about romance and stuff but I always cook up something special on Vagina-Lonely-Day because it takes my mind off my harrowing despair otherwise known as celibacy.  This year, I mastered the art of fried chicken!  It’s all about the brine!  Who knew? I made about 6 batches in total, since the Toronto Star published the recipe of The Stockyards, and fuck, it is HARD.  No joke, it takes 2 days to make, at least.  First you have to soak the pieces in brine in the fridge….and do you even know what brine is?  It’s salty, sugar water. Like the tears of a sad clown. NO, I DID NOT GET SAD ON VALENTINE’S DAY!  I’m so over it.

Anyway, after the chicken is done its 48 hour briny bath, you soak it in buttermilk where it luxuriates with some spices for a few hours while you watch something on Netflix. Do NOT do your nails at this point because what comes next is more tactile than you might want to get with raw chicken. But I have nothing else going on so I got my fingers into it. After the buttermilk soak, you coat the chicken with flour.  It is so messy!  But worth it.  I don’t have a deep fryer, I just use a pot of vegetable oil on the stove and dump the pieces in after you have heated it up for longer than you can stand. Hot oil doesn’t really bubble, it just swirls around all impatient-like. This is where I have gone wrong, putting the pieces in before the oil is hot enough, then the coating comes off. But still, it is fried chicken and you almost can never go wrong no matter how you cook it.  Sigh.

Who am I kidding? I am a bitter old cow who needs a brine bath and a buttermilk soak and then dumped in a deep fryer.  I am jealous of chicken.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine decided to try on-line dating, I told her about Okcupid because if you follow this blog, I got what I wanted last summer.  She is more interested in dating an age appropriate man so I think when she first logged in, neither of us had any real hope.  But off she went, into the deep, dark woods of the interwebz and what do you know?  She went on a coffee date and had an actual good time.  Then came another date.

And then she said:  “KP, I am smitten!”

And I said:  “Smitten????? What the fuck does that mean?”  I don’t even….

She explained that when she sees him, her heart skips a beat.  Is it scary?  Yes, it is scary.  THIS IS CUPID’S ARROW STABBING YOU IN YOUR HEART! It’s an actual thing,  Apparently it is scary because your old, jaded self becomes powerless.  That is so awesome I can’t stand it!  I want that feeling!

I have crushes, minor and fleeting…like the cable man who saved my Peachtree from the digital force crushing out my analog signals, the drama!  It lasted an hour.  I have a kind of crush on a dude I encounter in my daily activities but he is married or something and my heart does not skip a beat when I see him.  My loins get all fired up though, and when I talk to him, I allow the verbal diarrhea to spew out of my mouth which is awesome in its own right, but it is not SMITTEN.  And he probably thinks I’m an idiot.  I realize this heart beat skipping trick has to be MUTUAL in order for it to be scary.

I want to be smitten AND scared.


That’s Lorelei Gilmore, having an impromptu session with a shrink in the back of a car.  But that is also me, I’m tired and impatient and I have been growing my hair out to no avail.

With that querulous attitude, yesterday I put up a new profile on Okcupid.  Why is it that I can write a 1500 word blog post for you people and be my most happy self doing it but I can’t fill out profile form to save my life?  Ugh, I am the worst, but do the men even read these things?  Don’t they just look at pictures?  Some creepy mofo on Facebook accused me of putting up old photos of myself when I just took one on Tuesday and the previous one was from September and he has never even met me in person.  I am only guilty of Hipstomatic filtering, but who isn’t?  If you want to see pores just use your imagination.  They look like moon craters, dude.

So I put my thing up and waited and then like, nothing.  An hour went by…is this thing even on?  Last summer, I hadn’t even finished writing the profile when the locusts came.  That is not bragging, that is just the law of interwebz nature.  This time around people were perusing me in silence, it shows who checked out your profile but no one actually said anything.  What the hell? I put a link to this blog so they could be dazzled by the polka dotted background at least.  Then someone wrote: “Your blog is really funny, you should right as a living.”  I know, right?  WRITE.  And yes,  I know, I know, I am the Queen of Typos but I couldn’t get passed it.

So I took matters in my own hands and went trolling, trolling, trolling.  I cast my net at AGE APPROPRIATE men folk because I don’t think I could ever get this elusive smitten feeling with a cub, no offence twentysomethings but you don’t know who the original Starsky and Hutch are.

