23

Nov. ’11

It Came From My Womb, Not Detroit

Next week my daughter turns 18 which is only a half-assed milestone in this neck of the woods.  Sure, she can vote and become a pole dancer but she can’t legally go to bars and order a Corona like a proper young lady.  She has a whole other year left of pretending to be from Detroit, according to her assumed identity on her faux I.D.  All the cool bands come from Detroit, among them:  The White Stripes, The Von Bondies, and Mr. 18 himself, Alice Cooper.

“Nobody actually lives in Detroit!  They come from Dearborn or Grosse Point.  No doorman is going to believe you’re Little Miss 8-Mile,”  I warned her. Of course this has made her more paranoid but as a mother I am trying to teach her that when you lie, you need to back it up with a story.  So we concocted an elaborate history where she was born in Toronto, but is going to school in East Lansing and the reason she has a Detroit proper address is because she is interning for a record company and she and her roommates are here in Toronto to check out some bands.  Doormen love stories about young girls and roommates.  It works every time and she’s going to have to milk it out for another year.

What’s funny is that when she was first born, I drew a picture of her of what I thought she’s look like as a teenager and put it in her baby book.  It’s pretty accurate except her hair is longer.  I had guessed she would be in an all-girl band with another baby girl on our street who had a made for rock and roll name of Courtney Manson.  But sadly, she moved away so my Nostradamus prediction didn’t come true entirely.

But last year, I took my daughter to see The Runaways, the movie about Joan Jett, she and her two friends decided to form a band.  They called themselves Nikki Fierce and a year and a half later, they are now booking gigs all around town.  Check them on on their MySpace page, and Like their Facebook page so you can keep up to date on their shows.  And they also have Twitter so make sure you follow them.  Funny, they sort of have a Detroit sound but with an accent of Toronto.

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21

Nov. ’11

My Boyfriend’s Back! And I’m Done

Y’all remember that rash I had on my back last winter that spread from the base of my tailbone all the way up to neck?  Maybe I didn’t blog about it but I sure walked around complaining and using everything I could get my hands on as a back scratcher.  Yardsticks, convex corners, forks, barbecue utensils, and finally, an actual “backscratcher” from the dollar store! Also, by the way, this is how I became addicted to T&T Supermarkets daily dim sum, just so I can hoard chopsticks to stick in my back in the privacy of my car.   It was my “stress” rash, I had no idea why else it was there but to divert my attention from the rest of the shit that was going on at the time.

My stress rash became part of my identity for a while.  I talked about it to people I thought could help.  My family doctor, the Botox nurse, and an aesthetician.  They all had stupid solutions that involved some form of expensive cream.  Here’s the deal:  If something is causing a rash on your skin, it’s coming from within, a topical treatment might help the symptom but not cure the ill.  Whatever the problem is, will come out somewhere else.  I might be a crazy, overly sensitive LOCA, but I know slapping some pancake on a zit will never clear a pore.  And no amount of cortisone cream or emu oil is going to calm my fucking nerves.  My skin might clear up but instead  I might end up growing a horn in the middle of my forehead. Or a tail.

So months went by, stuff got resolved; Divorce papers signed, quit the real estate biz, decided to grow hair long but maintain a face framing fringe, and lo and behold, I noticed my rash was completely gone!  Was I right or what?  Removed all the stress and the skin cleared!  I rock!  Or so I thought…

Coinciding with all my personal drama, was the demise of the whirlpool at my gym.  I’m not going to name the place *per se* but!  it’s on the Lakeshore and the building is actually on landfill that used to be a garbage dump.  Every two seconds, the foundation cracks and things go awry.  The floor is so wonky that the entire fitness area is like an Escher sketch where the stationary bikes turn into treadmills and the stairmaster actually sinks into the ground so you don’t really need to plug it in.  The tennis courts have hills.  The upside is that stray balls roll back to you.  People at that gym don’t get tennis elbow nearly as much as they end up with vertigo.  And then, with some of the ladies, the vertigo turns into a severe case of cuntitis but that’s for another day.

My favourite part of the gym is the bath.  The whirlpool in the women’s pleeb class locker room had the best pressure wash in the city.  Trust me, I know from your shitty backyard hot tub the difference between pulsating power and ca-ca stew.  If you didn’t hold on to the edges, you would be blown from one end of the pool to the other.  That south-east jet was my boyfriend. I named him Jet.  And when I say “boyfriend” that’s basically what I mean. He never let me down.  He fixed the crick in my neck and my right hip flexer.  When he shot his force on my glutes and hamstrings, it felt like beating.  I know that sounds bad but sometimes a lady needs a pounding.

