The Bailiff, The Banker, and The Breakdown

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

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

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

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

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

“Carry on then!”

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

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

“Do you know what a Diva Cup is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





The Tale (With a Happy Ending) of the Mudflap Angel

Last week when my insomnia reached fever pitch, I was forced to go out and look for street opiates.  My doctor doesn’t prescribe anything stronger than sleepy time tea and the usual home methods don’t work.  Vodka:  it makes you pass out but then wake up at 2:00 and go for a ride on the tedious thought merry-go-round.  Weed:  similar to vodka except you are up all night making origami animals out of the sheets.

I’m a firm believer if you go out and make your needs be known, somebody somewhere will come up with a solution.

“You don’t need opiates, you need to get laid,” suggested the helpful butcher.  Oh great, he just woke the big sleeping bear.  If the dudes in that shop only knew of how long a run my dry spell has been, they would mercifully tie me up and lock me in a box in their basement and make me their gimp, Pulp Fiction style. Yes, please, I will have the bone-in pork sword special.

I’ve become such a social misfit during the last five years, and I simply won’t call on boys.  You never know if they’re married or not.  And I am insanely shy when it comes to mating rituals.  A couple of years ago, there was dude at the gym I kind of fancied, he was “age appropriate” and he had no ring, so I decided fuck it, he’s not all that, I will smile at him and say hi.  He smiled back and said hi, and it went on like that for a couple of weeks and then we started having friendly banter at the water cooler.  That’s the thing about me, if I can’t make ’em hard, I can make ’em laugh.  The gym has a bar (!) and one day he bought me a beer.  It’s a super casual type place where you can have a drink by yourself and not feel like a trolling weirdo like in Starbucks, where the desperation in the air is as thick as homogenized foam and everyone in there is frantically searching for their soul mate.  Anyway, I took this free pint of Stella as some progress and he was really growing on me.  Even his facial tick was starting not to bother me.

A few days later, I ran into him at Loblaws, with his wife and baby!  We caught each other’s eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he didn’t know me.    Hmmmfffff, you’d think at some point he would have mentioned he had a family, but no, dude was out prowling on collector lane while his wife was at home, changing diapers, lactating, and whatnot.

Maybe there is an iPhone app for my problem.  In gay world, there is one called Grindr that uses GPS as gaydar to let you know when there is a gay in the general area.  You can check out their profile and if you want to meet, you can message them.  Brilliant!  Is there an app similar for straight people?  I wondered.  Yes, there is, said my gay pal, it is called “Look Outside.”  Very funny.

I found one in the app store called OkCupid, but it’s more or less a dating website, not a boner tracker, but I decided to sign up.  Pro Tip:  If you are thinking about joining one of these sites, think about how you are going to write up your profile beforehand as there is nothing more morose and tedious than filling out these things.

I flew by the seat of my pants:

Create a user name:  I did this once before on some other site  6 years ago (for about a day) and called myself “Girl Afraid” and the only one who got it was “Frankly Mr. Shankley” who was a gay and messaged me just to find out if I had heard the new Morrissey album.  I decided on “Mudflapangel” which is the moniker I use when commenting on other blogs and probably best describes my nice and dirty personality.

Make up an opening about yourself:  “I am an insomniac.  I like a joke and a stiff cocktail.  If you pull my toes, I will make you a sandwich.  I like a dude with calloused hands who smells of WD-40 and can swing his dick around like a floppy eel.”

What are you good at:  “I can estimate the correct size of rubber maid container that will fit leftovers without too much extra room or excess spillage.”

What are you doing with your life:  “I write a blog, in fact read it:” (*I figured at least the blog can get some hits even if I can’t)

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

I gave my real age too, which is old as fuck but I figured these dudes can just take me as I am or go home.  Then I had to answer 800 inane multiple choice questions that started filling me with rage because you had to qualify with “how important it was.”  Like: How do you feel about kittens?  I like them very, very, much and I don’t give a crap if you like them or not, what does any of this have to do with getting some bone? I had answered but a few when I noticed I was already starting to get some messages in my in-box.