So I wrote to two men, they both had really good profiles.  One was a HERMIT!  I am a hermit!  Surely we could hermit together.  I picked out our wedding china as I wrote him this quick hello:  “I like your profile, it’s very clever and witty…”  I sent it, waited…I could see him checking out my profile (this is like making eye contact at a virtual bar)…and then I waited some more and NOTHING.  He did not respond.  I was sure he would be excited by our mutual love of HBO.  But no, it wasn’t enough to hermit with.  Hermits probably need social butterflies in order to not turn into Unabombers, right?  So maybe it’s not meant to be.

The next guy was really stern looking but he rocked a plaid shirt.  He was an “almost vegetarian” and he sold his cars and now rides a bicycle as his main mode of transportation.  I know, slightly disturbing, cyclists are a weird breed but I was a bike courier in my heyday. His long winded profile read like a novella but I could get behind that, it meant he was probably literate and could read my blog and appreciate my ramblings.  So I sent him a hello note.  Watched him check out my profile, again, just like the other dude did and I waited and AGAIN NOTHING!

What the fuck?  Then I realized: fried chicken.  I wrote something about fried chicken on my opening line which probably offended his “almost vegetarian” sensibilities.  Oh well, whatevs…love me, love my fried chicken.

So I deleted my profile this morning.  Seriously, this pheromone rush I seek is best left in the hands of that lazy ass little Cupid boy to get his act together.  I just might have to wait a little longer, or not….maybe I’ll fry up some more chicken EVEN THOUGH IT TAKES SO FUCKING LONG.

Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy


I love Kate Upton. She has big boobs and so do I.  Chicks with big boobs are part a secret sisterhood, we like to stick together and brush each other’s hair and whisper things that only we only know about. Kate is only twenty and she is our reigning poster babe! Ave, Hootervus!  I think of her as a sister but more like my daughter from another ovary because I’m so old now.  Ugh, soon I’m going to have to give up flashing my boobs, it’s so inappropriate.  I can’t help it, I’ve been doing it since eight grade when I answered the door topless for the pizza delivery man on a dare.  I dared myself to do it.  True story.

Last year when the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit edition came out with Kate wearing a 3 triangles the size of a wedge of Laughing Cow cheese, I posted the cover on this very little blog and thanks to StumbleUpon came so much traffic, little blog’s site states on that day looked just like a big, soaring boner.  It’s Kate’s World, we just swim in it.

So anyway, this is her second cover and I’m going to ride with it, click here for more Sports Illustrated (or less, check out how tacky the body paint is).

And I have a lot to say about big boobs.

1. There are Kate Haters among us.  Any time my girl Kate makes the news, be it with her fapworthy Cat Daddy dance or her Mercedes Benz (Meh-cedes) commercial, there is always some little bitch on any given forum:  “Kate Upton is fat!  That’s the only reason she has big boobs!”  Oh my God, she is such a hambeast!  Put her on a diet now or our retinas will burn because she has meaty bits.  Last year at some adult birthday party (insert eye roll, grown up birthday parties are ridiculous), I had a conversation with some married dude about some new cleanse diet he was on (insert another eye roll, people on cleanse diets: STOP, there’s no pork spackle from 5 years ago glued to your colon wall) and you know how middle-aged men are now the new teenage girls?  They have become all body conscious and they think if they get rid of their love handles, we won’t notice their receding hairlines.  And then they get all ripped and start some kind of hair follicle growing operation on their heads and they think we won’t notice the personality disorder.  Talking to Mid-Life Eating Disorder Guy is the worst, because he is also obsessed with the way his wife looks and he shows me some iPhone photos from his vacation where they are on a beach and his wife had just got a fresh boob job: “Look at my abs,” he says,”They’re an 8 pack, I have to cut out all carbs after 5 pm.” And me (more eye rolling) trying to be nice and thinking this would be a compliment:  “Your wife looks great, too, just like Kate Upton in that white bikini.”

AND THEN HE RESPONDS: “Kate Upton?  She’s a cow! Her waist to hip ratio measurements are way too low.  They call her a supermodel but she could never do runway!”  Oh. My. God.  If I had a husband and a sentence like “She could never do runway” came out of his mouth, I would drive that Brokeback to Woody’s on Church Street and set him free, no judgement, and if he came back it like the butterfly that he is, I would assume it would be to steal my stash of Elizabeth Arden Prevage eye cream.

Yesterday I asked my son, Freddy, age 16 and famed boob-man, if he knew who Kate Upton is.