Most of the time there are other women in the tub.  Don’t get excited because it is not like Hefner’s Grotto.  It is more like a bunch of grandmas after an aquafit class trying to get warm.  They sit in the circle, back to the jets, and talk about absolute crap.  You just have to hold your horses and break a bunch of blood vessels and wait for them to prune even more than they already are so you can have your alone time.  Some of the young moms with their kids in the daycare have no time for this, so they pretend they are targeting their “quadriceps.”  Oh those brutal lunges from Group Power!  I have a high embarrassment threshold so I can sit with the old bitches face-to-face in the tit soup and arc my back, tilt my pelvic floor facing the jet so that my boyfriend is giving it to me doggy-style.  And that is all that I’m going to say about that EXCEPT that in June, the whirlpool closed down for repairs.

The whole summer went by, no Jet for mama. You can do all the yoga you want, but lady will get stiff bones for a lack of stiff bone, if you know what I mean.  The whirlpool promised to be open in September, and because of the severity of the repair, it got pushed back to November.  I got used to it being boarded up and the sign with the apologies on the glass door, just above the table with the bowl of “free” apples.  No joke, that’s how they tried to placate us.  The only apple that was ever worth its salt was the one that Eve gave Adam.  It should have been a bowl full of batteries and maybe then we would think they actually cared.

A couple of days ago, the whirlpool was open after 6 months!  My boyfriend’s back!  I screamed inside my head.  I have learned to shut my pie hole in the locker room.  Ladies overhear things, misconstrue, and before you know it, you are no longer part of a cookie exchange, book club, round robin, Tupperware party, and whatever else group requires a vagina.  I had a short workout, and by “short” I mean I got undressed and high-tailed it over to the tub to see my long-lost boyfriend.  I didn’t care for the new iridescent blue tiles.  Don’t try to dazzle me, I just want my jet.  I swoomed (a cross between swim and zoom) over to my spot and plunked down to get reacquainted.  Well, you can just guess what.  Jet was not the same.  Jet had less water pressure than icicle melting on a sunny day in February.  I tried the other ones, and same thing.  They all needed Cialis. No power, no mojo, just a bunch pretty tiles in a tub of water full of stray pubes.

Sadly, I got out and dried myself off.  Almost immediately I was itchy.  And sure enough, when I turned around to look in the mirror, my back was a red and not from a beating.  So much for my rash theory, it turns out the water in the tub that causes the problem.  So that settles that, no more whirlpool.  And so much for my rash theory.  Still I’m sad because I really did love Jet.

And speaking of water damage, I have a special request to ask of all of you.  My friend, Trish, who owns a Toronto local roofing company called Fixer on the Roof, is a finalist in the American Express Small Business Contest.  Amex is giving away $10,000 to help a small company, check her out here and please vote for her, click on the link below, go to “Vote” and her profile comes up, it’s easy!  Thanks for your help, she really deserves it!  You know my gym on the Lakeshore actually uses duct tape to repair the leaks in the roof, she would NEVER stand for that.  Contest runs until November 28, so vote daily, and when it’s done, as a reward, I’m going to publish a tour of Hugh Hefner’s Grotto on this post, so keep coming back!

Vote for Fixer on the Roof here.

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18

Nov. ’11

Bradley Vs. Ryan And The Winner is…. Fat Vince Vaughn

According to People Magazine, the world’s sexiest man in 2011 is Bradley Cooper.  This has some crazy hos with their panties in a knot making a petition saying that it should be Ryan Gosling.  They have point in that it is Ryan Gosling’s year since he had a bunch of films out AND he has a rescue dog.  I have a rescue dog.  We all should have rescue dogs by the way.  Bradley Cooper, on the other hand, may or may not have a dog but he can speak French. Apparently he impressed the judges with his interview on French radio nattering away, using far too many syllables as French are wont to do, just tell the people of France to go and see his new movie.  Here it is, lock your bedroom door and set your laptop on vibrate:

And here he is without a shirt:

As my friend from Newfoundland used to say when she encountered a man she liked:  “I’d do you for a dollar!”  I’m not really sure if it meant she would give him a dollar or she would charge him a dollar?  But whichever, there’s no flies on Bradley Cooper  so I don’t really see the problem.  I would do him for a dollar any which way.  Maybe Ryan Gosling is just so hot he is going to make the Sexiest Man of the Universe.  Or maybe People magazine didn’t want to use another Canadian, wasn’t it that other Ryan with abs just recently the title holder?  Americans have slight contempt for our country because we pay high taxes for health care and it makes them crazy with jealousy and confusion.  But we send them our hunks and throw in Justin Bieber as goodwill measures and yet they still mock us with that  “Oot and Aboot” accent that nobody really has.  But for whatever reason, I say let People magazine have their sexy Bradley for 2011.

As for moi, I have a hard time getting excited over any movie star really.  I just can’t get past the idea is that what they do for a living is make-believe ridiculousness.  And they think it’s so important, like when they call what they do “work” and it’s a “craft.”  Dear George Clooney and Brad Pitt,  I tell you what work is:  getting up milking cows, and a craft is carving a pig out of a mound of butter.  Please, get a grip, even your vernacular says you “play” a role.  Plus you wear make up, that is so not hot.  Although if I did have to pick a movie star to have around my house, it would have to be Vince Vaughn.  Not the coked up Vince Vaughn from the 90s like he was in Swingers, but the fat Vince Vaughn from The Break Up.  Have you ever had a conversation with a man who has a six-pack of abs?  It’s so tedious to hear about carb and protein ratio and there is nothing so sad as someone who separates the egg whites and throws the yolk away.  You have to wonder then:  What else won’t he eat?

Vince Vaughn looks like someone who would eat my pie.  And everything else.  And look, he would it standing up, tell me this isn’t hot:

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16

Nov. ’11

Occupy Yo Mama

Last Saturday, my 15-year-old son Freddy and I were driving along King Street after he had just finished raking up some leaves at a friend’s home in Parkdale.  A good honest afternoon of manual labour had put the apples on his cheeks, and strangely a Movember ‘stache on his upper lip appeared that turned out to be smeared dirt caught on his peach fuzz.  I didn’t say anything because for a couple of hours because I honestly thought he miraculously grew an actual moustache.  My friend and I had a lovely visit in her kitchen, watching him rake through window, and even her dog was impressed by the boy in our midst.  Freddy with his plaid jacket and dirt moustache was the kind of boy we would have crushed on in high school.  Fine young men are our precious commodities, as we were just reminded by Remembrance Day, when we honoured our fallen soldiers.  Crazy hormones and hyped up adrenaline makes them want to fight in a war.  It’s so very admirable to me because all my hormones ever want to make me do is shop and eat.  And fantasize about a certain mancrush who shall remain nameless but has a dark Movember moustache that makes him look like an outlaw during the Prohibition era. And I have bathtub full of gin, baby, if you have the beef jerky. God help me and make December come quick.

When we drove by the Occupy Toronto camp headquarters at St.James Park, I was struck by two things:  THERE’S A BRIDAL PARTY HAVING THEIR PICTURES TAKEN WITH THE HOBOS IN THE BACKGROUND!  THAT IS SO AWESOME!   And secondly, what is the point of this again?  All these unwashed people in tents are protesting Corporate Greed?  Do they actually think camping out in a public space for two months will make Gordon Gekko have an Aha! moment?  Now don’t get me wrong, nobody hates a suit more than me.  Nothing worse than a man faking it in those shoulder pads and pretending to have friends by wearing a blue tooth in his ear.  But you cannot stop the nature of the beast.  In fact by staging these “Occupy” events, you are only giving the one percent a big old corporate boner.  They don’t feel the guilt.  They are the honey badgers of the jungle.  Y’all might want to go home and take a shower, come back later in a clean ironed shirt and some trouser pants and then get Medieval because really, hippies became extinct for a reason.  Stinky B.O.

And here is a lesson from the honey badger:

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09

Nov. ’11

How Do Vampires Get Boners?

I know, right?  These two AGAIN!  Edward and Bella in the franchise that won’t die.  The last installment of the Twilight series movies, “Breaking Dawn,” is out this month and it’s going to be a two parter!   This one might be worth watching because Bella and Edward finally go all the way so we can all breathe a sigh of relief as we wonder:  How do vampires even get boners?