“Do you want to meet for coffee?” Was the first one.  No, dude, I have insomnia, the caffeine will keep me up.  Are you not reading what I’m writing down here?

The messages came in chunks of dozens throughout the rest of the day and there were too many to reply to but it is good to know there are men out there with floppy eels in their pants.  One thing that stood out:  There are no single men my own age, they are all married! Surprise! Calling all LOCAs:  You need to know that your husband is on-line trying to pick up chicks like me.

Only one message was by far and away the shining star in the batch and it was from a 25 (!) year old who made me laugh and blush at the same time. I messaged him back, then we started texting, or sexting, then we talked on the phone.  For me, a voice is more important than a penis.  If I don’t like how you sound, I can’t get a lady boner, and I’m looking right at you, David Beckham.  Luckily “Boss” had a voice I could splay for, he also talked really fast like a Gilmore Girl.  Men who talk fast make me think of 1930’s screwball comedies and I am tickled and smitten.

So we arranged a meet up.  This is unorthodox and I know breaks all common sense rules but I have to do things in my comfort zone or I will have diarrhea and barf at the same time.  He has to have drinks on my porch and meet my entire family and neighbours…I know, right?  Crazy.  But it’s okay, I can sense if he is a serial killer if I meet him at Point A and then if I like him, he goes to the second location, Point B, the porch.  The neighbours are all down with this, although one of them thinks I’m a lunatic, and the kids are home with a bunch of friends, all poised for some mass slaughter.  “Mother, he is 25!  You could have given birth to him!”  But I didn’t so shut up.

So in the early evening I went to meet him.  First impression: Brown and muscly, zero body fat, compact, pheromone bomb swaggering  toward me…no serial killer vibe at all, phew.  He is shorter than me but I don’t care, I think tall men are way over-rated.  Do you ever notice how they usually only date really short women? It’s as though to swing a stump around their cocks makes them look mightier.  Short men try harder and have that alpha male compensation thing going on which I think is pure bone power.

We went to the porch.  He brought vodka.  He assimilated like a boss.  The dog loved him and he loved the dog.  We had a couple of drinks, laughed a lot and then what happened next is that although I don’t squirt and tell, I will  let it be known that the sky opened up, and the universe finally got off its lazy ass and threw me a bone.  And it was good.  And I slept, but just a little bit, it was a long night.



Convex Versus Concave

Last week my daughter and I went to see “Cosmopolis,” un film de David Croneneberg.  RPattz was the big draw for her (she’s cool about it!  Don’t judge!) and I would go see Disney On Ice if Cronenberg directed it.  I’m dying to meet him.  I think he would tickle my intellect, the primordial part that thinks that everything convex represents a plundering penis, and a vagina is a portal to the mystery of the universe. At least that’s the gist I got from Videodrome.

As for Cosmopolis, don’t ask me.  It was a bit like watching Shakespeare or an Almodovar movie without the subtitles, where you catch maybe every third word and you have to pay hyper-attention to follow the plot.  I know you don’t visit this blog for comprehensive film reviews so I won’t go on but just to say that it is visually exciting, there are a couple of hot sex scenes, two really funny parts, and a really bad haircut. It was an allegory, intertwined with satire, wrapped tightly in an enigma and stuffed into an asymmetrical prostate like a jolly little butt plug.  Cronenberg:  Call me!