Freddy:  Kate Upton?  Of course I know who she is. (Duh)

Me:  Do you think she is fat?

Freddy:  Fat?  No! She’s not fat!

Me:  What about her boobs?

Freddy:  MOTHERRRRRRR…..(insert massive eye roll)

Faith in humanity restored.

2. Kate is a supermodel but she could never do runway.  Okay, so let’s just address Brokeback’s statement:  I knew you were coming so I made you a gif of a cow lumbering down a runway.  You’re welcome:

kate upton runway

3. Sometimes boobs cannot be tamed.  This is true, the good folks at Sports Illustrated are always putting Kate in toddler sized bikinis as if to put greater emphasis on this point.  There is much humour in this that only the secret sisterhood of chicks with big boobs can laugh about.  I can stuff my boobs in a bra and walk around and the earth will still rotate on its axis.  I can put them in a Shock Absorber (that’s a sports bra) and I can run and play tennis without creating a spontaneous sink hole. They are tame on dry land. They will sit and stay on command.  But put them in a swim suit and add water, they become rambunctious Labrador Retriever puppies.  They just want to jump out and run in opposite directions and the more you stuff them back, the crazier they become.  They slither out the bottom, pop out the sides, and explode out out the top.  The best beach vacation I ever had was in Miami where most of the women of all sizes and ages didn’t wear their tops at all.  UNLEASH THE HOUNDS.  The best dog park evarrrrr!

4.  Not all big boobs are enchanting.  Some of them are like heavy bags of marbles and they give a lady back pain.  I get it but mine are not like that, it’s all about density.  The insides of mine are soft and mushy and  feel like ricotta cheese with some soft bits of exploded bubble tea.  I flopped one of mine onto a fish scale last summer and it didn’t even come in as a pound, so when I hear someone who gets an breast reduction say they took 3 pounds off each tit, I am like, yeah, go girl. CANADIAN HEALTH CARE PAYS FOR IT.  Cautionary tale: I know of a woman at my gym who was in the double D range like moi and at 5’10 could carry it AND they were spectacular!  Just like a milk maid from a porno movie!  But she wanted them smaller so she could buy “pretty bras!”  Yes, your tax dollars at work so homegirl can shop in all the drawers at Victoria Secret.  She got them reduced and meh, couldn’t even really tell that much but now her hips look so much bigger :(.

5.  Big boobs get the last laugh.   For some reason, people think they can say anything to you when you have big boobs. “You’re going to sag when you older,” said my friend when we were 18.  She was one of those types of girls who walk around naked all the time like Lena Dunham(!).  And back then I thought, kudos to you for not caring that you have a loose hunks of beef shwarma hanging from your crotch but shut up, “That’s just rude,”  I said. “It’s true,” she said, “You’re going to sag and I’m going to be perky forever,” or something to that effect.  You know I can still get worked up over that bitch. And although I don’t actually know what happened to her, I have seen some post-lacto members of the A-cup sisterhood, and if I’m going to go down, I’m going to take your deflated baby socks with me, ho. And two words: Susan Sarandon.  She is our Grand Poobah.

But really in all earnestness, all boobs are good boobs, take care of the ones you’ve got, sisters, and don’t be afraid of the waves!!  Kate has taught us that. I also made you another flashing gif and yes, while she might be little meaty, she is like a big messy slice of pizza after a night of heavy drinking.  Fuck yeah, Kate Upton, you go girl:

kate's meaty bits

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

The Plight of the Mesomorph and the Oxytocin Haze

Black-Milk-Clothing-Muscle-LeggingsEpiphany of the Week:  Leggings are pants!

I spent faaaaar too long reading some Jezebel article about whether or not leggings are pants and then clicking on the comment section, Holy Christ, you’d think we were talking gun control, but no, gunt control seems to spark the same amount of brouhaha on the internet.

Me personally, I have been on the fence about the whole “leggings as pants” debate for many years.  Leggings were really big in the mid-eighties when I was a cowgirl, riding the range, and wearing them with a black turtleneck, a leather jacket and Doc Martens, actual cowboy boots, or Converse high tops.  They were part of a uniform of an early emo clubster/grunge movement that you could only understand if you were there.  Then in the 90s, I wore them as a pregnant/lactating cow because EXPANSION.

Then in the late 90s some genius at the GAP decided to add lycra into denim and leggings OUT, jeans IN.