I actually did like the first Twilight movie, it was actually quite atmospheric and beautifully directed by Catherine Hardwicke.  Unfortunately, she was not hired for the sequels.  Those stunk.  I feel like the Twilight series teaches women about male archetypes in the same way that The Wizard of Oz is really about an adolescent girl coming into womanhood and realizing her powers.  Here is my completely sober analysis:  The tornado that takes Dorothy from Kansas to the “land of Oz” is actually representative of the hormonal storm that occurs in a young female as she transcends into adolescence.  The ruby slippers represent the menses.  The Good Witch of the North is fertility and the Wicked Witch of the West is menopause.  Man, and his inherently flawed nature, is embodied by the Scarecrow, The Tin Man, and The Lion:  A dumbass, a heartless prick, and a cowardly dipshit…sound familiar?  The actual “wizard” of course is the holy grail of man but he turns out to be a liar just like that guy you met on line over the summer.  Women:  Learn from Dorothy, you have the power.  Clicking of the heels is as simple as turning on a vibrator!  Oh, and Toto the dog represents the dozens of cats Dorothy will inevitably have being so self-sufficient.

In Twilight, the character of Bella is confronted with two male archetypes:  The cold-blooded, unattainable vampire and the warm-blooded loyal werewolf.  In order for her to be with Edward, the vampire, she must “change.”  Of course, vampires are the ultimate blood sucking malignant narcissists.  Women fall for it every time.  Jacob the werewolf, on the other hand, “changes” to protect her.  I wish I could talk to these poor, misguided characters and take them under my soft downy wing and shake some sense into them.  To Bella:  Don’t kid yourself, this eternal living is going to be more tedious than the conversations you have with Edward:  “I love you” “I love you more” “No, you don’t even understand how much I love you”  “But I said I love you more so I really do understand, you are the one that doesn’t get it ”  “Oh, I get it but I love you more””No, you don’t don’t, I love you way more.”  Forever and ever,  you will be praying for a meteor to strike. And Jacob:  Forget about her, keep your options open.  Your undying love is not noble, but pathetic.  No woman wants a man who is obsessed with somebody else.  Grow some hair on your chest.  And a moustache, I like them.

The whole story is a female fantasy that only makes us feel bad about the real world.  Who actually has ever had two men fight over them?  Even if they squabbled, they got over it and probably went out for some beers and watched the hockey game together.  I was caught in a love triangle once.  My werewolf called my vampire on the telephone.  It went something like this:

Werewolf:  It’s time to face the music.

Vampire:  What are you talking about?

Werewolf:  I want you to stay away from my woman!

Vampire:  Which one is she?

These real life love triangles always end up so obtuse.  Somebody always likes someone more than the other, and then someone doesn’t even care.  My werewolf ended up happily with someone else as did the vampire, although it turns out he is secretly gay.  And I am clicking my heels.

With that, I leave you with my favourite drunken philosopher who actually may have figured out how a vampire could possibly get a boner:

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07

Nov. ’11

November Treasure Trail

Turn the clocks back, November is in full swing. Some of you fellas are growing moustaches for prostate cancer awareness and I want to thank you for that. Me likey. Manly hair is the best. I hate when men shave their chest hairs or get all insecure about back fur. Some deluded dudes shave their legs thinking it will make them run or bike faster. Stupid. Men usually have spindly skinny legs and the hair provides some volume. No one wants to see smooth twigs in Spandex shorts. And as for the male torso, stop waxing it! Have you ever heard of a treasure trail? No woman wants to put their hands on an ice rink with pimply ingrown bumps and flail around, like we are trying to read Braille tattoos. The fuzzy path provides guidance. Preserve the forest alive, men, and stay hirsute. And keep your moustaches for winter. Makes y’all look debonair and let’s face it, most of you are dumb asses and need all the help you can get.

November, aside from moustache growing, is also a self-imposed frugality month. Christmas is coming and money is tight! Food prices! Hydro! Gas! Everything is going through the roof! I haven’t had a haircut since January, I’m on a hair strike anyway, I’m going to grow it until I can swallow it whole, digest it, and then the bikini waxing lady can take care of it. Kill two birds with one stone! Ha! I am also doing my own mani and pedis. Lately I have been taking the streetcar if I can’t have free parking downtown. Yesterday I went downtown to meet a friend for a movie and then a drink afterwards. I took the Queen car there, without incident, enjoying the scenic sea of humanity and all its diversity. A veritable salad of dander and germs!