How I feel about Cosmopolis is how I feel about watching team sports on tv.  I can look at the screen, stare at it, not know at all what’s going on, but be perfectly happy.  This goes for basketball, hockey, football, and baseball.  However, the other day I went to Meat Dept on Danforth and they have installed a tv on the wall so they can watch Euro Cup all the live long day. Cruelly and deliberately, I made the butcher tear himself away from the screen to cut up a chicken “just so.”   While he happily obliged, he is sweet, I looked up at the match that was going on.  There is something about soccer (or European football, whatevs) that sets me off into a rage.  Dudes running willy nilly back and forth on a giant field, the dull roar of the crowd, and the commentators that make everything sound exciting when it’s not.  This is what being in my head is like at 2 o’clock in the morning when I can’t sleep.  Metaphorically, the dudes are all my inane thoughts, the roar of the crowd is the giant knot of nerves forming in my stomach, and the commentators are my own twisted judgements that turn the most mundane day time activity into an endless loop of strife:  PAY HYDRO BILL, MAKE FREDDY A SANDWICH, WRITE A BOOK, RENOVATE THE UPSTAIRS BATHROOM, EMPTY THE DISHWASHER, CHECK MOUSETRAPS, TRY A ZUMBA CLASS, BLAH BLAH BLAH!

Anyway this week soccer is everywhere and you just can’t escape it.  The other day my Remainder Man (the one who got away), came over to work on his car.  I let him park his junk in my driveway…not a euphemism!  He has a trailer full of crap and a 1990 BMW he is resuscitating back to health.  I like to stand around and watch him get underneath the car and tinker with the pipes.  Then as he gets all covered in grease and sweat, I get this overwhelming desire to want to marry him.  That day, after about an hour of writhing and twisting, he finally succeeded to get the car running around the parkette without drips and then he wiped WD-40  all over his muscly forearms, he said:  “Let’s go to Gaby’s for lunch, Ireland versus Italy.”

“I’m in!  Just let me run upstairs and change my panties!”  Pro-tip to all men:  Forget the $90 bottle of Hugo Boss, just spray some WD-40 on and you will save $80 and be able to take a lady out to lunch.

So we get to Gabby’s on Queen Street and there are four screens showing the match so there is no escape from the visual nightmare but at least the sound is muted.  We sit down in our usual spot near the window.

This is me watching soccer:  “That guy is cute!”  “He’s got high water booty!” “I like that shade of green on their uniforms!”

This is my Remainder Man watching soccer while texting his girlfriend the entire time and giving me the play-by-play:  “She wants to buy a tarp at Canadian Tire.” Tap, tap, tap, “She’s on-line now, there’s 4 in-stock at Lakeshore.” Tap, tap, tap,  “It’s 100 bucks, she wants to know if I’ll pay half,” Tap, tap, tap, “Sure, why not?  It’ll keep the mosquitoes out,”  Tap, tap, tap.

Believe me, if I had a lady boner in my backyard, it went back to its concave ways  by the time the wings showed up.  That afternoon, while my Remainder Man was getting poned from his phone, I watched an entire soccer match.  And I slept pretty well that night.

Here’s the Cosmpolis trailer, go see it and let me know your thoughts:

Dat Venus

I’m not into the whole astrology thing, I think horoscopes are for chicks who read vampire novels.  As though your “star sign” can govern your life or the day you were born can be the cause of your personality disorder.  The other day a friend of mine was describing a young girl who her son is dating and she said:  “She was born the day before my ex-husband hence she is a mini-malignant narcissist in training.”  According to her, if you are having a baby and are due on the Aries timeline, you either schedule a C-section on the cusp of Pisces or cross your legs until you make it to Taurus.  Aries are diabolical and if you ever meet one, do not even make eye contact.  They will suck your soul out like vampires and then get medieval on your heart.

My son Freddy is an Aries! He is the sweetest boy I know! Although this I cannot ignore:  He shares his birthday with Quentin Tarantino, Mariah Carey, and Fergie. He is an aspiring filmmaker, can sing like an angel, and pee like a racehorse. So maybe there is something to it all.