So now its 2013 and Lululemon (and its yoga-pants knockoff army) have been around for at least a decade making non-gym going sane people roll their eyes and go: “Can’t people wear real clothes anymore?” I mean, I agree but!  I am a mesomorph body-type with my moon in Gluttonarious and my guiding stars in Slothera and so wearing jeans can be a daily challenge because ZIPPERS.

So this bloated bon vivant mama loves a legging, especially Black Milk ones, but a Lululemon yoga pant, I am SO over. Every woman in every shape, size, age range is wearing head to toe Lulu AND some of so are some of the men.  If I see a dude wearing Lululemon at my gym, I suspect he is gay or his girlfriend/wife bought him an outfit so other women know that he is taken because no straight, single manly man would ever in his right mind would buy himself a “yoga tunic” in a shop in a mall beside Sephora.

Fun anecdote:  Back in 1987 in my nubile years, I moved to the beaches neighbourhood here in Toronto, and I used to visit a store on Queen Street called “Westbeach” where I had a crush on the owner.  His name was Chip and he was a few years older than me which I liked back then because I had big brother issues.  He was like a tall, hunky surfer version of Clark Kent.  I used to flirt wildly with him and he was really kind to me and one day in the summer, he and I rode our bikes downtown to see the movie “Stakeout.”  It was more like a buddy date on his part and he told me that he was probably going to move out west soon because he had a girlfriend there.  Of course he did. He did end up moving and 20 years later founded the company Lululemon, which is hilarious because MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.

Whatevs, if the pheromones had worked out for us and we fell in love the way I had intended, I probably would have told him that yoga pants were for losers and we need to focus on jeans that had drawstrings and side pockets that could hold a six-pack of tall boys. I would have been so wrong and yet so right. The first world would have been a whole different place.  You would probably be out on Tuesday playing bingo instead of practising your sun salutations at your local Downward Dog studio which have become as ubiquitous as nail salons.  I am the worst wife ever.

Anyway, back to the modern time legging debate.  According to the Jezebel article and its commentators, leggings can be considered pants if the fabric is thick enough. Not all leggings are created equal. You do not want the kind of stretchiness that makes the fabric sheer and shiny that you see the ass tattoos, the cottage cheese lumps, or the whale tales.

As for camel toe, these are my thoughts:  I think it is okay AT THE GYM to be wearing leggings/yoga pants where you can see a mound and an EVER SO SLIGHT dolphin lip formation.  However, it is vulgar to be able to count how many slices of cold cuts on each side of the beef curtains.  Although I think men appreciate the display because so many women these days are muscular like dudes that they want to check out if you have a tuck game going on.  Pro tip:  If you are a single lady, you can wear your vacu-seal yoga pants out of the gym and run your errands pretending you didn’t have time to change and probably your local butcher will throw in a dozen free duck eggs to your order.

My gym has a store and on their sale rack, there were a pair of really cool black Puma leggings with a kind of retro 80s constellation print, but I tried them on and my Herculean calves created such a stretch that the entire pattern disappeared and turned white instead.  Ugh!  Less spinning, more yoga for me.  I used to have normal calves and then I became a bike courier, 25 YEARS AGO, and now I have legs like a Scottish rugby player. I once had an argument with a trainer who some sort of convoluted theory based upon Britney Spears, pre-Federline, and according to him, she was the model of female perfection. By his estimation, women could not build bulky muscles like men and Britney was an example of finely tuned ectomorph and she would be a lean machine all her life.  I said:  “Dude, Britney Spears is my mini-me, you just watch that mesomorphic bitch balloon out after she has kids.”  He shook his head like I was crazy.

britney spears before and after

I think we can all agree I was right.



I’ve been dying to slip that gif in somewhere.  Anyway whoa is me and mesomorphic problems, I have to figure out how to iron out muscle while burning fat and so it might be time to consult Gwyneth Paltrow and her goopy friend, Tracy Anderson.  Apparently it is all about working the tiny muscle groups, not the big ones!  Who knew?  I know you are probably an ectomorph and don’t care and I don’t time have time for you either so let’s move on to more pressing matters:

Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together!  I know this is like the worst thing ever and how stupid can a woman be, let’s all go hide under Gloria Steinem’s bed for 72 hours.  But you know what? I am excited, you go pop the corn and I will make the pitcher of Negronis, the official cocktail of relationship disasters, and let’s watch this mess escalate. I don’t care about Rihanna, we have warned her on Twitter and she responded on Instagram holding her blunt up like middle finger, and she is rich unlike some non-famous battered women who are stuck in hell and can’t get out.

