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?

The Pandemic, Kimye, and the Cable Man

grumpy cat les miserables memeYesterday was Blue Monday!  The abyss of all misery, when all your Christmas bills come in and your winter eczema has spread to places that can’t be scratched. Hopefully it will be uphill from here but I bet there will be more depressing days until spring comes and we pretend to be happy. I don’t have any pro tips for this, just to say that we are all in this together and this, too, shall pass.  I’m a hermit and hermits love misery so I’m not complaining one bit, especially since all the HBO shows have started their new seasons this month.  I am happier than a pig in shit, which is an expression I hate but is relevant to this post.

Last week I had The Flu.  I’m hardly ever sick and if I am, it is self-induced (hangover) or milked out (lady-time cramps).  It took about 3 days for me to fully understand what was happening.  I barfed on a Monday and wondered, am I sick?  It’s probably just that pesky norovirus that is going around and is super-contagious so don’t think scarfing down tubs of probiotic yogurt is going stop your orifices from exploding.  This virus is insidious and is spread through the “faecal dust” (it’s the British spelling!  Doesn’t that sound better shit residue?)  that inevitably ends up on your greasy iPhone whether you wash your hands or not. The flu shot doesn’t work with the norovirus either. And it does not care whether or not you gulp down oil of fucking oregano.  And please stop posting stupid things on Facebook that help “boost your immune system.”  The only thing that keeps you from getting sick is hard liquor, it kills the germs proper.  It’s Juiceless January, and that is why I got sick.

I got a strange headache on Tuesday, and of course I thought I was stroking out. This is my ongoing fear so I know the symptoms: numbness, scattered thoughts, and loss of balance.  Seriously, if it happens you have to run to the emergency room.  But my motor functions were in tact and I could smile evenly and recite the alphabet so I waited it out.  The headache soon turned into sinus congestion.  On Wednesday it got worse.

Then on Thursday, things got achey breaky.  AM I SICK? I don’t even know, I had forgotten what it was like. I think I had the flu in 2005, it was when I was living in that fog that lasted 6 years.  Maybe it is all imaginary.  Is this real life or is it Stephen King’s “The Stand” coming into fruition?

But then on Friday, it became clear.  Me so sick! It is “The Stand!” How come other people are still alive? Why are they still talking about the Golden Globes and laughing on the View?  Don’t they know there is a pandemic going on? I have to admit I was in a panic because the kids were at school and I was alone. No one takes care of mama when she is sick. I want soup and ginger ale!  I couldn’t get warm enough, then I got hot, then I had to pee or whatever that urgency was, then I got up and didn’t even make it to the toilet.  Then I had to change, rinse and repeat.  I went through 6 pairs of pyjama bottoms!  Jesus.  By the afternoon, I settled down, let’s just ride this thing like it was a psychedelic trip. Aside from the aches, chills, and having to constantly clench my sphincter super-tight because it just wasn’t trustworthy, I actually had a good time.


All my chakras were a-buzz. That third eye thing (intuitive powers) was tingling constantly, I think it was opening up and letting all the spirits guide me. The blue, green, yellow, and orange areas were burning and churning. In the meantime, my root chakra was wailing louder than usual, like I could do anything about it in my condition, so I put an ice pack on it.  Shut up, Muladhara, just settle down.  The flu is just an out of control chakra party.

By the end of the day my voice was all raspy and when my daughter came home, I could caw out orders:  “I want mac ‘n’ cheese!”  I was so delirious, I called her “Mommy.”

I slept like a bear for 12 hours and had epic dreams that were so entertaining, I didn’t want to wake up.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with the plot but I had a really vivid dream about these two gaping sphincters, Kim and Kanye, both of whom I don’t really give two rear root chakra expulsions about until the dream:


I think it was because while I was laying in bed all day, I was on every gossip website so I know everything Kimye and Taylor Swift (what is her problem? I need to take her under my soft, downy wing and stroke her on top of her Sahasrara and tell her everything will be okay) and of course I practically have a PhD in Lindsay Lohan but that was from before the flu.  Anyway my Kimye dream was really cool and they were my neighbours in my Sunset Boulevard mansion and I loved them. I even kept thinking about them for an entire weekend afterwards and then I had an epiphany that probably had formed originally from my open third eye chakra: These two are actually a really good couple.  Normally I hate human couplings as I find them sad and pathetic like you always know there is one who can’t sort their own socks and they need the other one to do it for them.  If you watch out for body language, the one who looks desperate is always the sock sorter, like these two specimens, dubbed “Leaddie”:

eddie_cibrian_leann_rimesUgh, they are The Worst. She is always desperately glueing her body onto his and he always has that smug smirk on his face while she always looks hysterical.  How do they even see each other with those squinty eyes?  Not only does she sort his socks but she also probably does other hardcore things like trims his nose hairs and squeezes his back zits.  Shudder.