After the movie, and having consumed a barrel of Diet Coke and 2 pints of Stella, I broke the seal before taking the streetcar home. You know how once you take the first pee, the bladder becomes Boss. “I have to go,” it says. “Yes, I know, just wait a minute. We are on the streetcar, we have 6 stops until we cross the bridge and you can go at Prohibition. We love that gastro-pub and maybe we can stay and have bison burger and duck frites!” You realize you are talking to your own bladder so try and diffuse the crazy by pacing up and down the aisle.

No way is the Boss letting you get away with that trick. It releases 1/8 of an ounce of hostage urine. “GET OFF THIS STREETCAR NOW BECAUSE THERE IS MORE COMING!” Bladder screams. “I can’t!” you hiss back, “We are at Church and Queen, any washroom we need to go to from here to the bridge will be under lock and key. This is vagrant territory. HOLD YOUR HORSES!”

“I CAN’T! I HAVE TO PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE!” Boss is trying hard. It’s bursting and lazy, flaccid old Captain Kegel is trying to support this mess. But it’s like a tarp in the storm, something is going to give. Make a decision. Quick.

There is no way I am going to pee my pants on a streetcar. I am a lady. I hop off the car and lo and behold is a Popeye’s Fried Chicken at the corner of Queen and Sherbourne. I hightail in the restaurant and pretend to be interested in the menu and not just the toilet. Who am I kidding? Of course, I am interested in the menu. Fried chicken is my fantasy, my last meal on death row. But I have to ask for a key because it is Moss Park after all and heaven forbid if a homeless person should use the washroom, maybe they redecorate in there and claim squatters’ rights, I don’t know, but restrooms are for “customers only.” So with my promise to order and even though I might look slightly homeless with my shaggy hair, chewed up”mani” and a wet spot, Popeye’s employees don’t let on.

I peed, barely making it. Best feeling ever. I think this might how men feel when they jizz. I wish I knew. Men never seem to have the bladder issues we do, maybe because they secretly pee in tubes under their pant legs. They can do it more discreetly in public, standing and aiming, their clothing is designed just for the purpose of urinating and the possibility of impromptu public fornication. Imagine a man in high-waisted trousers with a side zipper! And women, who have to urgently pee all the time, are encumbered by undergarments that don’t swing open like a fly. Fruit of the Loom, you have some inventing to do.

Anyway, I ordered a three pieces of spicy chicken without a drink, duh, I still have to go back on the streetcar for possibly more bladder sass. I do love Popeye’s, I must say. It’s really the first batch of fast food I have eaten since the Righteous Teenage Daughter made our household all about organically grown local farm animal meat. Don’t get me wrong, I am into it but sometimes you need to answer the call of the wild. As much as I love the chicken, though, Popeye’s should not bother with their ridiculous side dishes. Just give me the meat. Weird mash potatoes and strange gravy are not treasure trails. And I have no time for that biscuit as it is just lard filler. Let’s not kid ourselves. Such superfluousness gives fast food a bad name. And that is all I am saying about that.

The rest of the streetcar ride home was pleasant enough. Another Saturday night under the belt, home by 7 pm, turned the clocks back so I wouldn’t be confused in the morning and asleep by 11! Or was I? Stay tuned for Part Two: Driving The Drunk Neighbours To The Emergency Room In The Middle Of The Night!

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03

Nov. ’11

A Lesson in Karma From A Post-It Note

“How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours.”. ~Wayne Dyer

Last weekend when I was visiting my brother, my sister-in-law had a bunch of post-it notes in the kitchen with various affirmations. I like people who are conscientious and strive to remain Buddha-like as it is so easy to get sucked into vortex of petty resentment and super-inflated hate-ons for our fellow humans. This karma quote got me thinking as I rifled through their kitchen looking for cookies and a bottle opener. I think about karma a lot and wonder if certain people in my life have “gotten theirs.” It comforts me to think that the high school bully is rotting in prison, even if I just made up that story. But reading that little kitchen post-it made me think I’ve got the concept all wrong.

Take Bernie Madoff, for example. He scammed thousands of people of all their savings and ruined their lives. His son killed himself. His other son hates him. His wife is in pill popping purgatory. Here he is in jail, lounging on his prison bed, looking ever so slightly bored but without any remorse. His life is like a long, dull, train ride which isn’t all that bad. What up, Karma? What’s your plan here?