As far as astrology is concerned, I do believe in the power of planetary configurations.  Full moons make people crazy and I’m one of the worst offenders.  Normally when I go about my day, I’m pretty easy going, placid, lazy, gluttonous…in other words your TYPICAL TAURUS.  Blow a full moon across the sky and I am wide awake, snorting and scraping my hooves on the ground. Raging bull, it’s no joke.   If you and I have some unfinished business, expect the phone to ring.  If you are screening your calls and hiding in your basement, I will hunt you down.  I don’t kick or punch or throw things, that is more a drunk Capricorn’s move, or a Gemini with a hormonal imbalance.  I will verbally rip you a new one.  You will need a dictionary. You will cower and wince.  I will show no mercy until you cry.  Then we will go out and get a drink or whatever.  LOL.  The next day when the moon wanes, I will have forgotten all about it and feel like as light as though I had the most epic bowel movement.  But if you are a garden variety Scorpio, Leo, or  an Aquarius with a backbone, you will take the next 29 days to stock your stinger, sharpen your claws. fill your water jug, or whatever your horoscope avatar does to be more menacing. Revenge is your lot in life as the kingpins of your elements:  Water, Fire, and Air…the Mighty Taurus rules the The Earth and needs to be reckoned with.  The rest of y’all, you virgins, fishies, crabs, and centaurs, will just have to wait quietly in your living rooms while the moon waxes and pray to the stars for clemency.

And how about that Venus action the other day?  On June 5 and 6, Venus traveled across the sun. It’s known as Venus Transit, the rarest of predictable celestial phenomena and occurs in pairs eight years apart which are themselves separated by more than a century.

Fuck yeah, Venus!  The onset of Venus kicked full little moon’s ass over the last few days.  The craziest things happened:  Cannibalooza!  Subway floodings! Mall shootings! A huge heaping serving of madness and mayhem courtesy of the universe and its random agenda.

Some of us made our way on Venus Transit unscathed and others got a little roughed up. Me personally?  My toilet got blocked for two days, I finally snaked it clear, but then hit my head on the sink and broke the pipe. Hardly dramatic or even random, just stupid.

One of my best friends went to a Pet Smart Fair and adopted a chihuahua orphan from Louisiana.  Super random and super cute!  And really, what was she thinking? She already has a dog.  When I wanted to adopt a second dog way back in November when Venus was just boring star thing, she was all like, “Don’t be an idiot, you need to adopt a penis, not become some crazy chihuahua lady. Get off Petfinder and go make yourself a profile.”  There you go.  I did neither, lazy old Taurus that I am.

Others very near and dear got hit by some Venus shrapnel.  Not good.  I had to work hard to  harness the bull because there is really nothing I could do.  Some shit storms are just random milky ways jizzed out from the blackness and others come from us, cruel and calculated.  Things don’t happen for a reason, but you have to make sense of it when it does .  When the shit rains down, it’s best to pack it all nice and tight, make a pan of brownies, and serve it up with whipped cream, just like a Taurus boss when the moon is full.




Operation Fornicazione

“May I unclog your pipe, Princess Peach?”

“Why, yes, my Super Mario, but be gentle, my pipes are tender and there is not enough toilet paper in the world to clean the mess if you break it.  My pipe has been broken by one of your kind (Italian) before and it took years of therapy (ie, boring my friends to tears and crying in my dog’s back)  and drinking a vineyard of wine for me to open the door for your services  (plumbing).  But you know what, Mario?  I am okay with it all. Sometimes you just have to throw caution in the wind.  Make a decision. TAKE A VACAY!  Slap it on a credit card.  Sell all your crap on eBay to pay for it. Because life is long and if you don’t fill it with a story, then all you’ve got is a toilet that is clogged because you tried to flush the TV guides.  So yes, my Super Mario, take your plunger and pump away as I, Princess Peach, am ready to be ravished!”

Let me explain this one.  Out of the blue, a friend asked me to go to Italy for a week this summer, a cheap and cheerful little holiday, with air mile points and to survive off of white carbs and local plonk. This is our prime and this is our time, she said, let’s do it.  Eat, pray, LOL, I thought.  I want to go!  But there were pros and cons to weigh.

“You are broke,” my mother, nay-sayer said, “If you can’t afford it, you shouldn’t go.”

“You will get Italian bone,” A friend, yay-sayer, said.

Decision made.  Italian bone trumps poverty.