Why is Rihanna so stupid?  It’s not her fault!  You can blame it on simple biology, it’s hormones, specifically oxytocin, NOT to be confused with hillbilly heroin, OxyContin. Women make oxytocin when they are pregnant so that they bond with their baby and become nurturing even if she is a cold fish.  It comes in handy because sometimes a baby is a screaming monster and you just want to throw them out the window but you don’t (hopefully!) because some oxytocin-drunk inner voice tells you not to and saves you from going to jail.

Women also make this hormone when they have sex with the same man more than once.  Hence Stupid Rihanna and Chris Brown.  I think we all know personally know a woman who is with some loser dude, who is a drunk or married or both, that we think: “Holy shit, what does she see in that loser?  Doesn’t she see that he is an ugly douche and a liar?”  But no, she is all like, he is so sweet and vulnerable, and I must follow my heart and protect him in my pillowy breasts as the world is such cruel place for such a loving man and together we are beautiful and love is natural and real.  And you just want to slip her the antidote for this oxytocin haze, maybe it’s a few Negronis, and then she will see the light.  An oxytocin-drunk woman never does even with two black eyes.  STELLAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

By the way, men do not produce this hormone, which why they can go righteously planting their seeds left, right, and centre as it is their duty to mankind.  However, a couple of months ago,it was discovered that if you give them oxytocin, like in a nasal spray, you have yourself a loyal human pet.  But you really should ask yourself, do you really want a giant monkey?  Maybe a dog is better.

I’m looking at you, Rihanna.  You know the other day, I saw a picture of Chris Brown and I have come to think that he looks like his family tree might be more like a Mulberry bush, where the branches are entwined and connect at the bottom.  Inbred, is what I’m saying.  He looks like Pepper the Pinhead from American Horror Story Asylum:

chris brown/ pepper pinhead

I can’t wait to see what their babies look like! I am sure she will be an awesome mama exploding with all the oxytocin-induced lactation to feed the entire world!  Love is fucking hilarious.  And leggings are pants, I don’t care what anyone else says.

A Hooker’s Guide to Self Actualization

American Gothic Barbie and KenThe other day, my friend sent me a link to an article in the Globe and Mail by Margaret Wente.  I never read the “Mop and Pail” anymore because they systematically dump their good writers and keep the shitty ones like this dumb bitch who writes this sophomoric article titled “the awful truth about being single.”  I put a link to it but I wouldn’t bother clicking on it if I were you because this is it in a nutshell:

Mary Tyler Moore was a trail blazer who paved the way for modern single ladies to live groovy lives in Liberty Village with their little dogs and social media outlets.  But when these young hos hit 35 and are still single ladies, TIC TOC ROARS THE CLOCK!  Lonely days, lonely nights!  Time to get some cats!  Single life is over-rated and pathetic, not glamourous like “Sex and the City,” it is more like “Girls” where people are ugly and love is a battleground.  Carrie Bradshaw from SATC says:  “The most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”  But Margaret Wente’s epiphany is that the road to self actualization isn’t through independence but from a relationship that requires sorting someone else’s socks and squeezing the zits on another person’s back. There is nothing more rewarding!

And she finishes it all off with this Stepfordesque quote:  “You will be astonished by the person you become. And you wouldn’t exchange the richness of your married life for anything.”

It looks like somebody has been talking her meds!

This enraged all my single friends. She has set women back 50 years! I have to say, I do like all her tv references but clearly she doesn’t really know her “Sex and the City” or she would have known about all the trial and tribulations the characters go through like the sexual droughts, loneliness, poor choices, depressed vaginas, break ups, and dating men with these problems:  the politician who wanted to be peed on, the dude with the funky tasting spunk, the premature ejaculator, teeny tiny dick, horse-sized dick, Mr. Pussy,verbally abuse man, straight gay man, public sex guy, and the list goes on.  So how about analyzing this SATC case study, Margaret Wente:  When Charlotte gets MARRIED for the first time, her husband can’t even get a proper boner!  That is just SO RICH, you would never want to trade that for a golden shower with that silver fox who plays Roger Sterling on Madmen!  Fuck no, let’s just stay home and sort Trey’s socks and iron his plaid boxer shorts while he masturbates in the bathroom to Juggs.  How fulfilling.