And that’s just it, Karma has nothing to do with crime and punishment. That’s a man-made justice system. Karma is not magical either. The Universe is not sending out pigeons to shit on your car because you cut someone off in traffic. If you cheat on your wife and tell your mistress that you are leaving and you never do and then develop testicular cancer, that is poetic justice, not Karma *per se.*

A few years ago, when my marriage went tits down, my husband and I sold our very awesome house to a developer because he bought the rest of the block which was going to be perfect for a series of town homes. Our house aside, the rest of the properties were dodgy so it was like making a sacrifice to the gods of real estate. No one hates new developments more than me, so I knew there was some dealing with the Devil about to take place. But I had no idea how bad this person really was. He kept postponing the closing date because his permits were never in place. We were the only people still living in our house while the rest of them were boarded up and broken into by the crackheads. We had to live in this environment for months, calling the police every night because our house kept getting broken into. When we finally left, we took our the appliances that were kind of new and didn’t clean up because we were told the house would be torn down in a month. Dude ended up suing us for $25,000 for lost income that he could have gotten renting the place out because once again, he didn’t have his demolition permit n on time. We had to go to a judge and settle for giving him $10,000. A couple of months later, the house “caught fire,” and as Serendipity, Karma’s slutty sister, would have it, he could accelerate the demolition.

I knew where he lived. I collected little baggies of my dog’s shit and every so often I would place her little logs underneath a leaf and put it in his path on the way to his car. Serves him right, I thought. I would obsess over it, sometimes waking really early and making Betty poop fresh so he would get a steamie on his shoe first thing in the morning. I never actually saw him step in the load but with or without shit on his shoes, he ended up going bankrupt and the people who bought his town homes wound up getting the shaft. He never paid the construction workers so they went out of business and they had to pay the rest from their own pockets, and when some of the units had faulty plumbing, the warranties were invalid. Through the real estate grapevine, I heard that Dude moved up north and then later fled the country. This summer while interweb trolling, I found him on the Facebook and his profile pic is of him driving a speedboat on what looked like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. Who’s laughing now, bitch? His smirk seemed to say.

“How people treat you is their karma; How you choose to react, is yours.” It’s an unsettling concept, I think, because Karma doesn’t know right from wrong. The only ones with the judgements are us. Karma is just a mirror of our actions and reactions. And it’s probably best not to waste time worrying about the douchebags that fuck us over. If they are okay with stingray bites and anal fissures from bending over in the prison shower, then Godspeed! Karma might not be a bitch, but I am!

And with that thought, I leave you with Radiohead:

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29

Oct. ’11

Zombie Boy Loves Life

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Halloween is nigh and in a timely manner, this dude, Rick Genest aka. Rico The Zombie, has been rocking the interwebs with his new Dermablend commercial.  Here it is if you haven’t seen it yet:

“Good luck being 60” is a typical response on the YouTube post.  I think that could apply to most us.  Being a 60 year old super cool zombie dude is a better fate than being 60 year old woman with a face frozen from the Botox and shiny from the vampire fillers.  Yes, they’re calling it a “vampire” lift nowadays, blame the popularity of Twilight and True Blood for making us want one.  Love the blood.

I love the Zombie Boy.  I think he needs a realty show.  Most of the pictures you can find of him are glamour shots. He’s got modelling career and was in Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” video.  Beyond the ink, he is a 26 year guy from Chateauguay, Quebec.  He mostly poses all stoney faced but he’s very cute when he smiles. I’d like to see him brush his teeth and maybe do a Spinning class and go to Loblaws, the kind of stuff I do.

People will always respond to him no matter what.  I’d like to see him in Chinatown, I wonder if they would give him a wide berth.  When I walk through the T&T supermarket I get plowed over by tiny Asian ladies half my size, like I don’t exist.  I bet Zombie Boy could get them to move over for his pick of the dim sum.  Or maybe not.

I bet Zombie Boy will always have a date on Saturday night.  I’m oddly picky.  If I would hit it then who wouldn’t? Even those repelled by Zombie Boy would want to touch him.  You know how your heart pounds when you run into your crush?  Then your blood gets all pumped and your genitals swell?  It’s a fight or flight response.  I think if Zombie Boy walks into the waiting room of his dentist’s office, the people casually reading Newsweek would look up and have one of those coronaries:  WTF????  And then confuse fear with lust.  It happens to me all the time.

