Mastering the Art of Not Getting Sunday Anxiety Syndrome Because Your Job Sucks Balls


Yes! I’ve miss you too, my internet kittens, but I’ve been getting my act together and whatnot. I’ve been soooooo super busy being blissful, I’ve forgotten how to blog. It’s not that I don’t need you, it’s just that my day is fulfilling enough for the occasional Instagram #doggo post. Just let me take off my pants and settle in my sweats….oh wait! I don’t have to! I am already in my fucking sweat pants and have been for two whole months! Every. Single. Day. Don’t hate me because I’m so comfortable.

Okay so last we left off, I was on a job hunt where I had a weird group interview for a small “startup” company where we had to describe our spirit animal and try and sell a glass of water to the hipster CEO. Scroll back one or click here because it was strange and maybe this is how the world works now so heads up.

Last year I had a couple of short term administrative office type jobs that I didn’t tell you about because it’s best to keep these things on the down low BUT! I will say that what I got out of both experiences was that working for small businesses that are run by completely insane people sucks balls. I would get Sunday night anxiety on Saturday morning, working was that bad.

One job, the boss was a woman from South Africa who would yell orders from her cell phone in the car. I’m not really used to talking on the phone with anyone since texting became a thing. I talk to my mom but I’ve known the cadence of her voice for over 50 years. I know her sighs and mumbles and can piece together the conversation (prolly about the weather) without have to say wut? all the time. This boss lady would scream into the speaker phone with her A/C and radio on and tell me to do something in her South Eeh-freekn accent and I’d be like, excuse me, what? Sorry, I can’t hear you, the phone is breaking up. And she’d screech even fucking louder and more shrill so I’d understand even less. My dentist has a South African accent and I love him so much, I would open my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow for him just to hear him tell me not to brush more softly so my gums don’t recede. He croons, she squawks, that’s the difference.

She also had one of those narcissistic personalities that I can’t resist fucking with, so I’d pile on the compliments, “Oh, I love your dress!” “Oh, I thought you were way younger!” It’s kind of like putting too much air in the balloon to watch it explode. I think this type of trolling is what the Trump administration is all about, they’re all just waiting for an orange A-bomb to erupt. For shits and giggles. Trolololol.

Anyway, I dreaded this woman but thankfully, it was a short-lived gig but the next job was longer and although less scary, the boss was clearly losing his marbles. I did his excel spreadsheets for his accountant. It wasn’t good (*whispers* I would have run away to an island somewhere if I were him and oh well about his wife and kids, they’ll survive). But! Zero fucks to the wind, he spent most of his time on the internet shopping for cows for his hobby farm. That was his porn. He was British. I feel like that explains it all. British men are all about fetishes and weird avocations. Also he mumbled. He always thought I wasn’t listening but it just took me about a four second delay to scramble his blathering into a coherent sentence. I totally would have dated him if he wasn’t married. I’m pretty sure he had a kinky side that wasn’t being fulfilled, hence the bovine obsession. By the time I finished that job I bought 8 boxes of Girl Guide chocolate mint cookies from his daughter. So it was worth it for that.

Anyway, so recap of last year: I was unlucky in jobs but lucky in bone, whatevs, but this year has been a switcheroo. Now some of you read this because you actually like my dating stories and that’s cool, I hope to have some more soon BUT! It’s been winter and it’s CUFFING SEASON y’all and I missed that boat, so once the warmer weather comes around so will my mojo, I’m sure. So hang tight. I have sweet repeat leftover from my Tinder days who, as it turns out, has a foot fetish! And he’s not an old British man! That’s something to look forward to, right? A “pedicure?” There has to be an urban dictionary explanation for that. I’m not sure what that entails or entoes lol, I’ll have to google, I’m pretty sure it’s easier than most of the other things on the menu these days. Hopefully because I’m having some dental work done later this month and I want to keep things pristine above the neckline. I’m that kind of girl.

So yeah, a couple of months ago I applied for a job with a dog walking company. It’s  2017, this is now a legit business that people thrive from because fur babies are people too. I don’t have the wherewithal to put up flyers and think of a cute pun name like Your Woof Is My Command Pet Service (that’s up for grabs now, you’re welcome). When it comes to work, I just need to show up, have someone tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m efficient, prompt, and customer service orientated. I don’t take a lunch and I poop at home. The latter business was an issue with the last boss who actually moniturd (lol) how long this one dude took in the bathroom, which was a half an hour every morning from 10:30 to 11 and he would say to me: “I’m paying him to take a shit every day!” Then mumble-mumble something else with an up intonation that I was supposed to respond to, probably with a “yes, I agree with you nod” or maybe a SMH, who knows? See what I was dealing with?  Oy.

So Dog Company replied to me and I had a phone interview with one of the owners of a family run business. She and I had a great conversation. We both are obsessed with Pomeranians, she has one, and I have a half of one in the form of Betty! They have a private dog park in the neighbourhood! It’s all local! It’s basically a dog taxi service. Pick up dogs in the morning, drive to park, play with dogs for an hour, bring dogs home, and do it again in the afternoon. I WANT THIS JOB SO BAD.

I had an in-person interview for the next step. Dog Company has a dog-boarding loft kitty corner from my gym. My gym is my second home. I do not poop there but I shower and all my secrets live in my locker. This is geographical perfection. The interview goes well! I like both the owners, they are a married couple. Do you ever notice how sometimes, more often than not, marrieds are mismatched? Like you can like one but not the other, she’s sweet but he’s a dick? Or he’s funny but she’s a shrew? Or he’s quiet but he’s a control freak? Or she’s normal but she’s got issues? It’s refreshing to meet a couple who are equally cool and fun and easy to talk to AND LOVE THE DOGS.

It’s all about the love of the dogs that makes the pack leader. And so I got the job. It’s been over a month. I’m in love with my dogs. The park is like a little Utopian canine confinement near Cherry Beach where they can run and hang with others of their kind. Or mix it up. Sniff some butts. Chase balls, fight over sticks. At first I couldn’t tell some of them apart because they were the same breed. I’ve got 3 Vizslas in my morning crew and at first I had to memorize them by the colour of their collars. But now they could be roaming in silhouette and I can tell by their mannerisms which hound is which. One of my dogs is this giant intense scary looking mutt with soulful eyes. Sometimes I think he is human. Every time I look around the park he is always standing a distance away staring at me like that one dude at the gym who I hooked up with but it turned to shit and that’s another story. It’s like we were star-crossed lovers in another life. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize the dogs because they have such distinct personalities. And I’ve been bringing Betty with me. Take your dog to work has never been more appropriate, and she is loving it. She gets to throw her weight around and bark her hoarse smoky bark without being the most obnoxious asshole because there is always another dog with a more annoying voice. But to be honest, barking is music to my ears. Compared to humans on the phone.  And if the worst part of the job is picking up shit, then at least I don’t have to put up with it. Woof woof, muthahfuckas, I can’t wait til Monday.






Mastering the Art of Selling a Glass of Water to a Hipster


Happy New Year, Smiley Faces, Tongues Hanging Out, Hearts For Eyes, and you all other round faced emoticons, especially you, Eyes Closed Cheeks Blushing ❤ (call me)

I know! Already over half January down the pipe so the new year is already yesterday’s news but I still feel like I’ve been frozen in time since I threw out my Christmas tree last weekend. That was a sad day because Freddy and his fish friend, Frankie, went back to school on the Greyhound that day. I hate it when he leaves because then I go into an existential funk. Also I have a very bad lingering cold so I haven’t been on Tinder either (my nasal passages are blocked!) so new stories to report but I have been on the job prowl (new year, new me, hahahahaha, same fucking shit, same old boring ass me) and I think you’ll groove to this interview I went on last week.

I found this job posting for a “start-up” company  which is in sales, I want to hone my pitchman skills. I think being able to sell is a great trait in all aspects of life no matter what kind of job you have, including dating and relationships, we’ll talk about that in the future.  Anyway this job is selling space to realtors on a website  that allows them to farm their chosen neighbourhood with free local business ads and sale promotions. The internet is chock full of website clickety click clackery and fuck knows what is smart and clever from what is funded by somebody’s dad and the cocaine dreams that only a millennial with a weed pop in his mouth could come up with when “adulting.”

And I put “start up” in italics because that was how they advertised themselves. “Start-up” always sounds genius and sexy no matter what. Exposed brick loft offices with a beer fridge and bean bag nap chairs and a low maintenance dog that mostly sleeps and wanders around occasionally for petting purposes. Team building parties where you get to throw axes. Loosey goosey time clocks. Sweat pants. Swearing. Probably even farting at some point.

I applied to the job and had phone interview with one of the two owners. She seemed nice and we role played me selling her something, anything, the first thing that comes to mind. I just parked the car so I ended up selling her the Green Parking phone app because now there’s no excuse for getting parking tickets. You just pay for street parking on your phone by punching in the meter’s code number.You want to stop for ramen after shopping and need an extra hour?  Easy peasy, you add more time on the phone app wherever you are, and when the parking gremlin punches in your license plate, it shows you’re golden even without having to put a ticket on your dashboard. Somehow we’ll be paying for the lost revenue in taxes or road tolls (!) but it really does feel good to renew your license and there’s no forgotten tickets on your annual fee. Sold! She said.

She invited me to the next step, a “mixer” which is like a group interview with food and booze. “To see if you fit in with the family.” As long as there’s booze I’ll fit in anywhere, pretty much. The family could be the Carleones or the Mansons and I would be cool with a cocktail. So I think.

The Glassdoor-dot-com employee reviews of this company are a mixed bag though. Raves: “Best place I’ve ever worked!””The only complaint I have is there’s no office dog!” Some of them are scathing: “Run, don’t walk!” “Slave drivers!” “They don’t pay you!” “Those good reviews are fake reviews!”

These are the red flags I ignore for you people, my readers, because I love you so. One day I’ll tell you about the massive red flag role playing Tinder date I had but I’m still recovering emotionally from it. Anyway, red flags =  blog fodder. I’m in. Also the pay is great, if they actually pay.

The job ad describes the website as being a cross between Yelp and Groupon which, when I peruse it, makes no sense at all. For one thing, it looks like a template of some website from the mid aughts, kind of corporate and confusing to navigate.  Basically the concept is to get realtors to purchase annually for $5000 his/her business card on the page of the neighbourhood you choose to click on. Only one realtor per neighbourhood. It is up to that realtor to go out and drum up local businesses to advertise (for free). Amazing right? The realtors pay a hunk of money for cyberspace but they also have to do all the goddamn grunt work. You know they can do this perfectly well on their own websites and farm all the neighbourhoods they want and prolly get a better optimization of search engines, even organically. Talk about modern day snake oil.

So for research, I looked up my neighbourhood on Google to see where the website would come up (page 6! Much scrolling after Yelp and dozens of other actual realtor sites) so when I clicked on it, lo and behold, there was a picture of some hapless realtor on one side of the page and the other, a coffee shop was having a free refill for every muffin purchase. One fucking coffee shop. Whoa. A cross between Yelp and Groupon? More accurately like if Yelp and Groupon smoked crack all day and passed out on a park bench. The only thing to do here is to just scroll on by, you have no reason to look at that shit.

Anyway, a mixer! What fun. I’m sure to be the oldest bat there based on their youtube video their CEO made about work culture. So fucking fun! He F-bombs on camera as he passes all the employees sprawled out on the bean bag chairs I accurately imagined.