Fictional tv characters aside, there is probably not a great deal of difference between the loneliness of a single person than of a married person. You can feel lonely when you are part of a couple and that is probably even worse type of lonely than if you are single and don’t want to be. Which do you think is more pathetic:  That couple who sit and eat by the window of a restaurant and have nothing to say to each other all evening or the single guy who sits at the bar alone on a Monday night because he can’t stand being alone in his apartment?  You can decide for yourself, but I’d rather be the single dude or his female counterpart who is home with her cats watching Mike and Molly.  You just know that the couple who have nothing to say to each other are secretly hoping that the other one chokes on a fat scallop and drops dead:  “I tried the Heimlich, I really did!  It must have really stuck!”

If loneliness is something you see as a foreboding disabling force that will send you into the depths of despair then maybe you really do need some quality alone time for self actualization.  Just saying.

I’m so self-actualized, by the way, I’m inside out.  Fuck Margaret Wente, I’m a single lady and I love it!

single lady gif

Don’t think just cuz I’m single, I’m an embittered dried up old hooker that I don’t believe love or romance. If I ever met the real-life version of Luke Danes from the “Gilmore Girls,” I would shoot that unicorn with a stun gun and if I had to, I would keep him smothered in my cavernous cleavage in a half-conscious twilight state so he wouldn’t bolt. I do think good couples exist. They are just not most couples.  I think we live too long for relationships that are supposed to last until you death do you part. Those unions were designed for farm folk where the women died in childbirth and the men remarried their line up of teenage sisters.

For most people, marriage is not very realistic. If you insist on making a legal union out of your love/lust confusion, it should be like a driver’s license and up for renewal every 4 years.  Then if it doesn’t work out, you wouldn’t feel like such a failure and you wouldn’t have to say DIVORCE, you’d just say you didn’t renew and then move on. Set yourselves free so you can even out the playing field for the rest of us.

There is no shame in being single.  Take some time, hold your own hand and get to know yourself, and fear not the loneliness because once you master that, you can probably handle the boredom of a marriage.  Here are some pro tips to help you on your way to self actualization:

1. Don’t read too many self-help books. You will suffocate in bullshit. If you are going to read one book, read The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz, it’s super short and you can read it in an afternoon and it’s really all you need to help you navigate through your inner journey.  Dude keeps adding new agreements, ie. The Fifth Agreement!  What is that? Four was a perfect amount: Be impeccable, don’t take anything personally, don’t make assumptions, and do your best.  Master those and stay gold, Pony Boy!

Again, keep your self-help literature to a minimum otherwise you will become one of those people who keep posting daily affirmations on Facebook because they have become overly cleansed by power thinking.  In reality, they have become powerless unless there is a mantra to chant or a platitude to post on the fridge.

shut the fuck up needlepoint

2.  Don’t forget your friends.  Not just the single ones, even the ones with spouses need friends to talk to about their shit, too, and they are secretly jealous of you. Make sure you have your phone plan set up for unlimited talk time with these hos because you’ll be yapping for hours and if you are using a cellphone, use earbuds because you might get a tumour before you get self actualized.

3. Don’t cyberstalk an ex-lover!  You need to dump them from Facebook and stop following them on Twitter and Instagram.  Not knowing is better than knowing in this case, ignorance is power.  When you do find out something that you didn’t want to know, you might be tempted to drink a bottle of vodka, eat a tub of ice cream, and have sex with the nearest person to which I believe are all valid responses.  A little bit of shame goes a long way to help pave your path to enlightenment, everyone is entitled to a fat, drunk slut phase.  Or as I prefer to call myself, a bloated bon vivant.  Don’t worry, that phase will end and you will replace it with something healthier like yoga or cutting your own hair.

4.  Take yourself on a date.  You know what is so great about going to a movie by yourself?  You can sit where you want and eat all the popcorn and use all the arm rests and no one will distract you with their incessant leg crossing, nose blowing, coughing, stupid questions,etc.  Going out alone will become really easy to get used to but don’t get carried away with yourself, it’s not considered “PDA” when you masturbate in public, it’s a misdemeanor even though most of us can agree it’s way less offensive than watching two people play tonsil hockey.

I’m not really sure when it is that you actually know when you have become truly “self actualized” and who really knows what it means, but when you can handle being by yourself for extended periods of time, you are doing some fine work, keep on truckin’.

This is my favourite poem of all time since Grade 8 for your inspiration. This dude has it all going on (including a grammar error on the first line):

Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?