Zombie Boy would never have to go on a dating site.  Women fall over freaks, weirdos, and criminals.  It doesn’t work the other way round though.  Men hate anything wacky.  “She’d be hot if she grew her hair, lost weight, gained weight, got her teeth fixed, got contacts, wore makeup, didn’t have so many tattoos,etc…” is their endless stream of criticisms.  You never know what a man will like so it’s almost impossible to be yourself.  You might as well be a zombie….because good luck being a chicken lady!!

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28

Oct. ’11

What Happens in Montreal Becomes Blog Fodder

Last Friday, my friend, Lorraine, and I took a quickie weekend trip to my hometown of Montreal because she scored free train tickets, so she brought me, her teenage daughter and her friend.  Train rides are not bad!  In fact, Via Rail is almost too much fun.  The ADHD people are tuned into their laptops and those who aren’t have booze stashed under their seats.  And those that have the booze, sway in the corridor and speak loudly.  It turns out most men are uncircumcised and the ladies who love them don’t appreciate it.  This is what we learned on Coach Number 3, according to the foursome by the loo, somewhere around Kingston.

Neither here nor there, we arrived at midnight and my brother picked us all up and the three of them went to a hotel and I got to go bed in my favourite place to actually sleep in the world.  Y’all know I suffer from the insomnia.  I can fall asleep just fine, in the middle of a conversation even, but I wake up with those middle of the night ruminations that make mountains out of mole hills and cause me to toss and turn and scratch like a meth addict.  Brother has a tv room off the kitchen that has a couch that turns into a flat bed with no head-board.  There is also no door and the room is facing the hallway to the rest of the house.  The whole thing is awkward and quite public in the morning but it’s my special spot. There are actual bedrooms I could sleep in but for some reason when I am in there,  I feel safe.  Of course because it was so late and I was wired from train partying and I feel the itchiness of other people’s train dander, I am not so sleepy.  I was also overjoyed because I scored a reservation at the hottest restaurant in town, Joe Beef, for Saturday at 6:30.  So my first night was  restless.  I wake up early, watch morning tv which is the Lohan version of Parent Trap. I break for Lindsay Lohan, I feel so sorry for her, but that’s for another time.  I watch the entire movie until noon and want to Brunch! Lunch! Eat!  Drink!  But my peeps in their hotel down the street don’t answer the phone. 

I have learned to live with all kinds of frustration, let me tell you.  But hunger is not one of them.  I go to lunch by myself somewhere in Old Montreal at 3 Brasseurs which turns out to be a big old chain brew pub, otherwise known as 3 Brewers in Toronto.  My peeps in the hotel wake up and call me mid-chew.  They are ready to rock and roll.  It turns out that because the kids slept on the train ride the whole way, they were also bouncing all night and walked around and ordered pizza until 4.  The darkness of the hotel drapes and the beauty of urban white noise made them sleep like bears.

Lorraine and I meet up, the youngsters go shopping at Simons.  They pronounce it all kinds of ways, “Simmons”  “Simoh-z” so I don’t really know what they are talking about at first.  “Oh!  Simons!  Like Simon Says!”  I say.  I can tell they don’t believe me but off they go.  Lorraine and I go to Sir Winston Churchill Pub on Crescent.  Pronounced:  Win-STONE Church-HHHHILL, that’s just for taxi drivers.

Here is how our afternoon played:  We get a seat on a covered patio, with heat lamps, as you know the end of October gets quite nipular.  It’s mid-afternoon and the patio is really busy because there is a Habs vs. Leafs game on later that day.  Everyone is in a good mood.  There is a group of about a dozen men in their thirties at the other end of the patio.  There are a gregarious, mostly standing around, talking to two young women seated in a nearby table.  Lorraine and I order our beers and check out the guys in the group.  I like the big dumb looking one with the hat and she points out one with an ass that could carve butter.  “Oh my God!  He looks like Jon Bon Jovi with a proper haircut!”  He is something else.  And he’s chatting with the blond woman in the next table.

We sip our beers, continue watching and it doesn’t take long for Blondie and Jonnie Bon Jovi to be standing around together, poking each other the way kids do in the playground.  By the time we order our second beer,  the couple in question have their arms around each other and the  are making out like teenagers.  Blondie has somehow rolled the waistband down on her skin-tight jeans to expose a pink thong and two acres of ass flesh.  “Check out my tattoo!”  she shrieks.  It is one of those ubiquitous tramp stamps just above her thong tag but in order for all the guys to see it, it is imperative that her entire top comes off.  She bends over.  Her bra forgets its function, because it is too small, and her girls spill out.  Now these “girls” are mere toddlers so she doesn’t really get the reaction she hopes for, so she swings her hair around.  It becomes clear what she does for a living. 

Our waitress confirms this by giving us a play by-play.  “They are saying that they have to go to work at 5 and the only shifts that start at that time are in strip clubs.”  It’s almost 4:30.  Blondie and Jonnie are groping each other like the Titanic is about to sink.  I say to Lorraine:  “If those two go to the washroom to finish this off, I am going in!”  I felt they owed to us for over an hour of public foreplay.

It turns out they didn’t need any privacy.  As the other guys milled around, Blondie pulled her jeans down even lower.  Jonnie grabbed her from behind.  With his back to us, we watched his butt curl under, then thrust, and then again.  It’s actually happening.  The whole thing was watching like a Rottweiler on top of a blow up doll that looked like it was about to explode.  Blondie’s friend shut it all down, she was the sensible one, and fetched her purse so they wouldn’t be late for work.  They said their good-byes, no numbers exchanged.  It was awesome.  This could only happen in Montreal.  I think I might move back.

If not for random public fornication, then definitely for Joe Beef.  After the pub incident, we got to Little Burgundy by cab and in time for our 6:30 reservation.  It’s a small restaurant, apparently getting a reservation is like getting a golden ticket, but we all got  to sit at the bar (best place in any eating establishment) right in front of the oyster shucker.  We got the stories, and I bought the book, The Art of Living According to Joe Beef, and you should too.  Christmas is coming!   There are recipes and pictures of the city and the history of the real Joe Beef from the 1800s.  He was an ex-soldier and opened up a tavern to feed the poor.  “Red flag!”  said Lorraine, ” Never trust a man who wants to hang out with indigents!”  And she is right.    He had a plethora of  eccentricity that disguised his douchebaggery, ie. pickling his dead wife’s body parts and keeping a drunk bear as a mascot.  All in all, an interesting tale, worth a screenplay methinks!  Or not, maybe some bears should just stay sleeping.  And I am happy to say I slept really well that second night.  I bet Jonnie Bon Jovi did also.

And here they are, Fred and David AGAIN, two blog post in a row!  I am just way too in love:

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21

Oct. ’11

The Art of Eating and Drinking

On the right is my nephew, Arne aka The Secret Chef and on the left is Miss Conception (as Julia Child) aka the hottest piece in town. If you have a party you definitely need to be inviting both these bitches. The Secret Chef cooks for you and you can pretend you did it all yourself, check out his Facebook page here. Miss Conception can come as your date, Adele, check her gallery here. It really is all about Adele, isn’t it? I love her so and really do hope one day she finds some bone that doesn’t let her down so much.

Last night my sister brought us to The Delicious Food Show opening night gala at the Better Living Building at the CNE. There was all sorts food sampling and booze offerings of which you had to work a bit in order to score for free. We did a fine job. Arne has vulture blood and got us to the right station at the right time. The three of us bounced around the venue like we were in a pinball machine. Grape stomping here! Wine tasting over there! Find the stage, the show starts in 10 minutes! There were dancing-girls and boys wearing nothing but underwear and aprons! At one point, Arne got up on the stage and performed Dinner Party Wars with Chef Corbin as host while my sister and I ate pizza and drank wine just like Friday night only with live theatre. I feel like it was all a dream and there really wasn’t free-flowing champagne on a scoop of sorbet with a dollop of bacon jam on top. But I tweeted it out and took a picture so it must have all really happened. I think mixing all the booze made everything seem surreal. I do remember at one point I had a pumpkin flavoured ale in one hand and a honey-infused whisky drink in another. Good times.

This is just a shortie as I have to prepare for my weekend trip to Montreal. The goal is to eat at Joe Beef. They have a new cookbook out which is almost the title of the book I am writing, “The Art of Modern Living” but theirs is called “The Art of Living According to Joe Beef.” I will forgive them after I have consumed their bacon. Here they are. Of course I have a wicked crush on the big one:

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