The mixer started at 5:30 in the twee neighbourhood of Liberty Village. For those who live in Toronto, you know what I’m talking about “twee” but if you don’t, the is  chunk of no man’s land west of the downtown core if Disney designed Hipsterland. Old warehouse buildings and brew pubs and cobblestone roads and the usual Stone Henge formation of condo high rises looming over, spoiling the view. It just tries too hard. Luckily I found parking at a Green P! So I used my app at the exact 2 hour mark that the mixer promised to last. If it went longer, I could add more money….see isn’t that clever?

I find the fucking place, I say that with annoyance because there were multiple entrances to the building and some of them led nowhere and even when I got to the right place I was sweaty and dry mouthed, this is my bronchitis witching hour. I’m pretty sure there’s not enough saliva in my mouth to form a hello.

So yeah, as I predicted, I was the oldest person there. And I’m using the word “person” loosely because this is precisely the kind of social anxiety riddled situation where I go out-of-body and become some kind of robotized version of a human lady. I walked in the office and everyone was already mixing, with beers in hand and name tags on. It was loud and people were already yelling. Most of the employees were there, 15 or so. Someone hands me a warm bottle of Stella for which I am grateful because my mouth just made glue. Glurgh.

We mingle for a few minutes. It’s a bro club, there are only 2 women, one of them is the owner, a haughty blond babe, the one I spoke to on the phone, and the other is an Asian girl. She stands out. More on her later. Everyone else is a white dude under 30. There are 8 of us, the potential recruits, 3 women including my old ass, and 5 bro-lings, 4 of them you could easily set free in that fish tank and they would fit in swimmingly. One of those dudes, not so much. He is awkward and talks a lot. He’s telling us about how lucky he was to have a pair of corduroys in his car for the interview because he lives 2 hours away. Oy, can you imagine having to commute 2 hours a day to get to work for 8 and leave at 7? Oh yes, those are the hours, it’s an 11 hour day. You might as well sleep on the park bench outside the building.

One of the women candidates is a tiny, pretty Indian woman, maybe mid-thirties. She’s talking the most and the loudest. She was a dancer and she let us all know it. “I’M A DANCER!” she said swirling around the room randomly. I’m not kidding, it actually happened.

So the CEO dude finally wrangled this mess into order and told us all we would be “speed dating” with the employees and himself. So each of us 8 folk would go from station to station and have 4 minutes to talk about whatever we wanted and then switch. You might think this is weird but I think it’s brilliant and I like one-on-one, not those circle jerks where one person hogs the floor, talking in tangents, and you know that Tiny Dancer had the attention whore qualities for type of shenanigan. There’s more employees than candidates so some of us will be doubled up, the CEO explains, and Tiny Dancer yells out: “I LOVE  THREESOMES!” Oy.

I breeze through the first 3 dudes and do most of the asking of questions because that’s how I’m wired. One guy is British! He’s on Tinder! But he has no time to actually date because he is always at work! Another dude loves working there and even goes in on the weekend! One guy is very good-looking and asks me the first three things I do when I wake up. I’m like whoa. Do you really want to know? We laugh and talk about my tattoo instead. I would totally date him.

The fourth speed date is the CEO, the F-bombing dude from the youtube video. I’m in total date mode by this time and he’s the kind of guy who thinks he’s cooler than he is in an ironic way, somehow, it’s tricky to explain, it’s almost like a snake eating its own tail. Prolly on his Tinder profile, he describes himself as a “geek” because some girl he wanted to smash lied to him in second year uni when he tried to lose his virginity and told him geeks are sexy but she has boyfriend (not really) so they didn’t actually do it because geeks aren’t that sexy (depends on the geek tho). Don’t cry for him, he got’er done finally in third year with her roommate. He really thinks of himself as a cocksmith. But he’s really a garden variety nerd/ hipster hybrid. You know that kind of dude? Not. My. Type.

He’s in his office, not a cubicle, and we say hi and then he says to me: “Sell me this glass of water and you have one minute.” First of all, what fucking glass of water? Oops, he pulls  it out from behind him and sets it on the table in front of me. Jesus Christ, is he really asking this? It’s sooooooooo cliche.

There’s a partially finished puzzle on the table. My Rain Man instincts are taking over and I just want to hunker down and put the pieces together. But first I want to set this hipster Glen Garry Glen Ross operation on fire and see how many glasses of water I can sell this Geek.

But I comply. I ask him how much water he drinks in a day? 2 litres (liar). Does he like filtered water? Yes, from a filtered system. OH! Snap! How much do you think you pay per glass? 2 cents. How about if my filter system can save you up to $200 a year? How so? Then I made up some math statistic that my water would come to .04  a glass. I blathered on as my outer-body self hovered over my human lady self and watched me do this and oh, how outer-body laughed. I  downed the last of my warm beer. My minute was up. Ugh.

Next. More bros. We talk about our favourite shows. I don’t have time to watch, one of them says, I’m always here working. But I really like it here, he assures me, why be at home when I can be at work. His nostrils twitch. Huh.

My last speed date is the Asian girl who is doubled up with a bro who is scrolling on his phone. This is extremely rude. So when she asks me a question, I answer her but look at him. He’s completely ignoring me, wearing a ball cap pulled down. I’d like to slap it off his head, go finish the puzzle, THEN burn the place down. The Asian girl is probably the dumbest person on the planet but she’s wearing glasses so she looks smart. This is how our conversation goes:

AG: If a month went by and you weren’t making any sales. What would you do?

Me: Well I understand that you can have off-days or a week now and again but I probably wouldn’t let it get to an entire month. I would want to ask for feedback and further training.

AG: But what would you do?

Me: I understand that you have sales training available her so I would look into it.

AG: (genuinely puzzled by my answer) But what would you do?

Omg. I answered the question did I not? Does she want me to pet her head? This was the point I realized they might not have an office dog but they have an office Asian girl who probably eats less than the average Labradoodle.

After speed dating, we had a group circle time. I almost slunk out but! Someone handed me another beer. These sorts of group discussions are my kryptonite. I am going to shut my pie hole and speak only when spoken to. The only thing I wish is that I Snap Chatted the whole thing because some of it was pure comedy gold, mostly thanks to Tiny Dancer. She’s a snowflake, that one.

CEO: What is your spirit animal?

We go around the room. Amazing that most people are woodland beasts: Bear, wolf, snake, coyote, even I picked an owl, wise and carnivorous. Good answers, good answers. We get to Tiny Dancer. She talks in caps at all times, so it goes like this:  GUYS, GUYS, I’M SORRY BUT I’M NOT JUST ONE ANIMAL. FUCK NO. I’M THREE! FIRST, I’M A BUNNY. (pause). I’M A HORSE (another pause) AAAAAAND I’M A WHITE TIGER! HOO HA! (I swear she said ‘hoo ha” like Al Pacino in “A Scent of a Woman.”)

Okay, at this point I’m looking around the room to find someone who’s eyes I catch so we can roll them together and maybe meet up afterward and have a real drink but no. The dude beside me, the twitchy-nosed employee who spends all his waking hours there, has a note pad, and I’m think he’s going to jot down what a fucking nut bar but no, he starts drawing a bunny, horse, tiger cartoon thing. LIKE HOW CAN YOU BE A WOODLAND, BARNYARD, AND JUNGLE BEAST ALL IN ONE? DOES NOT FUCKING COMPUTE. I can’t hate her for trying and everyone is all enthralled with the explanation of her answer as bunnies are cute, horses are strong, and white tigers are basically unicorns so why not just be cute and say a unicorn which is basically a horse with a horn?

More inane questions, like what would make you work through lunch? What? Mr. Corduroy Pants shut that down quick with his: “I’m on an eating schedule because I’m diabetic.” Good fucking answer, we all nod, then all of us claim to have blood sugar issues as well. But! Tiny Dancer pipes up that she is a foodie! She eats everything! Believe or not! She twirls around and reminds us she is a dancer in case we forgot. But! She will work through lunch so she can afford 3 lobsters instead of 1. Again, I look around the room for a comrade in eye roll and once again, nothing. I’m now dead inside.

The mixer wraps when CEO asks if we have questions. Mr. Corduroy asks what the future of the company is and CEO says expansion! More cities in North America, more countries, and Europe! Also! They are going to target dog walkers. I snort involuntarily. Nobody feels bad about bilking realtors because that commission cash tho….but why dog walkers? He says they are friendly and like to network in their community. Ha! Dog walkers hate people and proof of that is their willingness to pick up dog shit rather than work in a damn office like this one.

Tiny Dancer asks: WHICH ONE OF US ARE YOU GOING TO HIRE? Finally CEO gives her the look I was after, like what an incredulous crazy bitch, and  he hesitates and umms, but she’s persistent: COME ON, WE’RE ALL GROWN UPS, WHICH ONE? You had to love her lack of filter. And who knows, she may have actually been a contender but when she rephrased her question to what 3 qualities were important in a candidate, he said something like trainability, confidence, and drive but seriously folks, look around the room and the answer is under 30, white, and male. Why mess with a winning formula? Right, boys?

Finally, a twentysomething ginger boy asked the most important and pivotal question of the evening: Where is the bathroom? And that’s when I made my Irish exit. Slink right out the door and into the elevator and back in body, old as fuck but happy in my own skin.  So! If you’re looking for a dog walker, call me!













Mastering the Art of Millennialing 

Nobody loves Les Millennials more than I, but I’m getting seriously weary of them. Also, I have to constantly spellcheck how many L’s and N’s there are in “millennial” proves I am failing with age, so annoying.  Let’s just call them “Generation Entitled Bratz,” which would be more fitting, I think sometimes, and then I shut my pie hole because they are our future and I don’t want to be one of those old people who say “in my day” when “my day” wasn’t so long ago in the context of modern history. Seems like just yesterday that I blossomed into puberty at age 14 and eventually bloomed into the beautiful cactus flower I am now.  I can even remember my first tampon, it was made out of balled up synthetic Santa beard material with one of those sharp whale bone applicators that you had to worry about your fertility each time you used them, and then to be warned in the early 1980s about toxic shock but not so worried you would ever go back to a bulky-ass belted pad that would give you a big, bulging camel tongue in those high-waisted denim flares, remember those, my old bitches?  Oy, so wish we had Diva Cups back then, could have gone swimming in a white bikini AND gotten eaten out by the pool boy and no one would be the wiser.

When I’m fraternizing with Les Millz, I borrow their lingo. I don’t let them know that technically speaking, born in 1963, I’m the flying flea escaping the tail end of Baby Boomers, as I was way too young for all the cool LSD trips and groovy hippie festivals. But! I am loath to pretend to be a Generation X because I don’t get the appeal of honky “rap” that is the Beastie Boys AT ALL. I grew up losing my virginity and trying to grasp my sense of adult self whilst enjoying the musical stylings of The Talking Heads, The Cure, and The Smiths. I enjoyed the 90s and the early aughts of Quentin Tarrantino’s heyday until I went into a pop culture coma at some point after they cancelled the O.C. I missed many things and now I do not know who Ariana Grande is from Rita Ora and why is Taylor Swift even famous? Got reborn just recently because there are so many places to get ramen noodles these days, why slip away now. I can Instagram my noodles. I’m Generation Whatevs LOLCats, and if you’re reading this, you probably are too. Here in da clerb, we are all fam. Right? Don’t worry, my children, I would never say that phrase out loud EVER (maybe never).