Apparently Italians in actual Italy are different from Italians here in North America.  I’ve been to Italy once as a young lady in the ’80s, menstruating her way through Europe.  That is my curse, literally, every time I go on vacation, without fail,  Aunt Flo packs her bag and hitches a ride. Back then, I had noticed European men were freaky about lady flow.  “You will curse our village, and its citizens, with your sangria clotting, cover your astro turf and be away with you!”  Was the rough translation, via a pocket dictionary and through my understanding of latin based languages based on one Spanish course I took in third year university.

North American men don’t care about such things.  They will pull a ‘pon with their teeth and throw down a towel to get to their destination.  Which is far more civilized as far as I’m concerned. Maybe things have changed in Rome and Aunt Flo and I will be in luck.  In any case, I have compiled a list of my favourite Italian-ish men…let’s groove:

First of all, I do believe that this is Andy Garcia, who is not Italian but Cuban descent. But when I googled “Italian men” his picture came up on a blog with the caption “Close Enough” and if its good enough for this awesome blogger, its good enough for me.

Fabrizio Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes, who is only half Italian and actually born in Brazil.  I like him because he dated Drew Barrymore for a while.  I always thought Drew Barrymore would play me in the film version of my life.   He is super cute. I also thought he was full Italian.  Joke’s on me.

This is Dario Franchitti, IndyCar champion, winner of Indy500.  He is married to Ashley Judd who I love because she is the bi-polar Voice of Reason of that crazy Judd family.  They were the best guests that Oprah ever had and when Wynonna Judd sang “I Want to Know What Love Is,”  I actually cried.  You think I’m joking but I’m not.  I have a super mushy side.  Anyway I love a man who puts up with all that whacked out estrogen.  But again, he is only half-Italian…the other half, Scottish.

I make no apologies for my love of Leonardo Dicaprio.  His modelizing ways makes me feel like he is floundering his way through love.  He and Kate Winslet need to get it on.  Kate Winslet is in the running to play me in the movie of my life so maybe Leo could play my future husband since they’re so good together.  Oh, and he is about as Italian as my secret ingredient in pesto (Corn Flakes!) but the name counts.

Seriously, even Super Mario is a watered down Italian.  He is created by a Japanese designer and although originally from Brooklyn, lives in Mushroom Kingdom.  But his M.O. is to save the damsels in distress.  Or just unclog their pipes, which is all I’m asking at this point.

And here’s Wynonna on Oprah, wanting to know what love is, which might be the next step AFTER ITALY:


The Sequinned Side of the Moon

In my high school in Quebec, the students were segregated: Disco and Disco Sucks.  Disco Sucks were the majority rule and those who were Disco walked silently down the halls, heads down, not looking at anyone in the eye.  Discos ate lunch in the bathroom, where the mirrors were, and they could pick their perm ‘fros and practise their hustle moves without getting kicked in the head.

The first time I saw a Disco person up close was this girl who was new in the school,  and who had unknowingly claimed a locker smack dab in the midst of Pink Floyd disciples.  She was wearing a bunny fur bomber jacket, high-waisted skintight jeans tucked into platform boots.  Her dyed blond hair had perfectly executed side flips, like wave breakers, and no curling iron marks!  Do you know how hard it is to make it smooth? Hers looked like a helmet. And her face was perfectly maquillaged, swoops of blue eyeshadow under razor-thin arched eyebrows, streaks of pink blush, and layer of shiny fuchsia gloss so thick that if you stared at it, you would go blind.  Like an eclipse.  She was awesome.

Some plaid boy hissed:  “Disco bitch!  Kill her with fire!”

She barely batted an eye: “Go fuck yourself, farmer.”  As she swung her silver sequinned purse over her shoulder, she clomped away with her pack DuMauriers, a whiff of Shalimar trailed her. We all stared, the girls and the boys, dressed stupidly and all the same in our flannel shirts from the men’s department at Horizon.  Nobody bothered her again.  She was a French girl named Louise and she turned out to be A-OK.  Once we skipped gym class and went to Gaby’s for french fries and she told me that she missed a couple of years of school because she had a baby at 12!  She gave it up for adoption and her parents made her live with her crazy grandma. She was very funny and could blow smoke rings without moving her jaw.  She only stayed a year and never ended up graduating with us but when I think of Disco, I think of her.