Kimye clearly lovingly sort each other’s socks, proverbially speaking, obviously they have servants to do that sort of thing.  If you google them up, there is not a single bad picture of them together.  So sweet, it warms the cockles of my heart chakra.  I don’t care what y’all say, I hope they get married and have lots of babies, THEY CAN CALL ONE OF THEM KJANGO! The K is silent!

Still a little delirious, obviously.

I felt much better on Saturday but! The thing that has been bugging me all week is that issue of all cable tv turning from analog to digital.  I have those digital converters still in their boxes (for the extra tv’s that don’t have the delux converter) but haven’t installed them yet! There is an ominous banner on the Peachtree station saying that Rogers customers might lose the station on January 21 because it is going digital!  Peachtree is how I placate myself to sleep with double episodes of Seinfeld and Family Guy every night!  I will die without Peachtree…no, seriously, I am a creature of habit and ritual.  I am the one who defines insanity:


That is the stupidest quote ever, by the way.  If you do something over and over again, of course something will inevitably give up, break down, shrink, grow, burn, melt, or prolapse.  So yes, keep doing what you’re doing over and over and change will come, crazy ho.

Anyway, I need Peachtree to fall asleep, which is the result I am looking for, so those converter boxes better get put on those supplementary tv’s this weekend or someone might have a nervous breakdown.  So on Saturday, Evangeline set up the boxes as she is the family technician.

Of course nothing goes smoothly in this flailing first world household.  First of all, it is a dumb little box taking up space that you have to put on your tv and it only works with a dumb extra little wand that you now have to worry about slipping couch cushions.

The converter in the upstairs living room tv actually works to change the channels but when you turn it off with the new remote, the tv turns itself on again a few seconds later.  You have to manually turn the tv off, who can live with that?

The remote in my bedroom doesn’t work at all.  I only get Channel 3!  Peachtree is on 47!

The one in Freddy’s room has made the entire tv screen turn to snow.

So I call Rogers.  My entire shameless first world happiness is bundled in the hands of one overlord:  Cell phone, internet, home phone, and beloved cable.  Normally I am nice to service people but I have so many issues with Rogers, I have to channel my most beeyutchiest of personas because otherwise I will start to cry and I’ve already beaten that dead horse tactic to ground.  But I need a service man to hook these things up, not to be guided over the phone like a dolt to plug and unplug everything, because we have already done that OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITH THE SAME RESULT, so I got all huffy and indignant until they finally caved: “We will send out a service man on Sunday between 2 and 5.” Yes!  Help is on the way!

My entire house is rigged with dollar store cable cords from when I first moved in and the house was a triplex and I wanted to unify all the cable instead of paying 3 times the amount for each outlet.  When I have had issues in the past, the service men that came pretended not to notice, and I know this because they have said: “I’m going to pretend I don’t see this amateur wiring job with pirate cables” and they fix whatever it is and go on their grumpy way.  What if this time I get busted and they discover I actually have that 5th cable outlet on the third floor? And I’m totally not even going to mention the 6th one that my tenant has on the first floor.  What if they charge me more money?  I will totally lose my shit and get a satellite dish and live miserably and HBO-less.

At 4:30, the service man arrived and oh, my, God, was he ever cute!  First he put on plastic bag booties on his giant boots so he wouldn’t track any more faecal dust than necessary…so sweet!  He came upstairs and was unfazed by Betty’s asshole incessant barking and calmly went about his business.  The first tv was an easy fix, the wand just needed to be reprogrammed manually because the brand/model of tv didn’t quite match the one in the guide.

The ones in my bedroom and Freddy’s room were more perplexing.  While he was working, he explained all about cable, analog versus digital, and how one bad tv could affect an entire neighbourhood’s cable flow.  I’m not sure if he was getting at anything as in my tv is the local cable cock block or he was just telling cable lore, I was too busy falling in love.  He kept having to go back into the car to get things, and I followed him around.  I swear if he brought in his laundry, I would have happily sorted his socks.  Ugh, yes, he had a wedding ring on.

As it turned out, those pirate wires were not fit for fussy digital tv signals, so he re-wired everything with proper cable, “Analog signals will go through anything,” he explained, “And I’m going to change these connectors because they’re not good either.”  I am soaking wet watching this happen.

It took him over an hour to fix everything, I didn’t want to him to leave! We had a little sparkly connection, he laughed at my jokes! That hardly ever happens! Take off your plastic booties and stay, Cable Man, I wanted to say out loud but didn’t, don’t worry. When he did finally pack up, it was one of those prolonged goodbyes where it was “Goodbye, thank you, you’re the best,” “You’re welcome, no, you’re the best,” “No, you are the best,” “No, you” it went on, ad nauseam, if you were the fly on the wall, you would have barfed. Sigh.

At least I have Peachtree.

Mostly Missionary


I can’t stop thinking about Jamie Foxx.  I went to see “Django Unchained” last week.  He and Christoph Waltz are the baddest badass bounty hunters in the history of cinema. This isn’t a film review so don’t get bored with me yet! I just wanted to say that I understand a lot of folks are in a brouhaha about this movie even if they haven’t seen it.  Who does Quentin Tarantino think he is?  An honorary black man?  White people aren’t allowed to use the N-word unless they have special designation.  High horseman Spike Lee thinks it goes against the law of the universe to mix film genres, he twatted: “American slavery was not a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western. It was a holocaust. My ancestors are slaves. Stolen from Africa. I will honor them.”  And what have you done lately, Spike Lee?  Jealous much?

If I’m going to sum it up in a sentence, it would be:  Django is a bro film/love story set in pre-Civil War south with horses and an awesome soundtrack. The only thing “spaghetti” about it is the name “Django.”  By the way, I wonder if 9 months from now that is going to be a popular baby name?  I’d do it.

Django is Jamie Foxx, a freed slave/bounty hunter, in search of his slave wife Broomhilda von Shaft (!) whose name sake, Brunnhilde, is the story from Wagner’s four operas which is like a twisted version of the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty. Django and Dr. Schultz go through a good chunk of celluloid trying to rescue her. This is why women would love this movie:  Bitches love saviours.

But that’s not why I’m obsessing over Jamie Foxx as Django.  It’s just one scene and a bit of a SPOILER ALERT in the next sentence if you don’t want to know:  Django hanging upside down, buck naked, his pendulous junk in peril.  Major lady boner.

Before you get all like, what is wrong with you, Peterson, so politically incorrect, what kind of sadist gets off on human misery and degradation, let me explain.

When I was a budding adolescent, I watched the miniseries, “Roots,” with fascination, shock, and awe.  I knew about American slavery of course, but not about how it happened or progressed through the generations.  The series was filmed in the seventies so it was really disturbing to see actors who played Goodnight Daddy Walton, Mr. Brady, Ben Cartwright, and Lou Grant being scary whip wielding assholes, I think it added to the shock value and made a stronger statement to privileged White America, who maybe learned a thing or two about history.

There was one scene that stuck out and shook my emotional core and it’s this one where Kunta Kinte is “taught” the hard way that his new name is Toby:

“Your master gave you a name.  It’s Toby.  WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

“Kunta Kinte,”  he answers, defiantly.  Then he gets flogged.  It goes back and forth for 3 minutes. As a young teen, I watched it through my fingers.  Each time the whip struck, I yelled at the tv:  “JUST SAY TOBY!”  What the hell?  What I also remember was feeling strangely excited in my budding lady parts.  How confused was I.  Is this perverted and wrong?  I didn’t know but I couldn’t get it out of my head.

I obsessed over that scene for most of high school.  Sometimes when I was getting dressed I would blurt out:  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” in a Scottish accent (it’s how I finally learned to trill my r’s) and whip my belt around. Or sometimes when I walked the dog in the woods, while he was chasing squirrels, I would flog a maple tree with his leash and shout:  “YOUR NAME IS TOBY!” I can’t imagine what it looked like to the couples that made out in back of the sugar shack who were witness to my odd behaviour.  Crazy town.  Don’t judge me just yet.

Flash forward a few years later when I was a twenty-year-old fresh maiden, I had started “dating” this dude who was doing his PhD in psychololgy at McGill.  He was a bit older and ever so slightly wiser, a preppie who wore polo shirts, chinos, and Topsiders…totally not my type, if I ever have an actual “type” they usually don’t order from an L.L. Bean catalogue.  As cute as he was (a gingerish Jew, he looked like Starsky from Starsky and Hutch, the original tv show not that weasel Ben Stiller), he was really sweet and quiet and kind of boring to talk to but! we had that sexual chemistry that as it turns out, only happens once in a Haley’s Comet and had I have known that then, I would have kept him locked in my basement forever.

By dating, I really mean going over to his apartment and banging our brains out.  Every day was a throw down, we were like crazed humping jack rabbits when we were together.  It didn’t take long for his kink to come out.  There were some wild times.  He like to spank, pull hair, bite and scratch but all in a nice way. “I’m so sorry,” he would say sweetly when I showed up with fresh bruise cluster on any given body part. His mother bought him a bunch of ties from a Ralph Lauren outlet store and when he was showing them to me he said:  “Let’s use these to tie you up on the bed!”  And me, “Certainly, sir,” as Cannot Say No is my middle name.

So he tied my arms and legs to the bed posts so I was completely splayed out.  And when he was done tying his expert knots, he looked down at me and said, “Whoops, I forgot to take off your underwear first.”  And me:  “Do NOT rip them, they are Calvin Klein, 12 dollars a pair.”  Fifty Shades of Grey hashtag failure.

He was always very considerate and polite.  In the shower he asked, “Would you mind if peed on you just a little bit?”  This was before the internet where every quirk and folly is somebody’s Tumblr blog, I didn’t know “Golden Shower” was an actual thing but in the context of our relationship, it seemed like a good idea.  “Go ahead,”  I said, because being peed on is going to make a great story someday.  That is how I think.

“Starsky,” we’ll call him, had a thing for Natassja Kinski, and in the 80’s it was that iconic Avedon photo of her laying naked entwined with a giant snake that had every man’s dick hard.  Not him though.  It was her wearing a bear suit in the movie “Hotel New Hampshire” that got him excited. Here:


I don’t know where he got it, but one day there was a bear suit laying on his bed.

“Will you please put it on?”  he asked.  What do you think I did?  Of course I put on, paraded around his apartment while making some token growling sounds.  It was June and super hot out so he asked, “Do you want to go out for some ice cream?”  In the bear costume.  The rest of that day was blur, I think I might have passed out at some point and it turned out thankfully, the costume was a rental and he only had it for the weekend because if that was going to be a regular thing, I wouldn’t have been so compliant.  Just saying, I have boundaries.

One day he asked me:  “What do you like?”

Me, squirming: “What do you mean?”  Believe or not, even to this day any kind of sex talk embarrasses me.  That is why text messaging was invented.

Starsky:  “You know, what would you like to do?  What is it that you like?”

Me:  “Um, I don’t know….Mostly missionary?”

Starsky:  “Mostly missionary?!  That’s so boring!  Come on, let me do what you want to do!  What about some role playing?”

So I thought about it and it didn’t take me long to come up with “What’s Your Name?.”  He hadn’t even seen “Roots” so I explained it to him:  LeVar Burton won’t say his slave name out loud so he gets whipped by Vic Morrow.  We can use his Ralph Lauren neck ties to hang on the hook in closet and maybe one of his canvas Eddie Bauer belts for the whip.

So he says: “So which one of us is LeVar Burton and who gets to be Vic Morrow?”

Me: “Ummm, well, I’m Vic Morrow, I can do the Scottish accent. (I rolled an r till I ran out of breath) You’re LeVar Burton.”

Starsky: “I don’t think so.  You should be Toby.”

Me: “HIS NAME IS KUNTA KINTE!  Oh, for Godsake, forget it!”

We never acted it out, of course, because it was my idea and he couldn’t stand not being in control. Always a top and never a bottom. Typical psychology student.  We broke up soon after.  It turned out he had another girlfriend all that time, who was going to a school out of town, a tiny redheaded girl who looked like a younger version of his mother.  He ended up marrying her. Analyze that.

Flash forward again, a year later, my Stanley Kubrick film class was showing “Spartacus” with Kirk Douglas. It was kind of boring and one of those films you can nap during and not really miss anything. Kirk Douglas is so over-the-top, always clenching his jaw with his cavernous chin dimple that a small kitten could perish in, but in one scene Spartacus is getting his ass whipped.  Familiar lady boner occurs and I perk up.  In the cage with Jean Simmons, he says, “I am not an animal!”  I realize then that it’s not a slave degradation fetish I have, it’s the stoic response to the torture that gets me hot and bothered.  I’m not a pervert after all!

By the way, if I did have a fetish Tumblr blog, it might be called “Starsky and Me” (I’m such a Hutch)…look how happy they are together! *sigh*

Starsky and Hutch tv show

starsky and hutch gif

Every Family Has A Fredo


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

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

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

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



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



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



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


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


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

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



Merry Tips for Christmas Sloths

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

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

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

pink fake tree

real tree

<fake real>>>>>

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

voodoo ornament

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

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

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

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

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

Set up crock pot to “Warm”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Man, a Plan, a Canal, Panama


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

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

“But it’s paid for, you have to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

me and arne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

The Vampire Lift


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fugly is just flowing freely out of my pores.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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