I gave birth to two of these millians (that’s grammatically cool, right?) and they and all their friends are loads of fun to be around. The millians, also technically known as Generation Y according to Wikipedia are born in the 1980 to the early 2000s so most of them are Of Age now. Fair game, yo. As you know from reading this blog, I am unapologetic that I like to swipe right on “mature” millians (and sometimes their younger brothers) on Tinder so I have a range of millennial insight and understanding in the way their minds work. But! I’m still an interloper. There are so many things I admire because young people are awesome in their enthusiastic view of the world. However! Some things not so much.

For example, the old timey baby boomers who are bosses of  big companies are enamoured to the point of worship with the millennials, “Let’s hire them! They can do things on the computers that we can’t!” And true, many of them are Aspergery as a product of old man’s overripe sperm (pssssst: millians’ parents are Baby Boomers!  Mick Jagger is still spreading seed! Gross! Stop! Don’t get me started on this topic, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should). The hippie generation call their millian spawn “Indigo children” because of their otherworldly “blue aura” which is whatever, eye roll, I don’t judge but *whispers* autism spectrum, most likely. It’s cool though, we need hyper focussed people in society, nothing is more fun for them than cracking binary code. They are precious children who we love even though they can’t let the peas touch the carrots otherwise armageddon and a Big Pharma Ritalin situation ensues.

But the rest of them are just faking it. Geniuses they are not. Sure, they’re nimble with their fingers on their iPhones, all whip doodly, tap, tap, getting their Uber in seconds whilst my ancient gnarly hands try and fish in my purse to get my lipstick but all I can find is a broken tampon that I don’t even need under any type of moon configuration ever again. Tappity tap tap tap, they go, look at me with a puppy filter over my face lol. Jesus Snap-fucking-chat Christ. Why are you doing this?They’re as clueless as the rest of us. “Oh they’re so good at social media!” says Kevin O’Leary, that Canadian Trump wannabe from “Shark Tank.” Are they, Kevin, really? Can these youngsters even spell, let alone construct a sentence? Look up at that conversation I had with that young dude who was half-assedly trying to fulfill his bucket list. He couldn’t even say hi, he just sent me a question mark. I was so annoyed, I trolled him, I don’t feel bad about it at all, my haters. Then he disappeared without a fight. How un-hot. And he’s not a special unicorn or anything whose disappearance makes him seem magical, he’s a common insect. Here’s a typical conversation I have on a dating website on a daily basis:

He (at 9:04 am): Sup

Me, looking the dude’s profile pic over while I start my car and put it into reverse then put my phone down like a responsible driver and to go to (shhhhhhhhhhhh) McDonalds for the (shhhhhhhhhhhhh) breakfast Mc (shhhhhhhhhhh)Muffin where I eat it (shhhhhhhhhhhh) in two inhales in my car. This is the best moment of my day, by the way, and my guiltiest pleasure. I will proudly publicly talk about my ability to squirt now but this McSecret I am confessing is with the greatest of shame. I get the McMuffin with the sausage (shhhhhhh).  Anyway, I click back on the dude’s profile to possibly respond and I have already gotten this:

He (at 9;20 am): I guess not lol.


I have not even had the chance to say “Whatsup” with an eggplant for a question mark back and I have already been dismissed.

Older men of any other generation, be it this lot: X, Flea, Boomer,  or even a World War 2 war vets, do not say “I guess not lol.” They sit and wait like gentleman. If you don’t respond to their first cockadoodledoo, they don’t take it personally, they keep you on a back burner while they fry a hot little egg on a front burner. They don’t care, they have all the patience in the world because they know meat is better when you brine it off to the side.

My mama just told me a cute story about how she started dating my dad. It was just after the war (WW2, the big one) She was working in a diner and he used to come in and order waffles. He always wore his uniform and was shy and quiet in contrast to my mother’s chatty nature. Ugh, this dude, she thought, why do I have to do all the work here? Hinting and making her interest known like a lady. Finally he asked her to the Saturday night dance and she hesitantly said yes but! She would meet him around the corner from the dance hall. Her fear was that because he was a farmer from the rural part of Manitoba, he would be dressed like a hick and she would stuck with him. So she approached him the other side of the street. If he looked like a hillbilly, she could bolt. But! When she saw him that night, he was wearing a suit and looked super handsome (“He had such a baby face!” I’m a sucker for those too, mama) and so she crossed the street. If these two young peeps in the late 1940s were living by modern times mating rituals, my dad would have sensed her apprehension, shrugged and said, probably under his breath because there was no Internet back then:”I guess not, 23 skidoo.”

And I wouldn’t have be born! And my mother would have tried to make it work out with her boy “friend” who hung out at the bathhouse at night and chased her because he liked the way she walked. “We didn’t know they were gay back then.” She might have had little beard babies. And I wouldn’t have been born! That’s so sad to think about.

As for the millennials in the work place, they seem to have the life span of those shadflies that crash and burn on your car in the spring when you’re driving near lakes and rivers. They move from job to job, they get bored easily, decide to travel and when they come back maybe apply to grad school but then decide it’s too expensive, so they get another job again where they splat again on the windshield.  And then replaced by the same thing. Their value might be a little over-rated and maybe there should be a little more age diversity considered when hiring people is all I’m trying to say. I’ve been keeping track of this one particular “young and hip” digital marketing company that posts regularly on the job boards for various positions, that I have been ignored for of course, and what’s interesting is to read the ratings and comments. Nobody gives them more than one star out of 5 and the comments are “run by kindergartners (sic)” “working here is like being in The Lord of Flies. Unorganized anarchy” and on and on.  Job boards are my porn and this particular company is my Sasha Grey, a great big anal prolapse waiting to happen.


Millians, I have noticed, are more sophisticated then any other generation before them. Their first apartments are in downtown highrises with recessed lighting and granite counters. They’ve done things like eaten raw oysters and visited Iceland that the rest of us took our sweet time doing or haven’t done at all.  In the olden days we used to go to “bases” when we dated. Not sure what base was which but a home run was basic starfish missionary for sure. Millians are playing baseball, football, and ancient Greek wrestling all in one night.

They also drink high end liquor. This is what I can’t ever wrap my mind around. They do the pre-drinking at home, yes, that’s what my fellow fleas did back in the 80s, smart hockey, so then you can ride your drunk while nursing a beer at the mosh pit. My mama told me at that Saturday night dance, they used to smuggle in a mickey of gin and pour it into an Orange Crush, even smarter hockey. But these little bitches go to the clerb and order bottle service!!!! What? Another thing, they drink the Grey Goose or Belvedere vodka and they mix it with Diet Coke!!! Are you kidding me. High end vodka, aside from being over-rated and eventually very expensive piss, needs to be sipped with a twist lemon on ice, and shitty regular ass vodka can be mixed with anything clear, soda or tonic, or a citrus or cranberry juice. But Diet Coke??? They probably dump their Hennessy in that shit too. This makes me cry real tears.

Millennial girls have been getting their nails professionally done since they were toddlers. I was pushing forty when I had my first pedicure but these young women are put together by a team of professionals like those bitches on Downton Abbey. One thing about every older generation will balk about is how the younger ones do their eyebrows. Girls of my generation used to pluck their brows with tweezers to a millimetre of their lives so that some never grew back. Our mothers, with their penciled-in Joan Crawford eyebrows, would yell at us. Thankfully I was never that stupid as my natural brows were my thing although occasionally I hear voices and shave them off completely but that’s another story. But what is happening with the millian eyebrows? They need mulitiple tools and 5 different products to craft those disturbing airbrushed looking caterpillars that they post on youtube.

Millians have coined the cute term “adulting.” Like when they do something on their own that seems grown up, they will post it on social media and say something like “Look at me adulting!” It’s a selfie of them at a farmers’ market holding up a bunch of kale. That kale is their storming Normandy and needs to be documented with a hundred hashtags and monitored by how many likes by their hundreds of followers. How does one unremarkable shadfly of a human being get so many followers I will never know, but there you go.

This is a good thing though ultimately. I think millians are way better at making food choices and when they Instagram their meals, it raises the bar a little. I am going have a kale smoothie one day too. Hahahahahahaha, not! Unless it’s called  McKale and it has sausage in it lol.  #eatlikeshit











Moisturizing the Art of Squirting


Ha, ha, see what I did there in the title? I managed to make you squirm in your crotch chokra. You’re thinking: “What is she talking about? It’s got to be insightful information. I need to keep reading.”

Yes, LET’S LET THE OLD LADY SPEAK, go grab a cup of coffee and take your lap top/ tablet/phone  into the can and pull down your pants, plunk yer arse down for the 5 minutes it takes to read this whilst the others blow dry their hair in the bedroom.

Close the door.


Okay, so! The story starts:

It was before I had kids, which means over 23 years ago, holy mother of God which would have been in 1992 that I read this article in the lifestyle section of the Saturday paper! Fuck knows which one because who even remembers newspapers in their old timey form but! It was this article about women’s sexuality and it was talking about female ejaculation during orgasms, which of course, current porn culture knows as “squirting” but this was before it was a thing. Ladies did NOT squirt back then because there was no internet to prove it. The article stated that that some women could ejaculate a litre of whatevs (piss? human mystery moisture? no one knew!) whilst achieving an orgasm. When I read this I was blown away! Like what fresh heaven is this? I have never had such a thing. I called my friends immediately.

The first friend, who I sadly don’t know anymore, was a single lady at the time but dating a bunch of dudes like a futuristic Tinderista. She had no clue either. Vaginally dry as crumb cake but emotionally moist as a cranberry bog and letting it be known. Sex is a trade off for modern family values. She confirmed it must be a myth. Another I called, who was just freshly engaged to a man she would inevitably get divorced from actually said yes, she ejaculated those reported buckets all the time. Sex was amazing! 10 years later, she admitted she lied, she was just “image crafting” like the hoes do on Facebook when they have to convince themselves their love is real by posting their Cancun vacation photos.

Anyway after reading that 1992 article, I had always kept it in the back of my mind that this was a phenomenon that could occur to some very special women. But not me :(. I was okay with that though. I’m a simple sexual plebe. It’s all about the check mark of getting it done. I want to hurry things along then get back into pyjamas. That’s a normal sex life when you are mothering small kids and have succumbed to  self-loathing body issues because of cultural pressures/standards. Oh! Yes, I see your eye roll and I raise you a perineal raphe reconstruction. Twice.

Then! When I got my mojo back because of a hormonal surge in my mid 30s, I had kept in mind that elusive female ejaculation fairy tale. I was at my absolute hottest in my own mind, but in retrospect, that’s debatable. Now that I’m older, I know it’s how you own it, even if it’s utter crap. If you have to trot around like a show pony, wearing outfits that require pantyhose, then you’re probably not happy with yourself, let alone squirting.

I had some nice poundage in my heyday. I was cared for and taken uptown, midtown, downtown, til next Tuesday, whatevs, and was appreciative of it all. I actually love men and what they do and how they perform. Most have all been so sweet to me. One guy I used to bone (and you know who you are and I still love you, too)  told me that he read in Men’s Health magazine that the women’s ejaculation was just pee. And even the Gspot was a myth! Holy balls-skewered-on-a stick, that is just ridiculous! Conde Nast! That’s some misogynistic propaganda right there: Let’s write articles dispelling all the amazing research in female sexuality so we can just bang bitches and tell them it’s all lies so our failure isn’t an option. It’s your body that’s the problem, bitch.

Motherfuckers. So, I spent the last decade, my 40s, basically rotting off the vine and doing nothing per se, but waiting. This is it. I thought. I need to find a man mate, a companion I can go to my beloved farmers markets with, who can enjoy my banter and is cool with my late night farting situation. He doesn’t exist, I realized after a decade of being comatose and unviable in a fairy tale belief system that doesn’t allow old bats to find romance. Because men my age are only interested in younger women :/

SO.  I will trade all that in for the elusive squirt that is probably just another fable anyway. Yes, by now I have seen the porn stars do it. They probably have little bags of fluid stuffed in their vaginas that they popped opened with a jagged nail. I am an almost complete disbeliever. But you have always to hold on to hope, am I right?

I try. I have a couple of toys that I play with. But when I fire them up, I get very depressed. At first things are good, but then there’s a feeing I can’t describe, like a weird thirst then a melancholia that goes deep into my soul and it make me so very sad that I “edge.” I just can’t do it on my own.

Fuck me. Literally. So that’s why I turned to on-line dating and my current state of sexual exploration at the age of 53. Judge if you want, or read and let me explain and hopefully give others some power to also get down on it, here goes:

Holy God. I’ve been on the Tinder and OkCupid  for some time now, and have met some great guys, opened up, all is good, I’m a lady of a certain age fraternizing  with some young dudes, yada yada, self esteem is getting there and mojo is back on track. Go scroll back on the the other blog entries if you care or TL;DR: Lots of bone.

Then! A Tinder dude that we’ll call Tinder Dude changes my life forever a few weeks ago. We’ve been messaging for a couple of weeks prior to meeting, which by the way, is how I like it. I enjoy banter, and I think most women do, even the easy ones. Other dudes out there, just saying, we need mental lubrication more than anything.  Tinder Dude seems cool and has game, and when I say “game” I mean the moves, I like. I respond to some aggression in a guy because I’m not naturally dominant or bossy. I need some cockiness to get the show on the road.

So Tinder Dude comes over after his day of work. He’s cute for sure, tall and lanky, which I love just as much as short and stocky. He’s old, 29 lol, but he looks 20, and he tells me he constantly gets carded at the liquor store. He’s a beautiful man/boy? and he plops himself down the couch and I give him a glass of wine after his long day at work. We banter a bit but he’s more he’s quiet and shy in person and I’m a shrill crazy lady when I’m not being bossed around and I have no idea what to do as the obvious designated host of the situation. I keep talking and offering him stuff, drinks?  Pretzels? Until he says he wants a massage. Fucking cool. That I can do.

So we go into my bedroom and he takes his shirt off and lays down. He’s more muscly than his lanky-ass frame takes on in clothing so I ask him is it okay if I use Body Shop Cocobutter body cream? And he says, what? Are you a racist? I’m like, wait, what? I use this everyday, what the fuck? And he laughs, just jokes. Because he’s black. Sometimes I don’t get humour and the appropriation situation. I’m aware of that so I’m slipping that bit in so we can rest on it and groove to what transpires next.

Anyway so I massage his back and he’s still wearing his pants! So I say slip these thing off, please. I’m cool with the nudity and when guys don’t whip it off straight away, I’m thinking they’re not interested, that’s where I’m at these days. So he tentatively takes his pants off and what? There’s another layer of shorts (not underpants) yet to peel off. So I say, WHAT WHY are you wearing shorts underneath your pants??? And he says: It’s a black thing. Oh lol. Snap. Again.

I thought at this point, things were not going to fly at all. All these blackish Amish layers of clothing and he’s so shy and I’m so sub and dumb, it’s like going to be like all the hots and hammer of trying to jam a ripe banana in a defunct phone jack. I’m thinking let’s just do this and call it a day so I can put my pj’s on. So I dutifully pulled my shirt off, pants off, and bra which if you’ve ever seen that is a sight and a half. Two flap flap jacks on a plate with no syrup. Hurry up.

THEN.. This boy>man rolled on top of me and started to suck on my neck (you know I’m a vampire, right?) in a spot that made gasp. Holy shit. I arched my back. With his his fingers, he softly played with my clitoris, which I hate more than more than sorting socks. I need to be manhandled like pizza dough. I put up up with that for a few breaths of old crusty lioness til I kicked his ass in gear.  Tinder Dude got the message and he plunged his two magic fingers inside me and while doing so and in one, two, three, four, five, hit some spot, six, seven, eight and I’m fucking screaming,, nine seconds, ten seconds then I felt a gush. He laughed, yes, like a boss. And I was like, what just happened. There was a puddle on my sheets.

Is this for real, but Harry Potter Tinder Dude did it again  few minutes later, and a pile of liquid came out again. And he did it again.

And again. And another time again. And again.

And then another time again. And again.

I’m a squirter now, Harry.

PS. It’s not definitely not pee. And girls, you never know who your hero will be so keep swiping right.


Now wipe your bum and don’t be late for your brunch reservation.

Go here and learn some new tricks, son, ur welcome:











Mastering the Art of Catching a Catfish


This is why I need a man in my life: To recognize famous hockey players’ mugs on Tinder to protect my stupid ass from being catfished. But then of course if I had a man in my life, I wouldn’t be on Tinder. Or would I?

Hahaha, of course I would. This is a cautionary tale, but a funny one with a happy ending so don’t worry about me, not like you ever would. A few weeks ago I swiped right on a very handsome blond Tinder dude who normally I would have casually flicked over to left field because he was too much BUT! I started to think I was being too reliant on a type. Clone dating is so close minded. If you gathered the crops of my summer of bone salad in a waiting room you’d probably think it was a casting call for some Jesus Christ Superstar revival, all those soulful dark eyes and luscious black beards, oh my God. Even that Jersey Boy clean shaven one, not like the others, was only one long weekend camping trip away from his brothers’ aesthetic. Swarthy, hairy dark young motherfuckers. Oof, me likey sooooo much. Not a blond or a ginger in sight.

But isn’t this a fun thought for us all to mull over? All the bone, the one nighters, the casual dating, the exes, all gathered in one room at one time. Something to ruminate about in the middle of the night instead of  the usual minutiae like that dental appointment tomorrow, ugh, and when are you gonna finally make banana bread out of all those rotting bananas, like never, and how many heaping utility bills are gathering in the mailbox, help. Instead of that thinking about that shit, my fantasy is to gather a group of random lovers in a room like a focus group with me behind the glass wall and see how long it takes them to come up with the common denominator, if ever. I’ve actually thought about this scenario for years even before my insomnia phase. University boys would take two seconds to figure it out because people actually knew each other by actual name back then, not by gaming avatars. Even with the few rogue barflies tossed in, they’d all be from the same town and seated in the round table looking at each other’s white boy faces, guffawing about Reagan’s Star Wars defence plan . Then one of them would have said something about Star Trek the original tv show which would inevitably been the missing piece to figure out their common bone hole. People were smart like that back then.

That last focus group though, would be sitting in silence, sweating their sweet pheromones, too scared to talk, stroking their beards and their cell phones, probably thinking they got stuck in a room because they’ve been put on a on a no fly list, so paranoid from all the weed they smoke. The lack of locker room talk would be so disappointing, I’d be yelling behind the soundproof wall: “Talk about facials, you dumbasses!”

Anyway, thinking about that I probably should to shake things up and expand my palate and see what the fairer boys are up to these days. I tried to go for the ginger beards early on but now I am thinking they really are all tricksters and trolls, they bark and text their junk out there but don’t bite because it hurts their pale sensitive skin too much. I am so drawn into their world but I need to stop for the sake of self-preservation. As I write this, I’m currently distracted by a certain rojo caliente with a flaming red beard and hair that looks like it’s on fire. SO HOT. So Medieval. I’m flirting with him on Tinder text and wouldn’t you know it, he unmatched me mid-conversat-

Can you believe that? I was forming a cute taco joke and suddenly my screen shook and poof! he disappeared. Like he was bored? I don’t see how. I’m the best sexter you’ll ever want to send an eggplant emoticon to. I’ll probably keep on trying rojo wrangling just for the sake of the bucket list but sweet mother of God, they are a slippery bunch.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I swiped on this blond dude, and matcharoo. Very pretty. Chin bum. I don’t know what is the evolutionary point of a chin bum but it seems handy. Something t0 stick your thumb into when you’re fidgety and shouldn’t put it in your mouth because your teeth are too perfect. Eyelashes too, maybe it’s Maybelline. One eye looked green and the other blue. I LOOKED AT THE COLOUR OF HIS EYES. I never do that to anyone. Couldn’t tell you what colour my kids’ eyes are even. Not even sure of my own. He’s also holding a poofy red Pomeranian in one of his pics. I am charmed as fuck.

Profile said he was 6’3. Height is nice but not a thing for moi. I like short and stocky maybe the best only because I like to look down when vertical.  Dom tendency maybe that I have yet to explore. Damn, I have so much to do in that bucket, I may need a mop.

So blond dude, we’ll call him Franck because that was his name on the Tinder. Franck was born in Sweden! Makes sense the wonky spelling.  Works in “sales and marketing.” Whatevs. Likes to golf, as though that makes a lady wet, not. But! he surfs so what was up with that? Turns out he went to Hawaii last year and his dad lives in Florida. Where is his mom? He doesn’t respond.  I am his mom. Franck loves older women. This does not surprise me the way it does other people. It’s the very skilled dudes that are into this MILF business. Hot dudes of Franck’s ilk are not usually skilled however because THEY DON’T HAVE TO BE. But he could be a unicorn of sorts and who am I to judge someone on their looks? Hahaha.

I showed his picture to my daughter. Her face did that disapproval thing. “Mother, he looks like a douche.” Not like a Trump son (shudder)  but like a Abercrombie poster boy type. Meh, I’m okay with that. Pretty boys are people too and maybe he’s lonely because he’s soooooo good looking. Like people assume the hot girl has a date to the prom but she doesn’t because everyone is too afraid to ask her out.

We banter a bit and decide to switch out conversation over to another medium. Kik, the one where the phone number is concealed, smart hockey, but you can send photos. RED FLAG ALERT THO. Franck gives me his kik nom de plume and it’s not his name. It’s Jordan with an underscore and a random number, prolly the number of beanie babies sitting on his pillow when he made his account,  I get the fear when I look at his avatar, it’s a 12 year old boy.

I say back on Tinder: What the fuck, I just sent a message to a child, is that you? And why is your name Jordan?

He lol’d and said Jordan was his middle name (!) and I missed the DOUBLE underscore but the random number was the same. Logged back on and lo and ho! There was another account but with a blank picture. So many stalkers, he explained, that he had no avatar. Of course! Whenever Franck entered the Internet, the lurkers flocked to lay their eggs in that chin bum. And of course Jordan-underscore-random number with the 12 year-old-boy profile pic had nothing to do with Jordan-DOUBLE underscore-same random number who was a hot dude on Tinder who swiped right on old broads. No red flags here at all.

We swap some pics. I demand a picture of his feet and he sends one right away. I believe that the feet are the base of health and beauty and his of course, are perfection. Long, big and vascular with the second toe longer than the big toe. Also I am satisfied because the feet seemed to match the face and the previous dick pic he sent. The red flags were waved away.

We make a date to meet later that week. You’d think I’d be more excited but Franck, in all his physical glory, does NOT make me that hot. For one thing, he’s a terrible texter. I don’t mind a typo here and there but he has no idea how to punctuate. And his sexting is awkward and too graphic. Like where he wants to place his finger, DON’T TELL ME NOW, just do it when the time comes. Our date day comes and I hear nothing from him to confirm and I don’t bother either. Phew.

But then a couple weeks later, he kiks me a message: Why are we such losers that we didn’t meet?

That’s so cute, I’m charmed. I scroll back and look at his feet and I’m in again. More banter and I asked to see his chin bum. He sends me a pic of his face that looks like a professional shot, not a selfie. You can tell by the lack of strained shoulder muscles and the depth of field in the background and hot damn, he is smiling and his teeth ARE perfect, and he looks like a model. I’m nervous now. He says oops, wrong photo, and he shoots me another and says: This is me now. He has a beard! It’s covering his chin bum and it’s blond but it’s still a beard. Okay, now I am smitten, I can work with this.

We make another date again for later on in the week. This time he texts all day how he can’t wait to see him. Again some awkward talk of where he wants to put his fingers but I let it go. But, the day before our date, I can’t get that photo he accidentally sent out of my mind. It looked like one of those sports player’s face pics that they use on score boards. And then I remember I have google reverse search as an app on my phone.

I copy and paste the photo in the app and tap on search and wouldn’t you know it’s some Swedish hockey player named Mantas Armalis. This little Jordan dude stole all his Instagram photos, even the Pomeranian one! Also the real Mantas Armalis has some hot young Russian looking girlfriend because of course he does. I ran the dick pics through and they came from various porn sites on Tumblr. And the feet pic, too! Wasn’t even his. Someone actually has a Pinterest board titled “Men’s Feet” which I promptly followed.

So I messaged him, calling him out. I’m not even mad, bruh, I said, in fact I’m more amused than anything. And he said he was sorry but girls don’t want to date him because of his age. Which he claimed was 18. He told me he had a girlfriend who was 35 but she moved away and asked me if I had any interest in dating him. Hahahaha! I almost asked him to send me a picture of his feet but thought the better of it. Rascally catfish probably can’t even grow a beard yet. Soon though.










Mastering the Art of Netflix and Reverse Cowgirl


Winter’s coming, you can tell by the cicadas’ gradual silence, that horny-ass insect whose call of the wild is that long piercing rattle that turns into a solid screech then wanes abruptly before starting up again. Its song is the sound track of lazy summer days. It’s always alarming the first time you hear it in June while you’re having an afternoon siesta with the windows open.  Suddenly drowning out the Magic Wand’s soothing vibrato is that lil inch sized mofo sitting on a branch somewhere blowing out his vocal chords to get an in with some sweet lady bug who seems to be ignoring his ass and yet he keeps it on repeat, getting louder and louder. In-fucking-cessantly. Jesus Christ, Lloyd Dobbler, relax, she hears you, she’s probably just on another branch getting ready, flaying some shit off her wings, making you a cocktail out of tree sap. His relentless shrill becomes white noise as the weeks go on and has a subliminal effect on us all which is why we park our asses on bar patios. We can drink anywhere we want and anywhere inside would be better than outside with all the bugs, not just the cicadas but the other entomological riff raff. And there’s the noise of the traffic and the sun beating down, warming up our drinks and giving us décolleté sunburn that we will regret in the future, but never mind all that. We hoes want to sit outside to see and be seen and smell the pheromones like the animals that we are.

And here I am, the last day of summer, sitting in my room, having just enjoyed a siesta auto-crapuleuse, and I just realized that the cicadas aren’t broadcasting anymore, it’s like they deleted their Tinder accounts! They’ve hooked up, spawned, and moved on because of the intelligence of nature. It’s awe inspiring really.

So yeah. There’s melancholia for the official end of summer and 2016’s special title of the Summer of Perpetual Swamp Ass. I’m not going to miss having to change my underwear 3 times a day and have ditch into a public washroom specifically to swipe a wet nap through my crack but I will miss the cicada’s sexy mojo song. If you follow this blog, and I suggest you scroll back, I’ve been on a fruitful Tinder roll for the past couple of months and what it really means this bad bitch’s Summer of Bone is over but! A new game plan must be implemented. At first I thought I would be happy for a break and to fall into a Netflix coma over the winter with just me and Betty and excessive carbs to replace all the peen but now that I’ve had the pipe administered on a steady basis, I don’t think I can go full-on hermit again. I get antsy if 5 days pass and no gentleman callers grace my doorstep. Be still my quivering quim, I will find you food. for the winter.

People have noticed! My locker buddy at the gym, who has been away at a cottage all summer, saw me last week and said, “My god, you look good! You’re glowing! What are you doing?”

Y’all know me, I’m never on a diet cleanse and I’m drinking to win at some drinking game in my own mind, so I said, “It’s Vitamin D I guess,” and LOL’d in my head.

“Are you taking supplements?” she asked.

“I guess you can say that,” I answered, adjusting my jacked up swollen camel toe in my lycra capris which has been an issue lately. Vitamin D’s downside. Or upside, depending on your point of view.

“How many milligrams?” she asked. Do people actually measure vitamins? This kind of supplement is measured by inches, I wanted to tell her but I didn’t want to make her feel bad because she looked all sunburnt and haggard from her family vacation of oooh look at the sun setting on the lake, how grand, #blessed (read:#boredaf).  I’ll look at it all your lovely photos on Instagram after I absorb my Vitamin D injection and side tossed salad in the comfort of my boudoir. No mosquitos here! Ha, I win for once.

But! I won’t lie. The Tinder game is hard work. Swiping is just the beginning. Boys barely look at profiles and swipe right til they run out of swipes or simply cave in and buy the unlimited swipe option. Girls read all 3 words in the profile, interpret them like a poem, go through all the pictures, and if slightly interested before swiping right, takes the following steps:

Go on Facebook. Take a breath.

Find the common friend and scroll through their friend list and search for the first name, find the dude, click on his profile, nibble on it, then devour it, squeal at how cute he looks with his Movember, save his hottest picture, text it to best friend,  google his ass, see if he has a Linkedin, don’t click on it because he can see who looks at his profile, check out his Instagram, look at pictures with females in them, assess the situation, did he carve that pumpkin with his ex-girlfriened? Peruse who is is following on Instagram, THEN maybe make the emotional judgment based on the data just seen to swipe right.

The real work comes when you make a match (it’s a miracle! It’s totally meant to be!) and he messages you, and then you have to be clever and witty really quickly otherwise the conversation consists of single word back and forths punctuated by emojis. Some people have actually met, gotten married and had babies based on this communication mating ritual. It’s amazing actually but it can be tedious when you’re an old bitch like moi and in your heyday you hooked up in the back of a sugar shack drunk on 2 Molsons and you didn’t even have to say a single word at all, much less have to conjure up the appropriate smiley face. By the way, I always go for the one the tongue hanging out, I think it cuts to the chase, saves them from asking the question : “What are you looking for on here?”

Even if things heat up to witty banter and the exchange of phone numbers, there’s no guarantee of anything at all. A day will pass and you’ll forget who Adam Tinder is even if you were super hot on him the day before. If aliens came down from space and went through my contact list on my phone they would ask who this prolific Tinder clan is, gather them up all for anal probes as they must be out to populate the universe. Adam Tinder may have been cute but along comes Joe Tinder and his beard is bigger but then he turns out slightly crazy by sending you snap chats with that stupid dog filter (are we twelve?) so Frank Tinder comes along to save the day and he seems sane, and hot as fuck literally, so you spend an evening messaging, getting all antsy pants. But here’s the thing:  EVEN IF YOU MAKE AN ACTUAL SOLID JACKSON DATE WITH SOMEONE, THEY STILL MAY GHOST YOU COMPLETELY. One has to have a thick skin in the dating world. We’re all like a bunch eels slithering around a crowded fish tank, trying bang into something but mostly just trying to get away and be alone.

So anyway, the summer has been pretty good for moi. I’ve had some eel slither in. I’ve lost the body count after all the fingers so it’s somewhere in the toes on the first foot. It’s not slutty, it’s that I’ve been condensing what I should have done over the years into as much as I can because I can. Who knew all these 20something guys want to bang old broads? And yes, as a 53 year old woman I am aware I have a  shelf life of an avocado, but at this point I’d rather be some young dude’s quirk/item on a bucket list than some old dude’s sock-sorting, boring-ass “soul mate.” Please.

But! Having said that and being #blessed with young and diverse bone all summer, I know when winter comes, this game has to go into off season. Yes, you can play Tinder on your phone inside but the follow through is going to be a big drag. You know how it is in the depths of January and February, you have to get dressed with coats and hats and go out in the dark in the cold, nothing seems worth it, except for booze. Summer bone is so free and easy, flutter in like a butterfly and do your squirting due diligence and then take off like a sparked firefly in the middle of the night, where you go home and sleep in your own bed. The next day there will be another flower to land on. I’ve adopted the male mentality of casual hookups with aplomb and I’ve never been happier, empowered, or more liberated. And I’m serious, I’m still processing this revelation which I will blather on about in posts to come unless I choke to death on a dick. Could actually happen. Keep reading.

So far, they’ve all been one timers with the exception of one dude who has made me think I need to have a roster of “friends with benefits.” But I so hate that term. That and “no strings attached.” There is nothing worse than going on some dude’s dating profile and they actually state they are looking for an ‘FWB with NSA.” They are living in Delusionville if they think women are going to find that charming and honest. Every woman who reads that thinks: Oh! A challenge! And tragically believes she is going to be a game changer. He hooks up with said cool chick, or so he thinks at first. Then the dumb ass dude actually believes she is on the same page and he whistles and ploughs along, but then by the beginning of the third full moon that they’ve been “casually” banging, she asks where things are going. WHERE THINGS ARE GOING. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, here’s what happens next to the confused bro. He has been Wasting Her Time, tic tock.  Stuff gets said, things go awry, and then he puts his profile back up: “FWB NSA, no drama or game playing tolerated.”  Fucking swamp-ass-wipe dude does not deserve to ever get laid again. Sorry but! It’s ALL a game, motherfucker, grow up and play it with the finesse of a lying bastard. Drama is part and parcel of the fun and getting trapped is the end game. Get used to it, fella, until you find your unicorn who, by the way, is probably a blow up doll. Tool.

But, guess what, the “drama and game playing” (eye roll)  is not for me anymore, that’s a young woman’s objective (babies!) and I am the FWB slash NSA catch IF you have a Stifler’s mom fetish. Most men my age, if they’re out in the dating world, are punch drunk from some crazy pussy for sure, I don’t want to slam the menfolk completely, but they just don’t learn. I actually saw a 48 year old man’s profile state this: “Looking for a FWB for an exclusive relationship. I don’t sleep with other people and I expect you not to either.” What. This guy is just looking for a garden variety monogamous relationship but he’s probably just too cheap to buy drinks or something. I almost felt really bad for him as I swiped left.

My repeat dude holds promise as a potential FWB he checks in with me every day. He’s very athletic, takes charge, and intuitively knows his way around the land that is my battered body and reads my responses like a pro. Getting blood, sweat, and tears out of me requires both talent and experience and for a young dude, he’s going to go far in this world. At one point he made me faint! He’s a genius. Also he’s cool with Betty, my small dog, who trotted in the room, panting  frantically, got all weird and wiggly and jumped on the bed and sat on his face. He didn’t even flinch or seem to care and that is what possibly charmed me the most. I actually can’t tell if he even likes me or not though, but I think he appreciates that I let him watch his stuff on the lap top while I practise deep throating, oy vey, I have a lot to learn. Which by the way, I refuse to believe is an actual thing that can be done for longer than a nano second and a half. It’s all smoke and mirrors of the porn industry! Please tell me I’m right or I’m going to die trying.

So yeah, the plan for the winter is take it a little easier. If repeat dude comes back, if he’s not a flighty summer insect, I’ll try and feed him some carbs maybe and he can slow down and hoist up in that reverse cowgirl position, easy does it, and we can both watch tv and kind of chill(ish) before practise. Fair trade, methinks. In the meantime I’m swiping right on those hairy extra-weight bear type dudes who claim they can cook and cuddle, that would be a nice winter hibernation, #goals, and #hairsinmyteethdontcare.








Mastering the Art of Tossing Salad ;)


My friend had a dinner party last weekend and one of the guests was a woman whose family used to run a very popular restaurant in their hometown. One of the specialties was that they made Caesar salad at the tables and the dressing was made from scratch, and not that creamy white stuff like Renée’s in a jar. Don’t get me wrong, I love that shit and would drown my romaine in it any day of the week. But the made from scratch one was so much fresher tasting and most of all, captivating to watch her make it. Like everything had to be “just so” in a particular order or something would congeal or combust or some other chemical disaster. Also it had to be made in a seasoned wooden bowl that had never been washed with soap. Like cast iron pans you’re supposed to only wipe clean. You know what? Bacteria is good, people, I don’t know why y’all worry so much. You have to eat a little dirt before you die is my motto.

Amongst the ingredients were garlic, parmesan, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, oil (vegetable is better than olive oil!), raw egg yolks (salmonella shmalmonella, tits to the wind!), and anchovies, which is a small hairy fish that only pussies hate…”Oh, I hate anchovies!” People say this all the time, drives me mental. Oh really now? Do you hate salt also? Anchovies are just another form of salt in a living organism. Salt keeps the goiter away! Chop them finely so the hairiness is a smooth paste! Yum! Anchovies are life. Your mother’s mother’s mother times a million generations ago was an anchovy! Also the anchovy an important ingredient in Worcestershire sauce, which is yet another thing dumped into the Caesar salad dressing. Anyway this amazing woman had to use a lot of brute strength and trick wrist work stirring up the eggs and stuff so everything was amalgamated to the proper texture. I won’t lie to you, watching that fork pounding through those yolks did something in my loins because I’m libidinous lady and I developed a confusing girl crush. This was food porn at its finest because I actually got to eat it at the end, unlike when I watch my lady-love Martha on tv whip and fold with her spatula and only get to imagine what her meringue tastes like. I’m guessing lemon-zesty with a hint of mint.

Anyhoo, before we move on to the next salad, I just wanted to point out some fun facts about the history of the Caesar salad: The original Caesar salad was probably made with limes, not lemons! Holy shit! It was a lost in translation thing. Caesar Cardini was an Italian immigrant who opened a restaurant in Tijuana where he was avoiding the restriction of Prohibition in the 1920s. Oh! And he coddled the eggs! Oy! I don’t even know what that means! Sounds sexy. For the true Caesar salad story, read here maybe or stick with me and we’ll talk about eating ass cuz that’s the tossed salad I’m talking about.


Okay, yeah, so if you’ve not followed the blog thus far, here is me, a 53 year-old lady on the dating circuit, via the trusty internet. I’m bored as fuck of the actual dating part however and I just cut to the chase and go to the end game, Bone Town. I’ve recently learned from someone’s Facebook post that “life is too short and unpredictable not to live exactly how you please” and if so, I don’t have time for coffee and finding out where some hapless dude got his degree and wondering why he tucks in his polo shirt with hips like that. I’ve also narrowed my focus on 25-29, which I’ve explained why in my last post, with an allowance for randoms in either direction because I like to break my own rules.

Anyway, the whole ride to B-Town is getting easier and easier, I don’t even need a drink to loosen up. Yes, my nervous level is slightly more than opening up this month’s heatwave hydro bill but considerably less than parallel parking on a hill with a standard transmission. My screening process needs honing however! I treat my “dates” as therapeutic appointments, which is how I rationalize afternoon delights, or as my Moroccan friend calls it “sieste crapuleuse” which sounds more romantic than it is. I’ve had a good run so far and my intuition has been right in that I’ve met no serial killers yet (knock on wood) and everyone has been so nice and gentlemanly but! There was one dude who texted like a Neanderthal would if he had a phone, all one word answers and everything misspelled. I let that red flag slide because my friend Bob, who texts equally boneheadedly, is one of the funniest people I know and I shouldn’t let bad writing skills be a bone barrier, right? His profile pic seemed cute. He had a baby face (with a chin bum!) that I love when I’m not drooling over dark beards. When I talked to him on the phone he was far more chatty which was a relief but when he came over, he was giant and awkward and I really wasn’t feeling it but! I sieste crapuleused with him anyway because he really was a sweet teddy bear I had to see what a 6’8 dick was like. Good boy. I do need smarts and wit though. However, he got my cues when it was time to leave and toddled off into the world, another cougar down, I’m sure he does this all the time. Which probably makes him clever. Oh well, for a mercy bone, I don’t feel bad about it, I didn’t even mess up my mascara that day. Onward.

Okay so there is this one bone of contention I have about young dudes and that is they are always up in your ass, like literally. I have not even been two sentences deep in a text conversation when I get: “Do you do anal?”As if I’m car detailing service, providing satisfied customers with rim jobs and anal for over 30 years. I don’t even know their names yet and they want to know if they can go up my butt? This was not ever on the table when I was a young hot chick. I mean I know it’s not a new thing, it’s in the the bible filed under sodomy and in old timey literature, ie. Madame Bovary was an inspirational hoe on the Hershey Highway, but why are the millennials so obsessed with it? I’m blaming all that main stream porn people watch because they’re bored. We are all so de-sensitized now. It’s simply not enough that a lady has two other viable holes and an ample cleavage to squish together to form a makeshift dick trench because that’s not awkward at all, But at least it doesn’t hurt.

For me it’s no. I don’t want to. Nope, I will tell these boys, once I find out what their name are: Ryan, Connor, Tyler, those ubiquitous names from my days as a young mom at the playground are of age now! By the way, I have made it a personal rule that once I come across a Jayden, I’m quitting this practise and its Steves, Mikes, and Daves only. So yeah, Liam, it’s a hard fast rule that I will break IF I like you and it’s my birthday and it’s a full moon and I’m drunk and you gave me a puppy as a present.

But! I have learned to like a new thing butt-rific on the menu. Yes, I *will* have the tossed salad and young man, if you are good at it, I will toss yours like a boss. Tuchis-lingus, they discussed this on “Sex and the City” in the late 90s and like if Charlotte is doing it, why aren’t we all? Don’t get me wrong, I was totally skeeved out by the thought when I saw that episode back in the day. But then a couple of seasons ago, on “Girls” they actually showed Marnie having it done to her!

Holy shit. I am in the slow sexual group. Anyway, I filed the salad toss in the “I’m too old for this probably” folder and didn’t even let myself wonder what it was like but then! One of those anally obsessed young dudes surprised me with his delightfully rogue tongue game. This was one of those rare dudes that I was so floored with his hotness I would have let him a) do anything b) do anything back and c) sell all my stuff and buy a Volkswagen camper van and go on a two month summer road trip with just so I could watch his beard grow even longer. SIGH.

Anyway he did his thing down there and when he finally came up for air he looked up and said it tasted good! What? My butthole tasted good. Like what I wondered but didn’t ask. Also it felt so good I didn’t even care. And that was like the nicest thing any man has said to me in forever. These are the people you want in your life at all times. Also, who does this on a hook up? A fearless soul who deserves several endorsements on his sexual LinkedIn profile, which is what I think I’m going to be using mine for in the future because I’m really poor at Microsoft. But very good at titty fucking.

Anyway, I tossed that salad back without any problems. This was also a dude who was hairy and marinating in his own musk for some hours. I am an animal, I really am, because I hate the smell of cologne and weird deodorant but go crazy over sweat and body odour that hasn’t quite turned rank yet but is getting there. It’s a fine line between ripe and rank. SIGH. Anyway, the tuchis-lingus salad was all good, tasted like chicken! With a couple of dumplings on the side. Yum.





Mastering the Art of Laying Pipe: Tinder for Cougars Edition

Lucas Cranach Date: Beechwood 37x30.5 cm

Happy middle of the summer, my webfolk! Yes, outside it is hot and oppressive as Trump’s steamy turd breath and the world is spiralling down to a fiery hell but we have to remember to stay cool. And try and spread love any way we can, it’s the only way to deal with this mess.

Me, I’m upping my Tinder game which sounds like my usual self-serving hedonism but isn’t really. There’s a sense of female empowerment I have gotten from channeling my inner Samantha that I would like to share with all my single lady friends. Let me be your sherpa before I succumb to another Netflix coma where it’s just me and Betty licking the Pringle crumbs from my cleavage while I balance a glass of wine on top of her head.

So after all these awkward years, I finally hit my stride on this dating thing, better late than never I suppose, and 2016 has been the Summer of Bone! I finally found a magical worm hole for all you ladies of a certain age who have been feeling dismayed over what slim pickins there is out there in the boning fields, especially when your criteria is men over 40. Actuarial science will tell us that most of them are married and if they’re not, my grunt work in the fields of wilting dick will tell you that they are a feckless lot, mooning over some lost love they had when they didn’t have to resort to Cialis. This post is more for the ladies to get guidance from but you old men can read and maybe learn something to upgrade your game. Sorry if this is harsh but it’s our time now.

Ladies, forget about them. Immediately. They forgot about you. Dismissed all your alluring messages and ignored that origami punani you painstakingly handcrafted with a prize inside that you sent him by the mail, actually going to the post office and getting stamps for express postage! I mean seriously, no one is that busy they can’t acknowledge your efforts by texting an eggplant emoticon with a smiley face and then a licky face after a pie. You need to change focus, m’lady, cast your net in a different lagoon. Fuck that old guy.

I thank heaven for little boys, they grow up in the most delightful way of becoming hot dudes of the demographic age of 25-29. THIS is the magical wormhole, my sisters, the 5 year age range that will change your life. Of course there’s some wiggle room but for moi, I’m sticking to this particular target because so far, so fucking good and I do not want to jinx it. You can go under 25 but I just can’t do it. Or maybe under 23, that seems like a good cut off.  I think that at 25,  they have their man bodies and some of them even have experienced their metabolic shift where you can see what their dad bods are going to look like. And no one loves a dad bod more than me.

Also by the time they are 25, they’ve probably had their hearts broken at least once so they have some feels and they know how to drown them out by going on a Tinder tear. Their nets are cast far and wide and they got the courage to love the cougars. Not my favourite term for the older women/younger man scenario because it implies a crusty bleached blond who shops in the junior seducing junior firemen at that bar Crocodile Rock on Wednesday nights. But whatevs, I’ll own it for the sake of the post. 25 year-olds are still sweet and malleable if you are a boss lady (a lil bit sometimes) and at the same time, cocky and self-assured if you are a sub (hello!).

In the years before they hit 30, they age so beautifully!! At 26, they are adept at conversation and wear nice underwear. At 27, they have grown a beard of biblical proportions and 28 and 29 is full throttle throw down. You will want to cast these dudes in the movie of your life directed by Cecile B. de Mille. And then you’re going to want to replay it over in your mind when you’re in spin class because that’s where you feel it the most.

What happens at 30 you ask? I don’t know if it’s pressure from society or their moms, but they become more discriminating!  It’s like they have a biological clock like we do. They suddenly have no time for random swipes. They are looking specifically for breeders! Even if it’s just in the back of their minds, they have an agenda that they may haven’t reckoned with yet. Sure, they have boners for Stifler’s mom, but it’s more tentative now, like maybe they should be wasting precious spunk on an old bat’s facial. Yes, they will still message our spent MILF asses but it will go something like this disheartening pick up line:

Hey, wanna meet up sometime for a coffee and see if we have chemistry? 

ARE YOU KIDDING? This is Tinder. Chemistry is for the defeated from who pretend to  enjoy shopping farmers’ markets and buying kale for salads they will never, ever toss. This is pure unadulterated motherfucking biology and maybe some physics if you want to get acrobatic after you finish eating my pussy. Can you lay pipe, son? Yes? You’re hired!  The last thing I ever want to do is sit in a Starbucks and find out what your hopes and dreams are for the future. Holy shit, sometimes I don’t know what people are thinking. So yeah, best stay away from over thirties UNLESS there is a rule that rule that must be broken. I’m open to that.

I know what you’re thinking: Who has time for this? Right?  I hear you. It’s like chasing Pokémon, a giant time suck and you barely know what you’re doing because you’re too old for this shit. I will say the Tinder is both addictive and frustrating most of the time, but when it happens, it should be easy and feel natural. And exciting as fuck! My pro tips are:

  1. Do NOT let your profile hover longer than 48 hours. Like probiotic yogurt, we all have a shelf life.   If in the 48 hours, you haven’t caught a proverbial Pokémon then delete your profile wait a week and go back on.
  2. Learn your right from your left. Sometimes I accidentally “super-like” someone by swiping upper right but most often, I swipe left when I mean right which makes my game tragic and comedic at the same time. Haha, old people are so stupid.
  3. If you match with someone, don’t freak out. Breathe. Wait awhile. Maybe let him message you first? Go off the app. Play your turn on Words with Friends. Tend to your garden. Check back.
  4. If your match messages you, you can be wuss and ignore it or just answer back because why not.  Definitely do the latter even if it was an accidental swipe. Sometimes that is serendipity at work but probably not, you can always “unmatch” with them. I dopn’t know where they disappear to but there is a lid for every pot so don’t even think twice about it.
  5. If your match that you think is hot (and didn’t swipe by accident) doesn’t message you first in a timely manner and you likey a lot, a lot, take the initiative and say something like “You! Yes!”
  6. When match answers your call of the wild, get your flirt on. This is where I want to say the communicators of the world will rule the future, they will be the procreators  because they know how to charm in text. The next generation will be eloquent in emoticons and hashtags.
  7. When you and match are comfortable and banter is good you feel like you might want to take it to another level, give him your phone number. Clutch your pearls.
  8. Match will take about 2 seconds to text you. Trust.
  9. Send him a photo from your camera roll, the one where you can judge by his reaction whether or not he worthy or a dud.
  10. If he says something like “oh nice, but I’m more of an ass guy, like prolly 60% ass and 40% boobs,” then you can just shut it down and pull a Casper #byefelipe Attraction is 100% poetry, not math equations. Fuck that guy.
  11. But if he gets your pic and it takes him a few seconds to respond and when he does, he texts OMG with the heart eyed emoticon, and you can practically feel the pipeline being ploughed to punani town from wherever his location is, 20 something kilometres away, then strike while the iron is hot, ho! You can’t get all scared and be like, oh, maybe tomorrow, it’s now or never! Pin him your locay!
  12. When match gets in his car to come over, run to the neighbours to make sure they are out on the porch when he arrives for safety purposes.
  13. When match arrives, introduce him to the neighbours. It won’t be awkward at all.
  14. Offer match a non-alcoholic beverage.
  15. When match tells you that you are hot and sexy, believe him.
  16. If match is cute and nice, relax.
  17. Be spontaneous.
  18. If match forgets to take his shoes off, now is the time to take them off.
  19. Keep match hydrated the whole time.
  20. Make sure match leaves by midnight otherwise he’ll get a parking ticket.

I know some of you ladies are thinking what about love and companionship, isn’t that the end game? Yes, that’s a very nice goal to have and if by a miraculous swipe right on Tinder that happens to you, then I will follow your thicket happy hashtags on Instagram and I promise to heart every #blessed post. But! Life is about the journey, not the destination! And since we are all in imminent danger of an orange hued apocalypse, why not chase the entire rainbow right now. And lick it. Don’t be scared.




Mastering the Art of Leaving


Hey my faithful lolcats, remember how last time I wrote on this thing I was blathering on about being scared of the wind because wind is change and change is scary but change shouldn’t be scary because everything changes and grow a pair and turn and face the strange ch-cha-changes, blah blah? Well that last gust of wind brought some bad and heartbreaking sad change in the death of a friend which made the rest of my dumb problems seem like a side plate of cold french fries. I realize that’s a confounded metaphor that might only make sense to me but bear with moi as the last weeks have been unsettled and no sleep!!!! But! One night after a tortuous week of tossing, I remembered that Bob, who has to wake up at ungodly wee morning hours, takes a Gravol with a rum and Coke and conks out hard and wakes up as such (so he says). So one night I needed to sleep because I had a job interview the next day (ugh, more on that later)  I had a Gravol and a glass of wine and guess wot? ZZZZ! All the way through! Woke up with dry mouth and a sore throat but it was worth it. And don’t worry this post has a happy ending so stick with me.

I tried it again the next night and it kind of worked but I actually threw up in the morning. I never throw up even if I’m hungover! Gravol is supposed to make you anti-nauseaous so I am obviously already abusing the medication! Michelle told me about some sleepy time hot drink from the health food store that contains magnesium. I know me, I will never go through all the steps of boiling water at night, mixing something in a cup, wait for it to cool and sip it the whole thing until it’s gone. Why not just take the tablets? With the wine, duh. So I’ve been doing that and it’s been working! And the dreams! You’ve all been in them! Especially you, Scarecrow.

The day of my friend’s funeral, Freddy left for his camp job for the summer. He’s been doing this for a couple of years or 3 and usually I feel that sweet melancholia sadness that I can easily console myself with by thinking one less egg to fry when he leaves but this time I felt like my fucking heart was being ripped out by a dark monster. The couple of months he was home from university, he and I have been super close. Spotting each other at the gym and watching Jeopardy every night, real mother and son bonding stuff, good times. Sometimes we watch a movie and he is all reluctant when I make a suggestion for a classic because you need to see these things for just for reference sake. This time round we watched Se7en which I hadn’t seen since it was in the theatre. I remembered being scared by Sloth and SPOILER ALERT: Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box but this time around I found the whole movie slow, boring, ridiculous with the rain machines trying to make L.A. seem like a dank mystery city and an overwhelming bloated music score. Gwyneth’s head tho! LOL!!!!!! Freddy liked it so that was good David Fincher representation, not my idea of a classic per se but whatevs. I also would have seen Fight Club again, but he was like, no, mama, I know who Tyler Durden actually is, and this is where I have to remind my son of the age old wisdom that it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that counts.

So off he went last week and I felt physical pain watching him go but! No more socks to sort! By the way, potential suitors out there and I know you’re there, I can feel it in the wind, that’s measure where you know if I love you if I sort your socks. But! If I leave them in a random pile then you should take the cue and leave. Anyway I just did some laundry and there was one random sock of his and I didn’t know what to do so I threw it out, I figure the other one has petrified under his bed somewhere and that’s something I don’t want to know about.


So I’ve been on a few interviews for various jobs that we won’t go into specifically because I don’t list my strengths and weaknesses to just anyone and tell. I will say that there’s no rhyme or reason for these employers’ criteria out there. You can have all the qualifications and more but they think you’ll be bored even though being bored is not one of my issues in life. I could stare at a blank wall and knit a scarf all day. Conversely, your “busy” office and need for someone to “multi-task” and have a “sense of urgency” is not a problem for this OCD insomniac who does complex math in her brain at night while furiously masturbating. Or! They think you don’t have enough experience as though you can’t learn anything new. And you people are always telling me I’m too old in general for anything but! I know who Tyler Durden is because I actually saw Fight Club in the theatre back in the days when popcorn had “golden topping” instead of real butter. Young people know who Tyler Durden is because they saw it in a meme. AND HEY! I KNEW WHAT MEMES WERE BEFORE JESUS GREW A HIPSTER BEARD. Holy shit.

The prize interview of the lot goes to an Asian chick named Zoe who I think we can all agree needs to be called out and nailed to a cross. She advertised on Indeed a couple of positions being available for a home reno showroom WITH A SET ANNUAL SALARY OF NOT BAD MONEY, dreams of a bathroom demo danced through my head. She replied to my application that she was conducting a “soft” interview with a group on Wednesday. I’ve done this group interview charade before, it’s a disaster, there is always this one dude who needs to take the floor to mansplain every stupid fucking thing that comes into his head. But whatevs, I went, enjoying my little commute to the flatlands of warehouses and Chinese banquet halls.

So there’s 8 of us, all ages by the way. Everyone was in a chair but I was perched on a high stool which you would think was embarrassing but I felt empowered like I owned the joint. It was kind of cool place, a giant warehouse with good lighting and shiny things set up as sample showcases. My magpie sensibilities would never be bored except for the barf-awful ugly art on the walls. There was actually a giant portrait of Marilyn Monroe in pixelated tiles, it was much wow but very fucked up at the same time. If you can’t tell if something is amazing or hideous, it’s probably really tacky.

So Zoe says: “Hi everybody! Thanks for coming. I just want to let you know that we have hired the salary positions over the weekend but I am offering you all an opportunity to a part of my team of commission sales.”

This beautiful elegant Persian lady bats her lashes and says WHAT THE FUCK?

And Zoe is like, flustered: “It’s a great opportunity for an entrepreneur. You can set your own hours and use your social media to network…” She started to stutter when she looked at everyone’s faces and somehow ended her vomit of words by exclaiming “Pinterest!”

I thought it was just me that was confused but Elegant Persian Lady interrupted her and said; “I’m sorry but I’m leaving.” And she haughtily left in a puff of smoke, closely followed by an old groovy dude whose name was actually Elvis, then the young people silently got up and left also.

I stayed!!! Why? For you! So I’d have something to talk about. After everyone left, Zoe got all sweaty and nervous. I pretended to be interested in her obvious pyramid scheme which was probably a front for some elicit activity. She claimed she worked with “real-a-tors” who did staging and developers who built new construction in the big city. 4% percent commission on a half million dollar decorating job! Do the math! That’s 20 grand! She kept saying the same sentence over again and somehow ending it in “Pinterest!” It was really the weirdest thing. I asked her some hard hitting questions, like who are you, where are you from? She was dodgy and kept getting up to leave to tend to something in the warehouse, which, by the way, was devoid of any other people much less newly hired salaried employees. She did tell me her Welsh father-in-law hated her until she cooked him something delicious and now he loves her. Which I find hard to believe.

She gave me a tour and told me she really wanted me to be a part of her team because she liked my personality. I smiled ruefully and told her “I like you too, Zoe.” I found some ceiling tiles I wanted for my kitchen. I took note of the manufacturer and I’ll go straight to the source because fuck her. As if I’m going to use my social media to sell shit, I feel bad enough I plop this blog on my Facebook wall. Anyway at the end, I grabbed a heaping handful of candies from her desk and told her I’d be in touch, and hauled my sad deflated self out of there. #FML


But! The next day the universe actually threw me a bone. Some young dude on my dating website sent me a message, the kind I always ignore, you know the “I’m in your city for a night, wanna hook up?” kind of message. Except his was better written and had a legit reason which was he is in a band and playing at a specific venue which I looked up, watched a YouTube video of him playing and basically exploded in my loins. Yes, yes, yes. Holy shit. We had Facetime chat the day before which usually means the death of everything. Ghost city. I don’t know how to behave over the phone. I always end up saying too much. But! Not this time, dude pulled through and showed up after his show. Okay, on YouTube and Facetime, he was very cute and with a hot voice and sexy af accent but IRL, him standing under a streetlight in front of my house, I practically fainted. If Serpico and King David from the Old Testament made a baby, threw in a bit of LeBron James for the height and dapperness, it would be this guy. You should know of my fetish for big black beards by now, he was too young for the silvers that set me over the edge but you know they’re just around the corner. His future is paved in pussy for sure.

Anyway, in the house he happily entered. I offered him a beer which he took of and we hovered in the kitchen and stared at each other. He took a sip from the can and even before he finished swallowing came the throw down. OY VEY! To think that I almost pressed the delete button and sent him off into the ether, it almost makes me cry for the missed opportunities every where. Anyway, later when we were waiting for his Uber to take him away, he said: “This was fun and very healthy.” And it’s true, it was. He left behind a bunch of tiny fingertip-sized bruises on me that will eventually fade away but I’m going to keep the memory awhile longer. And yes, I finally showered and yes, washed my face eventually. But took my sweet time about it.











Mastering the Art of Not Being Scared of the Wind


I used to have these two Shiba Inu dogs, or #doges before they were Very Meme, Much Interwebs, So Pupular in comic sans.  They were father and daughter, and every time it got windy outside, they would go ballistic inside. I guess it was the noise and the rattling of the windows that set off some vestigial primal fear of  tsumanis from their natural homeland of Japan. When the wind blew, the father dog, Cruise, who was a big pussy, and so very cute, would try and bury himself in my head. Whether I was laying down or not, he’d hop on the bed or on my lap, then climb my shoulders and start digging on my neck and face. So exfoliating. In his mind, my head was the highlands, some kind of mountainous safe space for him to seek sanctuary. What an idiot, if he only knew what a dump my brain is and how I fail to clean it up, he should have dug into my stomach and aimed for the womb because maybe its not a luxury hotel but it’s a pretty decent air bnb with free booze at happy hour.

The female dog, his daughter Penny, feared the wind with the same intensity but faced it head on like the savage warrior she was. When the windows rattled, she’d run up the the second floor of the house, scratch at the bay window in the front room, snout the window open and then scratch the screen so she could bust through, and then plop her ass down on the porch roof  and sit ever so still like Much Gargoyle. She had that ninja dog thing that no matter what barrier you created, she would find another way out.

Pretty much anything I needed to know about life, I could have learned from Penny and Cruise had I have paid closer attention. Especially about on-line dating: Penny had mad hunting skillz and could catch small animals (birds! squirrels! hamsters from their cages, oy!) and actually follow through and kill them and then actually fucking eat them, wasting no meat, INCLUDING A SKUNK, unlike most domestic dogs who may catch a squirrel by the tail, get freaked out, lol about it, and let go. This is like everybody on Tinder by the way. A bunch of wily woofers chasing squirrels in the fenced park, all game no bone. Swiped right, match! What to do now? Close app, so scared, pretend it didn’t happen, back to Candy Crush.

****NOTE: Im just going to carry on about this wind business THEN I’ll tell you how I faced my fears and went on an actual Tinder date because I know that’s why you read this blog, bear with me.

So! It’s been 11-12 years since those two crazy shibes have gone to doggie heaven and I still think about them every day. Especially yesterday when a random gust-o-palooza of wind starting blowing out of nowhere, certainly my iPhone weather app gave no indication of a hurricane. I get all antsy in windy situations from all the years of #ShibeLife, and the memories of coming home and seeing Penny sitting on a slanted roof and going into panic mode: me, inside trying to bribe her with food while the neighbour, outside on a ladder, pushes her stubborn ass back into the window and thinking she was going to slide off and plunge to her death or worse, get injured but not so serious she would have to be put down for a set price, but like a broken leg or something, think of the vet bills, oh my god.

I think I gave current dog, Betty, the wind phobia by transference as she is very intuitive. By “intuitive” I mean spoiled as fuck where the whole family anthropomorphizes this beast like she’s a doggie oracle who runs the household based on her love of pizza parties and belly rubs. But we love her and it bonds us all, don’t judge.

So during the wind last night, Betty and I huddled on the couch, panting frantically and watching Jeopardy, fucking dog always forgets to answer in the form of a question. The windows rattled, Betty’s breath was so bad, I tried to bury my head in my iPhone. At one point, I channeled my old dog Penny, and ran onto the back deck and Instagrammed the branches flailing in the wind. Yes, this is it, those fucking weed trees from the jungle next door are going to rip up by the root and leave giant holes and plumbing issues and I’m going to have to call the insurance company and get shit fixed which will take forever and then inflated premiums! and! the whole thing will cost way more than a vet bill for a broken dog leg. That’s how my mind works: Stop worrying about one thing and go on to the next and make the worst case scenario into a movie-of-the week drama starring Daphne Zuniga. Maybe if Dean Cain isn’t doing anything, he can be the tough-as-nails insurance adjuster who at first is a dick but during the plot twist, maybe where he saves her dog from the roof, they end up falling in love, proving there is hope for divorced middle aged women everywhere. Might as well make my fears have happy endings.

My next door neighbour, Colleen, bristles with excitement every time the wind picks up from our stagnant porch life. “Peterson! It’s amazing!” Maybe she has Penny’s ghost sitting on top of her head?  I’m always, like what the fuck, it’s so scary, the wind is all about change and I hate change. I want everything to be the same always or at least gently eased into the new status quo. I have to be greasy and blindfolded to keep moving. In fact I’m amazed I even made it out of my mother’s womb in the first place.

Colleen doesn’t see wind as impending doom, instead it’s fresh opportunity. I don’t know for what, neighbourhood watch fodder? Or maybe when she saw The Wizard of Oz she actually thought it was a barrel of fun instead of a depressing allegory of a girl reaching puberty, getting her period (ruby slippers!), leaving home because wind, yo! landing in some strange place and then running into a bunch of hapless jerks, 3 dudes who represent the holy trinity of male foibles that we’ve all dated:  a dumb ass scarecrow who is friend zone material, an emotionally unavailable and obvious closet case tin man, and the quintessential cowardly lion who has erectile dysfunction because he probably drinks too much (I’ll take that one, btw, I can work with it). I think the wizard represents religion, he is a deity of sorts,  and the witches are directional pulls, where is the witch of the south though? Hmm. I could go really deep into it and blow our minds but my local weed dispensary has been shut down. But! Suffice to say there’s a lot of anxiety in the land of Oz and that Dorothy is a pretty bad ass lil bitch because she FACES HER FEARS. Just as an observation though, I feel like when she poured water over the wicked witch that that was a real lame-ass deus ex machina in terms of the plot device. Like oh, yeah, we’re supposed to believe that water is going to melt this bad bitch into oblivion when the ho flies her broom in the dankest of skies where there is probably 90 percent chance of showers and dollars for donuts she has gotten wet before.

So yeah, maybe wind isn’t so scary if you keep the windows open and try and remember those flying monkeys are all up in yo head. Your dog wouldn’t want to scratch his way inside if they were actually real. If the breeze brings change, like in the form of a scary email or something, maybe it’s just best to deal with it rather than stress over it. It’s better to be the dog sitting precariously on the roof, than the one scratching itself into a living human head and even if it was a hollowed out skull, he couldn’t possibly fit like a LolCat in box. Am I right?


So yeah, just thinking about Dorothy and her 3 main archetypes of men reminded me of a Tinder date I went on last month. It was an actual earnest date, not like a hookup-Netflix-chill type thing, this dude asked me out in public for a drink. In the daytime, I might add, which wins points for me. Also he was “age appropriate” which is not necessarily a good thing from my field studies. I find that the middle aged men in the dating pool deny that term as though in their 45 year old minds, they are planning on living way past the age of 120. I don’t fucking think so, but I will give the term “middle age” a loosely dug out cave window of 40ish-60something less than 65,  just to be nice. And so my field studies indicate the middle aged men are all out in the park chasing squirrels half their age because they think they can until they realize they are cowardly lions, than haha, joke’s on them. So anyway! More points for this dude for asking an old tree bound squirrel out on a date. Here’s how it went down:

We meet at the bar place and he is cute! Like a swarthy hipster with some character. He has one of those haircuts with the intricate fade and pineapple mess on top (hipster, and I’m ok with that) and a massive scar on his cheek that looked exactly like someone hollowed out a beer bottle and smashed it in his eye (totally hot). Best of all, he has a big black beard with silvers in it, you know that’s my number one weakness since I’ve given up on ginger ones.

We sit outside in the brightness of the sun which is pretty brutal, why not just go to a nude beach and stand in front of each other and lay the sunscreen on, but whatevs. He has a British accent! Cute! But! He keeps saying “wanker.” Ugh. First beer goes down nicely and then he orders shots of whiskey or whisky whichever. Is that a red flag in day drinking first date? But YOLO and did I mention it was my birthday? And it turns out he’s a shot sipper! Just like me! Teeny tiny sips! Cute! But his eyes have turned to slits already. Ugh. We order another beer. He mentions I seem nervous. I fidget, it’s my nature. He calls the waitress a wanker because she thinks our shot sipping is wimpy. She is awkward, it’s probably her first serving job. She’s a mere child though, I’m sure she drinks Bodacious mixed with 7-Up and calls it Sangria.

Second beer, second shot, he tells me the other waitress should take off the dress she is wearing, which is tight as fuck, you could play mini-golf on her cellulite, meow. I’m thinking seriously? Is he’s ogling the waitress in front of me but I play along because I’m one of those bro-girls you can talk shit in front of even though I hate it and say, “Oh is it because she has one of those hot tear drop shaped asses like a Vargas girl?” and he looks at me all squinty with no understanding whatsoever and says, “No, because the pattern on the fabric clashes with her tattoos.” THE PATTERN ON THE FABRIC CLASHES WITH HER TATTOOS. I don’t think I could get a lady boner over someone who gave a fuck about fabric clashing, had the wherewithal to even form that thought in his head and then actually say it out loud but! it was my birthday and I’m willing to be open. Silver in the beard, silver in the beard, I keep thinking.

Third beer, third shot. “You seem so nervous,” he said it again! No, I’m not nervous per se, I just didn’t get high before the date, Perky McPercocet. His eyelids have melted over his nose. Which was small by the way, I like me a big ass nose. Plus I’m actually just trying to carry on a conversation and not pretending to be a guest judge on Project Runway. We kind of run out of things to say, although second beer in, I did get the story of his life where he described himself as the family “ne’er do well” and how his first boner was with a nurse who held his little boy peen for him to pee after he got an emergency circumcision at a cognitive age. Her fingernails were red and pointy, and when he looked down at her feet, she was wearing sexy spiked heels. Of course she was.

Anyway, when we were done and waiting awkwardly for the check, he lays back on his seat, stroking his beard,  and staring at the men in front us, he actually says, “That wanker shouldn’t wear that fedora in that colour.” Oh my god. He may as well as poured water over my head, ding dong, the lady boner is officially dead. This guy was a tin man if there ever was one.

Footnote (literally): From the get-go, I could tell his disapproval of me when he looked down at my shoes which were Sketchers and yes, like they are stitched up from sexy grey upholstery of a Hyundai Sonata but fuck it, who cares, when I wear them I feel like walking on a winding road made of the tender soft balls of a million munchkin menfolk. Squish, squish. Bring on the wind machine!