I also thought of Disco last week when Donna Summer and Robin Gibb passed away.  Like I said, it was just not cool to like Disco in my neck of the woods.  We listened to “Progressive Rock” like Genesis, Pink Floyd, and Yes.  But when someone would put on the “Dark Side of the Moon,” I would get anxious.  Please stop the howling.  I couldn’t take the tedious moaning from a cave sounds.  I didn’t own any of these albums because there was no point.  You couldn’t escape them from the radio station we listened to called CHOM.  It was a downward spiral of screaming and endless guitar riffs that could set your watch by, day after day, night after night.

Secretly, and I’m only confessing this now because I am a LOCA and I don’t give a fuck, I LIKED DISCO!

I loved to go shopping in downtown Montreal in the 70s and go to Jean Junction where they would blast the music and I would sing along, joyfully, trying on Road Runners:  BURN, BABY, BURN!  DISCO INFERNO!

And I never told any of my friends from school this but on Friday nights, my French friend and I would go to a roller rink in Brossard and skate with boys who had blow dried feathered hair and wore gold necklaces with little mini Jesus crosses over their furry chests:  JIVE TALKIN’!

And the very best times were had in the summer, going to LaRonde, the amusement park at Man and His World.  You would take a little trolley train from the Metro to the gates of the parks and see couples in full-on coital, humping on the grassy hills underneath the trees.  I think people in general had more mojo back then, and I think Disco helped. Something about the beat and all the moaning.   The rides at the park were operated by toothless Carnies who gave you extra spins if you weren’t wearing a bra.  My favourite ride was the Bobsleigh, where you would go around and up and up and down super fast while the lights flashed and the music blasted:  I FEEL LO-OOOOOVE! I FEEL LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE!

Why on Earth would you want to go to The Dark Side of the Moon when you could feel such unbridled joy?

I kept my secret, all through high school and up until now.  I was grateful that Disco didn’t actually die like they said on the cover of Newsweek when they closed Studio 54…it seeped into other genres, sometimes furtively and other times with a wink and a nod.  For example, it was perfectly acceptable to like David Bowie, but let’s face it, he had Disco Fever along with Mick Jagger and all the other androgynous types wiggling  their crotch lizards around in tight satin pants.  Blondie was considered “Punk” when she came on the scene.  Bitch, please…Disco with rap, hardly anarchy.  Even Patti Smith, who is the coolest chick ever, had a Disco bone…just listen synthesized to the riffs on ‘Dancing Barefoot” and if you don’t want to put on a pair of roller skates and whirl around shakin’ your groove thing, I don’t want to know you.

Dubstep:  You have some homage to pay.

And here is Cake, playing a classic Disco song “I Will Survive” and not without hipster irony either:

We Are The Freakies

Do you know what your real age is?  A woman in a yoga class asked me that a few years ago and at the time I said “37!” because I had just turned 36 and wanted a year to ease into the next age so I wouldn’t be traumatized  because what a drag it is getting old…and 36 was a scary age because Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana died then and no way was I getting on that proverbial boat, The Candle in the Wind. As long as I could miss it and die at any other future age, I would be golden.  Golden Brown by the Stranglers!  That’s my funeral song, by the way, don’t wear it out  just yet.

“No, not your chronological  age, the age you are in your mind…for example, I am 39 but I think I am 21 because that is when I was my hottest,” this woman who asked the age question was pretty hot, if she was any hotter she would be fornicating her way down the street so maybe getting old in her case was a good thing.

Oh!  That’s easy, I’m 12.  That is how old I was when I figured out the world.  Currently, as a Lady of a Certain Age, if I were to transport the mind my pre-adolescent self, age 12, into my peri-menopausal vessel, I think I would function the same way, if not better.  I was a sharp 12 year old.  I knew stuff.  I was a keen observer of human behaviour and hid in corners and spied on conversations.  I read a bookshelf full of Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins novels.  I stayed up late and watched the pornography that would come on the community channel after midnight…only in Quebec!

In Grade 6, I turned 12 in May, I was in a class where the teacher thought it would be groovy try a new learning method where the students would complete modules and go at their own pace.  It was the thing to do in the seventies.  We sat in quadrants in the beginning but we could change things around…freely!  Nobody hates change and freedom (I’m a bottom!)  more than me so the whole scenario gave me anxiety.  I was an introvert and really quiet and a head taller than everyone else.  Like a like a cigar store Indian statue, I was just a grim background fixture in the classroom.  But in my seating group in the beginning of the year, the new girl at the school, named Lynn, held court.  She had the kind of personality that was larger than life, that everyone was drawn to and was just the catalyst I needed to break out of my shell.  She was fearlessly funny and really kind to me.  We wrote stories and drew pictures, sang jingles at the top our lungs;  “WE ARE THE FREAKIES, WE ARE THE FREAKIES, AND THIS IS OUR FREAKIES TREE!!!”  Good times.

When we got to Grade 7, we had to smarten up.  It was a new high school because in Quebec it went from Grade 7 to 11 and then CEGEP.  Also we were in French Immersion so we had to concentrate and sit in rows, single file.  The part of the brain where you learn language is made out of a low quality gluten filler in my head so paying attention was a waste of time.  I would make comics and pass them to Lynn after class.  I had this continuing strip about a young woman named “June Thursday” who was making it on her own as a secretary and coping with her roommates but everything always went amok.  It was crudely drawn on looseleaf and completely pornographic and politically incorrect.  Lynn loved it and was my task master, demanding more each class. I think I churned out 2 or three pages a day.  I didn’t know it then, at age 12 she helped me hone my imagination because let’s face it, when you are in high school, the last thing the school system wants to churn out are free thinkers.

She wrote poems, not for school, just for fun.  I still have one about a lonely whale named Finnegan, a freak attraction because he is “The Last Whale” living in a fetid, polluted lake in the fictional town of Omega where tourists come and throw breadcrumbs at him.  In the end he kills himself out of despair and I dare you not to cry if you read it.

When we were 12, we had unbridled creativeness and our whole lives ahead.

Flash forward to last week when my friend, Lynn Crosbie, had a book launch party at The Mascot for her latest book, Life Is About Losing Everything.  Lynn writes the weekly Pop Rocks column for the Globe & Mail on Tuesday and has written several books, described as poetry and prose, including Dorothy L’Amour, Queen Rat, Pearl, Paul’s Case, and Missing Children.  My daughter, who wants to be a writer when she grows up in two minutes, just finished her first year of English at University of Toronto.  One of the books she studied in class was “Missing Children” and she was thrilled to tell her friends, “My mother knew her when she was 12!”  She and I went and it was packed and there was love in the air.  And beer!

The book, check it out here, is a memoir that jumps back and forth through time.  She  recounts little anecdotes, descriptions of people that are tragic and hilarious. You don’t really need to know what’s going on at all times, suspend your imagination and relax and enjoy the moment.  I can’t express how good it is, I read it in one sitting on Mother’s Day.  I am featured in a chapter as Silver in Did You Think We Wouldn’t Notice?  I am most honoured!

Through the beast that is Facebook, Lynn and I had caught up on our lives a couple of years ago, and it was like we were 12 again.  Except with booze.  We even made a prank phone call.  And the other day, she took me out for a birthday drink…yes, I got older but trust me, I am 12, I’m still collecting toys in cereal boxes…we talked about getting older and redefining who we are as there has been much man-baggage zapping our precious energy. Existentially, we are becoming liberated as LOCA’s who don’t give a fuck and we have the best years ahead.

We are The Freakies: