Mastering the Art of Being Ugly


I have an apartment for rent in my house and while I am so very, very sad to see my current tenants leave, I love them so and their 420 baker buddy who looks like Dick Van Dyke but! I am always excited at the prospect of new ones. “The Landlady” is the memoir that I hope to write when I’m accidentally living in Costa Rica during my old batdom. By the way, I’ve given up on planning my next chapter or more precisely, freaking out about having to plan my old age, I’m going with the flow and going to let shit happen day by day, it will unfurl spectacularly as long as you promise to stick by me. Anyway, for the time being, in my middle age, aka, adolescence 2.0,  I’ve had 5 sets of tenants here in this old house so I’m a veteran at this landlady gig. I put ads out on the free advertising sites known as Craigslist and Kijiji and hope for the best because fuck knows who will move in, I’ve seen Pacific Heights. 1990 Michael Keaton was cute, I would totally let him move in and destroy my house while he wrecked my upstairs if you know what I mean. The people from Craigslist are especially dodgy and yes, the site may as well be called Cannibals ‘R’ Us. But I like it because you make your needs be known and even in the darkest hour of despair you can get shit transpiring IRL way faster than a pizza delivery from The Hut. But! There’s always that danger of getting murdered.

Kijiji is more pedestrian apparently. Everyone in the ladies’ locker room at the gym tells me it’s better than CL and those hoes seem to be getting a whole lot of lawn furniture on the cheap. On Craigslist if you were selling and/or buying “lawn furniture,” you would have to be tested for STD’s afterward. That’s just basic modern day social mores and people should just stop questioning the kinks of others. From my experience tho, Kijiji  is a fucked up junky site full of ads and false ALL CAPS promises and they are always trying to get money out of you for the sake of urgency. URGENT! $49,95 YOUR AD WILL APPEAR ON THE FRONT PAGE! ALSO HERE ARE SOME UGGS AND DESIGNER SUNGLASSES! IN! CASE! YOU! WANTED! ALSO! WITH! YOUR! NEED! FOR! A! ROOF! OVER! YOUR! HEAD! Oh my god, Kijiji, here is what urgency is: Urgency is a liver transplant thatI’m going to need sometime soon (don’t ask). If some asshole who’s looking for a place to live can’t fill out a criteria search and scroll through a few listings, then the same dumbfuck prolly can’t scroll through his wallet and pay the rent on time. Team Craigslist, just saying.

Okay, so the other day a dude answered my Craigslist ad via email and asked if he could come and see the place. Yes, of course you may, my potential serf,  I fired back promptly and we set up a time. I immediately googled up his ass because that is what a savvy landlady does and easily found him on Facebook. No, it’s not “stalking” or “creeping,” it’s just smart hockey to check people out before you meet them. Personally, I don’t trust people who have no social media outlets or web presence whatsoever. At least have a burnt out campfire on LinkedIn. I do kind of get shunning Facebook because it triggers anxiety but do try and maintain a Pinterest board of some bogus vegan quinoa recipes. I can tell a lot about you by the what you think you should be wanting to eat but aren’t really. And also what is up with people who put privacy settings on Instagram? Get off the internet,  you have no idea how it’s supposed to work.

Anyway this dude had a kind of strange name and there was only one in Toronto so I clicked on his profile and no word of a lie, I actually gasped when I saw his profile pic. I literally lost my breath, clutched my heart and made the sign of a cross. He was that ugly. So ugly! Fugly ugly was a fug!  Ugly wugly had a mug! Ugly wugly was so ugly he made somebody blog about his fugly.

Now before you get all in my face about how ugly is how ugly does and who do you think you are, bitch, Charlize Theron? I will say no, I am not Charlize Theron and yes, I am ugly as fuck too. I just got my new driver’s license in the mail and I am one passport portrait away from morphing into a bewildered walrus suffering from climate change asking you to sign a petition to save the icy rock I’m melting on. I’m gross. My downfall is my main chin is a golf ball and my other chin is a loaf of sourdough. The plus however: My eyebrow game is on point, my eyes are kind of good but the rest is just garbage that passes off as cute depending how many drinks you have had.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being slightly ugly rocks because you can move through a crowd incognito. Save some lives maybe. I saw Charlize Theron in person once at a party and it was like looking straight at the sun. People were passing out at her beauty, just like dropping their jaws and falling down all over each other. Everyone had to be defibrillated back to life. It was a shit show. Also apparently bitch can’t get any acting jobs because of her beauty, and that must totally suck. So being dealt some ugly cards is not such a bad thing. Bad hair day? No problem, who cares, there’s clusterfuck of lady whiskers on my golf ball right now taking priority.

But this dude who answered my ad was fantasy ugly, off the charts, he actually looked photoshopped. And! His profile pic was a straight-on headshot. Never do this! Know your angles, Quasimodo. Even Grace Kelly had the wherewithal to know how to tilt down 10 degrees, shift right every so slightly and look to the sky to the west as though it was cocktail hour in Monte Carlo. This fucker’s eyes were on all wrong, pinned to the sides of his head on different planes, and you could see up his nostrils, two dark portals like double garage doors into a retrofit Cro-Magnon skull. His face was craggy and crevassed in such a way a topographer would tell you it was Utah. I don’t want to talk about his hair at all or think about it ever again.

He had other profile pics but they were obscured with the overlay of the French flag and a rainbow, which means he is socially conscious. This is a plus for me! Feel the Bern! He also has friends who commented on his profile picture!  This is the internet juice I live for: 27 “Likes” and here’s what some of them had to say: “So handsome!” “Dude! Looking good!” “George Clooney 2.0!”

So cute! Everyone loves this ugly mofo. His whole Facebook scroll down was filled with sweetness and good times. His girlfriend was smoking hot, too, but her Facebook was on the private settings and so was her Instagram. If she is thinking she is hiding her love of her ugly boyfriend from the rest of the world, she is sorely mistaken. Her Pinterest was filled with wedding boards consisting of Vera Wang dresses and Tiffany engagements rings and cakes with intricately sculpted fondant icing of snowflakes and shit. What a piece work. Why do men go along with that? I guess being ugly is a state of desperation? But even handsome men marry those types of women! It’s head scratcher, we’ll have to analyze that later. Let’s just think about ugly for now.

Ugly is a a subjective thing and there’s all kinds of categories. Like this guy is unfortunate ugly. Tragically ugly. Not a whole lot he could do about it but fix his hair and maybe wear a hat with a brim and a scarf and stick a cigar in his mouth and hide behind the billows of smoke.

Then there is ugly by design, like hipsters 2.0 or the cat lady, Jocelyn Wildenstein, with all the plastic surgery. There’s also ugly by proxy. You can actually get contact ugly if you are related to Donald Trump.

The worst kind of ugly is the ugly that comes from within and leaks out. Like Ted Cruz. Remember when he first came on to the scene, he looked like bumbling comedic actor Kevin Malone or Grandpa Munster? Hilarious memes, right? Like months ago  @youngvulgarian on Twitter said: “How does Cruz always look both happy and sad? ‘I like lasagne but it’s not what I ordered,” his face says.'” Now every time Ted Cruz opens his mouth, he gets uglier and uglier by the syllable. He’s even uglier than Trump if that’s even possible. He is pure evil. He IS the Zodiac Killer. How can he possibly live ever that down?

And conversely but related, please someone make a Bernie Sanders Beanie Baby because every time I see that man, I feel like I’m looking at a basket full of Pomsky puppies. I just want to hug and kiss him and eat Ben & Jerry ice cream with him all day long. I love him so.

Anyway, so yes, ugly Craigslist guy came to see the apartment and lo and behold, he was not nearly so fug in person. He had gotten a haircut! Also he was tall, lanky and wearing slim jeans and a cute Penguin polo shirt AND he had swagger. He possessed that male version of the thing the French call “jolie-laide.” Ugly-beautiful. And he was confident in his ugliness. He had mojo. Women probably want to date him just to have an ugly boyfriend they think no one else wants to bone. The joke is on them. This guy is a true pussy magnet. He has charm and I can assess he probably some tongue game by the way he whistled and trilled while he walked around the backyard. His whack-doodle eyes that flew off on different planes in his photo were actually kind of bright and sparkly and when he smiled his Utah-landscaped face made these  charming dimples and crinkles. Also he laughed at my jokes! Which is a bonus. Men hardly ever laugh at my jokes as they are always so busy assessing my sexual prowess. Prolly wondering what a walrus vagina looks like and how do they get to have a go.

His girlfriend didn’t come with him as he was checking out places that she might like based on her criteria. Ugly has to do all the work. Usually when I get the couples come see the place, it’s the woman I deal with. And statistically, everybody, one hundred percent, like all 5 of my tenants, who rents this fucking apartment ends up getting married! I told him that, not letting on I had already stalked his girlfriend’s Pinterest boards, he said lol yes, he and his girlfriend were planning a wedding but no date yet. Worth noting: He never referred to her as his “fiancee.” Is that a man thing or an ugly thing? Is it not a deal unless there is a date?

Things were going good between me and Ugly Guy, he loved the kitchen.  Apparently the girlfriend likes to cook and the kitchen is chef-friendly with a gas stove and butcher block. Really cool tin ceiling. Hardwood floors throughout, washer and dryer, basement storage, parking! You should come see it. At one point near the end though, Betty barked upstairs and his craggy face corrugated into his Facebook mugshot  and he told me in his current place the dog upstairs made click-click-click sounds with his nails on the floor which was why they want to move. Seriously. Click-click.

“Oh I love dogs,” he explained, “but my girlfriend hates them.” Ugly Guy’s Pinterest princess hate dogs. You know how they say in New York City you’re never more than two feet away from a rat or something like that? Well that’s what it’s like here with dogs. There’s dogs on the roofs here! You cannot possibly live in my house if you are not canine friendly. In fact, I don’t even want a tenant who doesn’t have a pet, be it furry or scaly or plastic or blow up.

So Ugly Guy left but his ugliness wafted and stayed with me for a few days. A lingering longing, like a zit to be popped. I prolly need to add his ugly mug on my Pinterest board for jokes: “Men I Want to Bone.”  Maybe one day in his click-click free apartment, he’ll google himself and find it there and then wonder about the walrus that could have been his landlady. Ugly Guy, call me! Goo Goo G’Joob.





Mastering the Art of Keeping the Flies Off the Pie


Last weekend I was thinking that it’s time to break up with my couch, maybe not completely, but like Ross and Rachel did on “Friends” with an “understanding” and just “take a break.” I think I need to be on my own for a while and like see other furniture, but just casually for now. Like a park bench. Or a bar stool! Hey, ho, how’s this for smart modern living? A stool in one of those swim up bars in a pool in those all-inclusive resorts! Wait, maybe not. I’ve been to one of those once, and half naked, sunburnt, flabby, drunk, loud, freely urinating middle aged swingers groping each other is not the hot Bruce Weber pool party of my dreams. Who wants to watch Hulk Hogan’s sex tape? Not moi. So forget the pool stool, I need to sit somewhere else.

A horse. I just need to sit on top of a horse.

Apparently it turned to Spring on Sunday and my weekend was a bust. I did two gross things couchbound  that I’m not proud of: First, I hate watched the entire Will Arnett series “Flaked” on Netflix. Here is a synopsis: Will Arnett is a recovering alcoholic in Venice Beach who makes stools. Makes stools. For a living. Uh huh. On his own sweet time, he runs a sparse furniture shop with random junk in it but with one stool in the back. You never actually see him make a stool and I don’t think he even touched the one stool in any of the episodes. Is stool a metaphor for shit? I don’t know. He’s hardly even in the store and he mostly just rides a bicycle around the hood! He’s bored and has existential middle aged angst and he sneaks booze, so what. Oh! and he bangs hot babes in their early twenties. Yeah, he’s cute in those J Crew shorts but that bike, man, sorry, this isn’t Portland. The type of girls he gets work in trendy restaurants and wear outfits of see-through scraps and held up with little strings. These are the type of girls who come from hick towns in the midwest with their cow milking skills on point and really strong, hungry hand game, who, like generations of young hoes before them, are inspired by the legend of Lana Turner getting discovered in Schwabs Deli. And they know “getting discovered” is a thing that involves deep throating old, ugly dudes, but ones who drive luxury cars and can buy them shit. But no, he happens to get the girls who don’t care and love him for HIM, all two cents and two wheels. Ugh. I guess that is plausible because male privilege extends to the poor but it’s INFURIATING. Also! By Will Arnett’s estimation of female characterization, women over the ripe old age of say, 35, are problematically portrayed as a hardened, bitchy, turned lesbian ex-wife by Heather Graham. Yes, ex-wives are always turning into lesbians and their partners are always evil antagonists and if they had moustaches, they would be twirling them. And then the other old bitch in the show is Kirsty Alley, as a batshit crazy mom (but awesome) of his second banana sidekick roommate who he has issues with because of he perceives her free-wheeling sexuality as traumatizing. Fuck that shit. Grow up, dude.

I really cannot believe Will Arnett is Canadian. I’m so very disappointed as I DID love Arrested Development but I think I really hate him now and no, I didn’t watch Bojangle Horsetwat, I can’t possibly watch everything and I tried but I didn’t get it, whatevs. He’s dead to me.

Anyway, the second gross thing I did this spring weekend on my couch raft was that I made this disgusting cocktail out of beer and vodka. So, earlier in the week, Bob randomly brought over some Steigl tall boys that he “took” from his girlfriend. At first I was excited because he stole beer for lil ol’ me? The implications were endless: Were they some kind of symbolic offering? As in some kind of Robin Hood thing, like taking from the bitch to give to the whore? But then I saw they were “grapefruit beer” wtf? Basically shite wheat beer mixed with grapefruit juice in a can that no sane adult would drink or want cluttering their fridge. I really don’t understand society sometimes. Personally, if I’m going to drink a calorie, I need a buzz, and this shit has 2.5 % alcohol which means I may as well drink a pie. Why would I do that? And by the way, this is the idiocy of smoothies that y’all drink in the morning thinking it’s a good healthy thing but guess what? If you actually ate all that bulky sugary fruit and crap, you’d only be able to ingest half what you sucked back in a straw, and without all the chewing, tongue twirling, solid mass swallowing, you’re missing a crucial step for complete appetite satiety. When you gulp down things that have been puréed even if it was once solid, it’s way easier to over-consume, your body doesn’t think it ate, it thinks it just drank, which is like what babies on a tit and old people do with Ensure. Drinking should only be for water, coffee, or booze. So anyway, with this Steigl crap, I used it as a mix for vodka, drank myself sober while I watched that fucking Will Arnett show and got so riled, I actually showered afterwards. And now I’m done. Fuck you, couch. (But I’ll call you later, and we’ll hang when “Orange is the New Black” comes out).

werkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerkwerk……. Rihanna and Drake lol, that song tho.

Okay, so yeah, so rather than sit, or let’s face it, lay on couch, it’s time to hit the gym and I’ve been thinking a lot about my butt lately because why not transfer a middle-aged lady existential crisis into a body part? My ass, in yoga pants, is not bad but could be bubblier. And really, I want it to be big and sloppy to match the boobs but I’m not built that way.  Out of the yoga pants, disaster! Rash city, wtf. I didn’t even know about it until I took a belfie a couple of weeks ago and had to put it on extreme filter settings before it looked passable. I should never have sent it. Oy, oh well.

Go check yours now, I’ll wait. If you have ass-ne, I have the cure along with the million dollar idea that someone should market a butt skincare regime specifically for this problem. But here’s what for now: Go to the acne section of the drugstore, find something with salicylic acid and get something to exfoliate with like those gloves and wash your ass cheeks with that and then put cream on it. It seems to be working for me but zits can be tricky I know, you think you’ve got them beat and then they come back somewhere else. Thirty years later, lol.

I have been going to the same gym for almost twenty years and I’ve done it all, I tell you. I had an epiphany a couple of months ago. I have done personal training, step, spin, bootcamp, yoga, tennis, and fuck all that shit, I’m tired of other people telling me what to do. I need agency when it comes to my body. I google, I read the magazines, and I’ve seen the same people for twenty years and I’ve got case studies of all types to figure out what my own ass needs.

Recently, the gym underwent a huge renovation where everything  went from dark crannies, where people accidentally on purpose brushed into each other, to a big open concept warehouse-like setting where people couldn’t cheat anymore. At first I was, like, ugh this is awful, I can see clearly now and it is not pretty. You walk in and there’s a big hallway in the middle, on the right is all the cardio machines, and to the left are all the weights. In very back is a golf station taking up a third of the real estate so that 4 white men could be happy, the dance studio which has a serious feng shui problem with its strange hanging ropes, and the cycle studio which I think I might be done with because of my recent epiphany.

So when I look at everything in the bright light of the Best Buy, this is what I see: People who spend all their time on the cardio machines believing that they are burning fat are on a 45-minute elliptical ride to Delusionville. Cardio fatties, the whole lot of them. Even the ones on the treadmill who are not fat but sinewy, which is way worse, are the embodiment of misery and joint pain.

All the really hot people in the gym are to the left in the weight area. Case study: There’s a dude that I’ve seen for two decades who spends all his time in the weight, hoisting heavy weights, then sitting around, he never really breaks a sweat, he practically does his workouts in street clothes. He’s in his forties now but he looks exactly the same as he did in his twenties. His shoulders broad, his abs are steel, his butt could recite poetry, prolly. He’s built like Zeus. Sometimes he goes on a bike, but I think it’s just because he’s lonely and wants to watch tv. I never want to talk to him because I don’t want to know his story. It’s probably tragically boring.

In January, I got my favourite trainer to show me all the new equipment. He’s so cute and easy to talk to, I thought he was gay because he knew all the Kardashians in proper birth order but turns out he is just married. “I just want to keep the flies off the pie, maintain the junk placement and the solid parts for the next phase of my life” was my fitness goal, which he found delightfully refreshing as people are too fucking focussed on some ideal they will never be. His words. Listen to your body and what it wants to do when it’s not laying on the couch. Mine is mighty and bodacious and it needs to heave, push, pull, slam heavy shit while jiggling somewhat.

What about cardio? You ask incredulously, clutching your FitBit. Well guess what, if I do it fast, without resting and finger fucking my phone like my life is important (I leave it in the locker), I  get my heart rate up and break a sweat (I am not Zeus). I am also not one of those delicate ladies in Lululemon who think a 5 pound weight is going to cut it. And I strongly suspect that spinning is what gave a butt rash.

Also! Here’s an unpopular opinion: Yoga is bullshit, it actually feeds my anxiety, I don’t care what anyone says about that. Fuck being centred and all calm, using your own body weight for resistance, and wringing yourself out like a washcloth.  That makes no sense to me unless you’re in prison. I need to be scattered and looking around the room at other people, trying to make eye contact while grunting. Because that’s entertainment.









Mastering the Art of Shopping for the Perfect Couch


Sweet Jesus, I saw this photo taken in Portland, Oregon because of course it was, while I was laying on my couch because naturally, that’s where you can find me between the hours of 5pm and the end of of the second episode of Seinfeld on Peachtree, surfing the Reddit dot com as I am hourly, and thought: “Yes, I totally want to fuck my couch.” I love my couch so much it hurts. It’s a masterpiece of form and function. I can move its pieces and it’s a regular “Chesterfield” (as per my mom)  and matching ottoman (what, why? wiki here) then I can get up off my ass and turn it into an L-shape settee thing, or better yet shove it all together and make a giant bed, yes. Which is what it is most of the time. It’s sturdy and dark brown and hard and firm and big and hard but! Its skin is soft and plush like a teddy bear. It’s definitely a man couch and totally fuckable. If it were to manifest in human form, it would be my tv boyfriend, Michael Strahan. You know how he has the super cute adorable perfectly nipple-sized gap in his front teeth? Well that’s the cushions that split open and swallow all the couch accoutrements like the tv wand, cellphones, and chopsticks. I think of it as more playful than annoying on most days. Like the innards of my couch are scrapbooking, archiving all my antics. Oh, look, there’s a Swedish condom wrapper from that time when ginger beards were my thing.

Also I took a lot of time looking for my couch which had to be my soul mate. It’s my part of my marital separation collection of furniture. I swear to God it took my ex-husband less time to find a new wife than it took me to find this fucking couch. And please don’t get me wrong, he did well in his search, she’s awesome and I love her, but me finding the perfect couch would have to be matching my criteria precisely from tits to tail.  My inspirational couch belongs to my brother and his wife which lives in their “tv room.” Tv room, lol, right? Every room is a tv room in my house, greasy laptop + Netfix = Toilet hour. The couch they have is so the embodiment of comfort that it’s virtually non-descript and metaphysical in its form. What it does is it turns into a bed and there’s all these pillows and the softest blankie and it truly is the best place ever that you want to be, not even an ocean front coconut shaped pod in Bali could compete. It’s more like a  womb, not a room. So I had to find one like it but somewhat bigger because of scale and math and it had to fit the room just so. I finally found it at Philz on Queen Street, one of those mid-century junk places in Riverside that also sells modern furniture that costs zillions of dollars. I don’t even know if it’s still there anymore, it’s a scary place to visit because it had all this great stuff and you want everything but don’t have space to put it. Same reason I have to avoid puppy adoption fairs and certain internet websites.

But! I remember the first time I laid eyes on the floor model which was the same one I chose. It came in custom colours and fabric and I could have had it in leather but got talked out of it by someone (who shall remain nameless) giving me a visual of what it’s like to lay on a leather couch naked. Just no. And aside from that, it was smart to go in furry bear fabric because the wretched dog I ended up adopting later is one of those primal beasts that must violently dig out a spot before she twirls around and lies on it like a sweet little angel baby croissant. Don’t worry,  it’s okay, the couch is strong and can take her paw gouging, in fact her scratching kind of rakes up the upholstery and makes it fluffier.  Can you imagine scratching Michael Strahan while he is watching his favourite tv show? Oy. Betty has it right.

Anyway, I saw the couch, I fell in lust! Which of course, I mistook for love because that has been a recurring problem in my life. I ordered the couch in furry dark brown, paid a zillion dollars because I had a line of credit back then, and waited them to make it and deliver it three weeks later. Well, well, wouldn’t you know, when it arrived, it didn’t fit up the stairs, even with the legs taken off. It had to come in from the back balcony by hoisting it up to the second floor with rope and manpower and some yelling and beers and more yelling and regret. And then I had to get some rubber placemats for his soles so he wouldn’t keep slipping all over the floor like a sloppy mess, defence men who play for the NFL need to stay put. But yeah, that was almost eleven years ago and couch and I are still banging, so it must be love. Or long lived lust. What is the difference again?

The other day, one of my best buds called me and asked me to come with her over March Break to buy a new couch. I was floored, pardon the pun, because I was with her when she got her current couch which was around the same time I got mine….like a decade ago….oh my…. times flies, kids, so go forth and fuck your bunk beds and keep moving, that’s my best advice at this point. Also: Don’t fucking worry about feng shui either, just let energy flow where it wants to go, it will find a way in and out whether or not you put a mirror at the north east corner in front of a rock soaking in a bowl of water or not. DO NOT SPEND $500 FOR A SAGE CLEANSE! Spend it on weed instead.

Anyway, I had shopped so long and hard for my couch, I was known as the couch whisperer so I was the perfect person to go hunting with. Plus I wasn’t going to talk her out of spending money she wanted to spend but was afraid to, because in my mind, couches are an investment. She found hers at Biltmore, so fucking fancy there that they call their feather-stuffed couches “sofas.” Also a zillion dollars required but we were living large back then and felt we deserved a place to park our lady arses on to drink wine on, fart our lady farts into with impunity, and watch Gilmore Girls. No Ikea for weary old broads.

Her couch is so beautiful that if it were to come to life in human form it would be Nigella Lawson but before she lost so much weight after she dumped that fucking Saatchi prick. Her couch was and still is gorgeous! It’s plump and full and bodacious and thick and curly and juicy and soft and lush. When you walk into her apartment and see her sofa, all you want to do is dive on top of it and stick your fingers in it, lick it and then ask how she does her eyebrows with such an exquisite arch. And then let her make you whipped creamy pea mash and tell her all your secrets while you wiggle your toes in her butt crack.

So when she told me she wanted a new couch, I was like WHAT?

And she: “I’m sick of it. It’s old and so dirty now, the cushions spread open and there’s crumbs stuck in there, ugh.” She is dissing Nigella’s vagina basically. I will not have it.

So I, channeling my inner Martha because she is in there, farming her own weed an making popsicles out of vodka:  “Jesus Christie Brinkley! Sprinkle that baking soda stuff on it, leave it on for 2 hours, and then vacuum it up! It just needs a spa treatment.”

This conversation went on with me championing her sofa and her slowly changing her mind that she could salvage it, perhaps get it re-upolstered (dumb) or put a blanket on it (smart) and then through all the flippy-floppy I started getting excited to shop for a couch again. Is there is sofa out there that looks like that glassy eyed dude from The Vikings? I love him! I bet if he was a couch he could pull out into a bed. And have a wet spot that you’re cool with. And have a rough patch that you can exfoliate on. I think that’s key anyway. Your couch is your raft in the sea of life that you should be able to surf the internet and watch your dumb ass shows on perfect peace and don’t let anyone, least of all some judgmental graffiti tweeter in Portland, tell you what to do. Yes, fuck your couch, and then make it breakfast in the morning.



Mastering the Art of Achieving Relationship Goals


Valentines Day is coming, LOLCats, so you lonely hearts  better get your best Tinder game on this week. Best advice from moi: Start swiping right for godsake! There’s no bone in the ether where you dismiss all the lefties! Me personally, I like to take my swiping moves out in the real life world these days. Like for example I’ve discovered recently that Friday night at my local Loblaws is an unofficial, unspoken singles night. I know this because a) they switch the jam from 80s Brit pop in the day to house music so it feels like a club not a grocery store and b) the produce section feels exactly like a grade 7 school dance. Everyone is like shuffling around with their awkward not-so-hidden agendas, lingering over radishes, wondering what are they for anyway, gazing over the selection of herbs, trying to come to terms over cilantro, and then furtively looking in each other’s baskets for signals. The sexual tension is palpable, particularly in the phallic fruit section. “Why are the bananas always so green here?” I asked a random dude last Friday, demurely swinging my basket of juicy figs and ripe papayas in my left hand. “Go left!” he actually answered, rolling his cart of cucumbers and zucchinis past me toward the plantains. And so it goes.

Speaking of bananas, let me just swing over to another tangent tree for a minute before I get on to the nitty gritty of today’s life lesson. Last weekend, my fam and I  went to see “The Danish Girl” at the world’s most antiquated Cineplex in an uptown business mall that time forgot. This theatre had all that plush red carpeting and seats where the cup holder is on the chair in front of you where your knees  are supposed to be and you have to practically hire a sherpa to get to the washroom which after going through a maze of twists and turns, is up two flights of stairs, holy god, and that particular day, the entire place was heated like a sauna. It wasn’t just hormonally-charged me, trust, everyone was sweating and stripped down to their undershirts.

Conversely, a few weeks ago, I saw “The Revenant” in a theatre where there are reclining leather seats and a butler brings you a pint of craft beer in an actual glass, a platter of charcuterie, a blankie, and a pair of slippers. The sound system and air flow quality was such that I could hear Leonardo di Caprio (yes! I would, shut up) shivering hot breath in my left ear and Tom Hardy’s unintelligible (but kind of hot if you like that sort of thing and I think I might) Southern accent in my right ear as though they were snuggled on the leather chair with me as their centre of gravity! And talk about my hormonally charged brain slapping together a pheromone sandwich. What depraved things I did with my charcuterie platter no one else in the theatre would have noticed because they were tucked away in their own wombs with their own thoughts. Genius design.

Anyway, this old Cineplex was one of those theatre scenarios where the audience was flesh on flesh from elbows to thighs stuck together like a Club Pack of vacu-sealed chicken wings IN A GODDAMN SLOW COOKER. And my anxiety level was high because popcorn is the disgusting scourge of all snack food, chewing noises and the smell of the “butter” topping blends with  the low-note seepage of muffled farts, just gross.  And having to endure the other symphony of the slurping of straws and constant rattling of ice cubes in the shitty plastic drink holders that your knees crash into made me wish I didn’t have to actually sit there and watch the movie and somehow it could just be implanted in my brain and the fam and I could just go to the pub ASAP. Beers, please.

Soooo…when the movie started there was hope for some pretty decent leg sprawl over top of the chairs because we had no one in the seats in front of us but then! 15 minutes in, three ladies sat right in front of us and no joke, they pulled out these electronic caption readers the size of that small iPad and they set them on top of the chairs in front of them. Yes, they were deaf peeps and I have compassion and shit but they came in late and their caption readers were going to be as distracting as any cell phone. If you ever had to suffer some bitch in front of you texting during a movie you know what rage towards strangers feels like.

But! Here’s what. Turns out these ladies and their captions readers were a godsend because Eddie Redmayne is in the Tom Hardy school of acting where if you have no idea what you’re doing, just mumble quietly and make them guess. In case you are living under a rock, “The Danish Girl” is loosely based on a true story about a man about to undergo one of the first sex change operation in the 1920s. In Denmark, obviously although they all had British accents. The captions came in handy for sure. Good movie, but! Eddie Redmayne as a woman, meh, and his chapped pillow lips at the melodramatic deathbed scene made me want to scream to put on some damn lipstick. Not an Oscar-worthy performance for sure and even though I agree that #OscarsSoWhite, I’m still going to watch because Chris Rock is one of my fave comedians AND the actress that played his wife, Alicia Vikander, is luminous in the film. She carries the whole story but she is only nominated for Best SUPPORTING Actress even though she has as much screen time as he does and is infinitely more interesting. So typical, right? Women, in films and real life, are the one who have to support, react, and adapt to situations where the men go through life swinging their balls and pointing their dicks in whatever direction they want, even taking the junk to the dump in this case.

Which brings me swinging back to the first tree, the hashtag relationship goals! Last week, in one of my seminars, ie. wine around the kitchen table, I was talking with some young women and whats up on the Tinder trail and they are all worried about the danger of losing themselves when they get into relationships. Like reading too much into text messages and getting paranoid when they don’t call, flipping out, this, that, and all that goes along with modern mating rituals. Good times. Same stuff I went through in my youth but with a Snapchat stories and electronic evidence.

When I was a teenager, one of my best friends told me that if you ever get boyfriend or want to snag a husband one day, it’s best that he is the one who loves you more than you love him. It was the tao of her crazy mom but I had no reason to dispute it. For the longest time, I kept this thought in the back of my head as I went through my handful of dudes. If they chase after you, then you have the power, is whatI stupidly thought. Be the bunny to the hunter was my modus operandi as I hid under bushes and buried holes in the dirt, reacting with feigned indifference, pretending not to care, but really I was afraid. And then the problem with this game is hunters get bored and want more bunnies. Then as said  hunted bunny, guess what, you are left bewildered, and thinking what does that bunny have that I don’t have? Then before you know it, you’re getting a boob job. I mean, not me personally, of course, but I did go blonde once.

At least the young women are aware of this process and that there is a game that must be played even though no one really knows the rules. Hence the “drama” when someone missteps. What man doesn’t have it on his dating profile that he is “not looking for drama?”  And also I question why does the man have to be the one who loves the most? Don’t men just want and need as their active verbs when they chose a relationship which somehow women translate as love? As in: they WANT blow jobs and they NEED their socks sorted, or visa versa. Do they actually “love” women? In “The Danish Girl,” before he transitions into a woman, Eddie Redmayne has only eyes for his wife as described by the hot ballerina played by Amber Heard…but really only because he WANTS to wear her dresses and NEEDS someone to help him with makeup.  It’s a fucked up situation to have to put your wife through, and yet she is devoted to him until his character’s chapped lip demise. Fierce bitch is a like a bear, fearless in her capacity to love and protect, unlike most of us who would probably be re-activating our Tinder accounts the second we saw some dude wearing our panties the first time. It’s actually inspiring.

So my thoughts are to probably put that game of bunny and hunter to rest. I’m too old and tired to hop around anyway.  I could handle being a monkey instead. Way better lifestyle:  Blithely swinging through trees with another like minded monkey, picking the lint out of each other’s crevasses without judgment. Scratching. Lolling on the fat branches. Netflix and chill while waiting for the bananas from Loblaws to finally ripen. Get a puppy.




Mastering the Art of Embracing Your Inner Zombie


Happy New Year, my interweb angels! Hope you are enjoying your righteous January resolutions as I am mine. Drink more whisk(e)y, is my top one. Apparently brown drinks are the answer. To what question, I’m not entirely sure.  It was on my Facebook newsfeed that whisky prevents cancer and has less sugar than wine so it must be true. I’m over that whole Juiceless January cleansing ritual, it’s for amateurs.  You end up with too many lucid waking hours with more time to feel guilty about being alive and not doing the things you said you would do when you were drunk, ie. a 4 hour Zumba class for Syrian refugees at the local rec centre on a Saturday afternoon (there is no way).

Also, for Christmas I got a cast iron pan which is a first for me believe it or not, so I can make a proper steak and these taters I am very excited about. Fuck you and your kale smoothies, your lazy ass colon frightens me, do you know that whisky makes you poop? THIS gives me a starchy lady boner:

And speaking of fear, why am I zombied up, you ask?  Evangeline did this to me because she’s been bingeing on The Walking Dead for the past few weeks which I just can’t with. I tried the first episode but it did not grab moi but because she watches it in the living room (to be close to mama because she’s too scared to watch it in her room) I have the soundtrack in my head constantly. There’s hardly any dialogue on the show, a bit of hillbilly babble and the rest is all just low level guttural monster groaning/snarling/gurgling interspersed with silent bits and then bam! some really loud growl and screaming (Evangeline). You could set your watch by the ebb and flow of zombie moaning. Freddy, when he wasn’t downstairs engulfed in his own rattle and hum cocoon of PlayStation, we would huddle in my room and laugh at the predictability of it all. Then when she was done watching it on Netflix, she watched it again! AMC actually aired a 24/7 marathon of it on natural television after Christmas, and Jesus and Jose in the manger, there was nowhere to hide. Also! the hot dude with the cue cards from Love Actually is now her tv boyfriend which means there will be more zombie groaning in the future.

Normally I would rather talk about stupid vampires than entertain the mythology of  the ridiculous zombie apocalypse but I softened after seeing how pretty a zombie I am. Dem eyebrows tho! I should change up my eyeliner game and wear darker lipstick, no? According to the girl, the modern obsession with zombies is a tabula rasa for us to project our collective and individual fears upon. Zombie Apocalypse can be representative of a number of paranoias and dystopian disturbances aside from the obvious disease and death, let’s randomly list:

  • global warming
  • terrorism
  • Isis
  • people in general
  • North Korea
  • Labradoodles
  • aliens!
  • guns
  • ‘Murca
  • Tinder
  • Internet cookie trails
  • LinkedIn
  • Donald Trump
  • butt plugs
  • Zumba *shudder*

It turns out all my zombie fears are within my own skeletal base, I discovered this by accident. Aside from the frying pan, I also got a massage certificate for Christmas which I was so excited about since I no longer get these things covered by insurance. I know I can just bite the bullet and pay for them but I’m not wired that way. So I booked an appointment last week with a burly Mexican dude name Juan, and since it’s been awhile I thought I would opt for some deep tissue. I figure man hands are clumsy but they can dig mightily and it never occurs to them they might be hurting you when they prod into your organs. I don’t like to be a wuss so I always take the pain and let them have their way. It’s usually beneficial in the end because when it’s done, you feel so much looser. This time I should have maybe cried uncle at some point because Juan was a fearless deep sea diver of a massage artist and he probably should have left some knots stay clenched tight.

It started out fine, he let me lay face down and he poked over the blanket me like I was an interesting beached mermaid with legs. He pummelled his fists down my spine up and down and then he got the point of his elbow and jammed it into my right ribcage and exclaimed, “Oh you’ve got quite a knot in here!” It isn’t a fucking knot, I wanted to say, it’s emotional scar tissue, but I let him keep digging while the rest of me snap, crackled and popped. This spot in the middle of my right ribs is my trigger area for a repressed memory that I once buried and would have completely forgotten about if my mother hadn’t asked twenty years after the fact: “What really happened that night you came home covered in sand?”

So this happened, and I did forget about it until my mom reminded me, and it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of things but it goes to show you about how times have changed somewhat, maybe, in that if it happened today I probably would have said something instead of kept it a secret. Anyway, I was 16, my parents took me to Florida for a vacation in February. I got a sunburn at one point during the week and I slathered on baby oil that night to ease the pain, which is stupid because I think it fries you some more, but we did dumb things back then. At night on the hotel strip which was on the beach, there was a 7-Eleven and a small playground. That greasy night I went out on my own and sat on the swings and a group of young dudes were hanging out trying to score beer from the store. I don’t know what the age limit was but I had been buying beer at the bodegas in Quebec since I squeezed my first zit. So I volunteered to buy it even though I was younger than all of them and sure enough I didn’t get ID’d. It’s all in the attitude and maybe my sunburn made me look 40.

So I made a bunch of friends that night, we drank the beer in the playground for a couple of hours. One dude seemed to like me. He was one of those strapping cornfed first generation of ‘Super Size” American boys with a baseball hat over a mullet. I told him I was Canadian and he said his favourite band was Rush. Ugh. In my personal opinion, Rush was the original Nickelback, that trilling Geddy Lee voice over those synthesizers was enough to me lunge for the radio dial and kill it, blechhh, ear rape. I might be wrong, so sue me, but I was into punk and was obsessed with Blondie, Bowie, and the Stranglers back then. This dude did not interest me at all but when it was time to go home, he opted to walk with me along the beach, which I think I thought was  gentlemanly.

We got to a dark spot on the beach and he asked me if I would give him a blow job, but without a question mark. “Give me a blow job,” he said.  I’m like,” WHAT? No…what are you even thinking? I don’t even like you!” And he got all weird and he tackled me.  I was face down in the the sand and he knelt on top of me, his knee pinning me down in THAT VERY SPOT merry massage therapist Juan was gleefully untangling some thirty years later. I was winded, I remember panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was sure he broke a rib. He managed to get his pants down, and thinking back now, was he not afraid I was going to bite? Oh, I’m going to just take one look at his fructose fatty chode and want to tenderly place it in my mouth? My dad always said if I got myself in such a predicament to grab and squeeze and twist the balls, which I did, he squealed like Geddy Lee and I managed to slither away, all slippery from the baby oil still, and run home.

My mom asked me then why I was covered in sand and out of breath and I said I just tripped on the beach. And I really forgot all about it until she asked me again a few years back. Anyway, flash forward to last week and fucking Juan and his grind happy elbow and me face down on a massage table, my face smushed in the cradle, trying to breathe through the intense pain. I started coughing, which is the worst when you’re getting a massage, but he finally eased up I got to flip over which is the best part anyway. But no, he jostled something out of me, like my growling inner zombie child, and I started hacking up a lung. That was an entire week ago! I haven’t stopped coughing for fuck sake. And my fucking ribs are killing me.

I can’t tell if the experience was cathartic or what. “You prolly have pneumonia,” my ex-husband just said.  Great, and me without a drug plan. All I know is the next massage I get will be from a lady with sweet soothing fingers. I’ll leave those man hands for other things.



Mastering the Art of Being a Passive Aggressive Ghost According to Adele



Don’t get me wrong, I love Adele as much as y’all but someone please help me get that ear worm out of my noodle bowl. Also I belt it out all the goddamn waking hours of the day AND IN THE EQUIVALENT OF CAPS BUT IN ACTUAL NOISE and I forget I am committing a crime against humanity when I sing out loud.  Also I need to tell you I hate the lyrics to this song. Normally I don’t pay any attention to what singers sing except for maybe Morrissey because he is me and I am him, all happy in the misery in the haze of any given drunken hour but! I have a feminist daughter who is in a band with two other young women (don’t call them a “girl band” tho! )  and is all about empowerment of the female voice. She’s okay with these Adele lyrics but I will defend my case later. She is not okay with Robin Thicke, obv. This is a good story for the usual preamble tangent I’ve been known to take you on:

The other night she and I went to our gym’s Christmas party. We drank a bunch of wine and ate some turkey buffet, saw some prowling peeps we haven’t seen since last party on the same mission as every year. It’s an annual event worth partaking for sure. Good times. After dessert and some low noted fart seepage, I could have ended it right there and Ubered home to blast some big trumpet tunes in my sweat pants but there was an actual live band that came on. ‘Twas this configuration:  3 ripe middle-aged dudes in fitted dress shirts, unbuttoned just so and wearing those kind of jeans with bleached out whiskers around the crotch area, you know what I mean. Like none of you boys is Tom Jones so you have to visually fake a bulge by implying one exists the same way a Kardashian has to fake a contour with ten pounds of slap along the nose and jaw line. And but of course, they played “Blurred Lines” maybe the second song in and everybody rushed up to the dance floor. This kind of shameless spectacle fills me with an unsettling mix of intense embarrassment and pure voyeuristic delight, I love it so, so I puckered up my sphincter for more festivities. Young and old, the gym folk, who all clean up remarkably well by the way, were gyrating as awkwardly as those vapid topless supermodels in the video.


Well, well, well, you could see a beehive of bees buzzing in the bonnet of my righteous daughter, who by the way just turned 22, happy birthday, my baby.

This her shouting while we were sitting at our otherwise abandoned table underneath one of the deafening speakers:

“Why the fuck are they paying this song? I’m so mad! It’s basically saying promoting violence against women!”

Huff, huff, puff, puff, blow the house down, she went on:

“The lyrics: ‘Tried to domesticate you!’ Ugh! Of course you fucking dickhead!” Steam coming out of her ears.

Who listens to these things this closely? Then she said something about something being “so big it can rip your ass in two.” I am so old now, I’m hard of hearing but that sounds like good times to me. But I let her have the floor.

Turns out there’s a million things she pointed out against the lyrics of this douche ditty but you cannot fault it on its catchy tune, right? But no, she put on a deep prick voice and even made a mockery of the cute “hey, hey, hey” chorus. I love that part! “Hey hey hey!” I used to croon in my room, whipping my crumb encrusted bra off at the end of the night, as a slave to its commanding presence as the ear worm of the summer of 2013. Also because of this song I can partially answer the age-old existential question: When a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe a subtle noise… just because sound travels and echoes and whatnot, but! When a tree is dancing alone half-naked, is she visible?  If her room is brightly lit and it’s night and the blinds are see-through, I think for absolute sure, she can be seen by the unknown passerbys under the soft dewy glow of the moon. And she obviously has problems.

Anyway, as soon as the band took a break (they played resort reggae! LOL: “One Love” holy god), she marched up to them and gave them a piece of her mind, ripped them each a new one with her searing asshole blasting rhetoric. That’s power, sisters. I was far away, I didn’t hear the exchange but one of them looked like slightly scared albeit dismissive and she came back to the table all mad as fuck. “This is a losing battle,” she yelled. I think we got more drinks, this night wasn’t over yet. Then shortly after, the band guy with the least amount of whiskers on his jeans came to our table (which at first I thought was nice) and said: “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to what you had to say, I have two daughters myself… blahhhhhh, blah,blah,” Oh yes, righteous dude, play the your-precious-jism-spawned-a-female-child card, and then his words started to melt into a bunch of dumb man gibberish about how he *pounds chest* has to make a living and therefore must play the songs that the people want to hear. Maybe a valid point but I’m pretty sure dude has a day job as an electrician or something. This gig just feeds his “soul” aka banana-in-his-pants-ego. Plus the people were just as happy to sway along to their white man reggae abomination as anything else. Bob Marley never offered anything but a big doob and an honest bone in his single bed, which was prolly only half chub and wasted, can’t be complaining about his lyrics being degrading to women. And please do not ruin Bob Marley for me and nit pick through his catalogue and send me something like “skanky woman” means something terrible, nobody understands what he is singing about anyway.

So anyway, I’m proud of my daughter for speaking out against the douchebaggery messages we have to put up with in the mainstream music and entertainment industry. She has her mother’s moxy! I don’t know what that word means either, but it sounds very Barbara Stanwyck-y, my role model, google her if you’re too young to know who she is. And she is the opposite of passive aggressive. She is just aggressive, period. Which I love! Passive aggressive people should stick to their own kind and play their games in their own leagues because I cannot deal.

Which brings me to Adele’s “Hello” lyrics. Again, I don’t generally care what people are singing about unless they’re funny. I hate funny songs, comedy belongs elsewhere not in my car radio or my ear worm salads. I only like angst ridden lyrics which seems to be most songs anyway, and definitely all Adele songs, duh. And here is “Hello,” and pay attention to the last line:

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I ain’t done much healing
Hello, can you hear me
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

There’s such a difference between us
And a million miles

Hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

Hello, how are you
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened

It’s no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time

So hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I’ve tried
To tell you I’m sorry for breaking your heart
But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore

“But it don’t matter it clearly doesn’t tear you apart anymore” THAT!!!

WHAT THE FUCK???  Has this ever happened to you? Someone assumes how you’re feeling or what you’re up to and they state it like it’s a fact. They call and leave a message and they say something presumptuous like “oh, you’re probably out having an awesome time with all the beautiful people at some rooftop hotel pool party drinking absinthe or having sex with the hot guy from the gym” or whatever, of which none apply. You missed the call because your phone slipped into the couch cushions while you are watching “Portlandia” in your sweat pants , drinking leftover Pabst that some Tinder ape left the last time you actually had sex 3 car washes ago. That’s how I keep track of time these days, by car washes. I’m stretching them out now, letting the rain take over, so the proverbial toilet roll, time’s other metaphoric unit of measure, slows down because fuck!  It’s a slippery sleigh ride to the ice floe, isn’t it?

And it’s possibly the worst when someone who dumped…oh, hang on, no they goddamned ghosted you because let’s face it, that’s how Team Passive Aggressive rolls, calls you up after 12 car washes, 164 rolls of toilet paper….In fact they wait the entire time it take you to get over them down to the last square, somehow their spidey senses know  you’re finally done, so they swoop back in: “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, I hope you’re well, blah blah, let’s meet for a drink, I miss you and your little dog!” And before you know it, you’re in love with them again, because you had a weak moment where you convinced yourself they were probably just going through some inner turmoil that had nothing to do with you. Bitch, please, their “inner turmoil” was just their dick pointing in a different direction.

“I must have called you a thousand times”….oh really??? A thousand fucking times? How so? Because I have call display, and if you had tried to call that many times, I would have blocked your ass. Oh, I never seem to be home? If you’re calling me on my landline you know for a fact I never answer that phone! Somebody’s pants are on fire here. And if you had any moxy at all, you would show up at my doorstep and brought me a fucking bucket of Popeye’s thigh meat because you know I love that shit and you wouldn’t be writing an annoying zillion dollar platinum zinger hit song for everyone else on earth to hear oh, what an amazing singer you are and how goddamn faux-sorry you are. BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU.

Anyway, I hate these lyrics, they are the anthem of every passive aggressive fuck boy and the only reason they are daughter-approved is because it’s sung by a woman. “She’s the one who broke the heart,” she said in defence, like it’s a good thing, which admittedly it kind of is. But why is she trying to claw her way back in then? It just means her passive aggressive dick is inside out. And also, why would anyone call a thousand times and not just send a text? That’s a more civilized approach to getting back in contact with someone you feel bad that you fucked over. Still, it’s a good tune and Adele is awesome and I wish I could master that winged eyeliner game once and for all. HALLOO!





Mastering the Art of Pulling Your Head Out of the Sand


I remember the first time I had to give birth after waking up at 3 in the morning with contractions, I was bristling with excitement because FUN! Something new to do! And I was also actually relieved for the burning baseball-sized cramps in my lower spine because my fear was that I would skip the labour part somehow beyond my control, slip a baby out sneezing at Loblaws or some other public place. Yes, I have a tendency to over-share about things in my life but this is my idea of mortifying. I’d be too late to get to the hospital just like the recurring dreams I STILL have where I’m in school and I miss an exam. But no worries with this first baby, I had the unmistakable warning and it was right on my due date! The pain was perfectly localized and concise and came in exact 5 minute waves, not like some misinterpreted vague fried chicken indigestion, which is what I had that night, or a cramping falafel fart fest, which is what I also had that night. Yay! It was text book, just like everything they said would happen in an ideal world according “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”  By the way, my sweet peeps, this was November 1993 and the Blue Jays had just won the second in a row World Series that year so I wore my Jays socks and some army green Cotton Ginny sweat ensemble and headed to the hospital that morning to spew one out. Me so brave. And oh, so naive.

Then hours later that burning baseball sized contraction sequence turned into the worst searing pain in the whole universe according to me. 12 hours into it, I wanted to be anywhere but there. Just forget the whole thing. There’s no fucking way I wanted to give birth, I could go home, watch “Roseanne” and promise to come back tomorrow. I clenched and puckered up my southern holes, especially the sphincter because the b-hole wasn’t an in-style glorious orifice back then. Even though the nurses said it’s okay to poop on the bed, there was no way I would let that happen (spoiler alert: I pooped on the bed). I squeezed my downstairs bits shut in with all my might. And by the way, I’m looking at you authors of “What to Expect, etc,” I did not have the “overwhelming urge to push” like they said would happen in that goddamned birth bible. There was a glitch in my labour experience and I wanted to stay pregnant forever. With my head buried deeply in the sand, thank you very much.

But! I did it like a champ, I gave birth that day even though I didn’t want to. At one point I had enough and just said fuck it, whatevs, and randomly pushed. I faked the whole thing and it all worked out.  The baby was Apgar score perfection and had an exquisite round head which I attribute to all my previous clenching, my cervix acted like a ceramics kiln, and kept her from having that cone shape bullet look some newborns have when they shoot out too fast. My now ex-husband was a great coach, shout out, fed me ice chips and towelled my forehead while I whimpered, curling my Blue Jay sock feet in the stirrups on the birthing bed. He did not crack open the six-pack he brought or open up the Scrabble board JUST IN CASE WE GOT BORED, LOL! Give me boredom or give me death, was all I could think. Also to his credit, he watched the whole thing without passing out or changing his mind midway like I did or worst of all, developing a Madonna-Whore complex later on like Elvis Presley did with Priscilla!  What the fuck, according to lore he never boned her again once her got her pregnant with Lisa Marie! Men’s libidos can be tricky like that. This was not my finest hour(s), and I would not have blamed him.

Anyway I’m thinking now, who we are giving birth, is who we are in life, in my case especially. That was 22 years ago and I’m still pulling moves like that. I don’t wanna! is my mantra as I curl into a ball. But! I need to tell you before we move on to the present, 2 years after that first birth I ended up having another baby. That time of my life was a blur but I wanted another baby but knew I didn’t want to go into labour again? Was I high? Did I believe in storks? I know I  hadn’t forgotten the wretched pain but this time I would demand an epidural, it would be different.  Things were definitely  jollier in the birthing room this time round, however, and instead of clenching and holding it in for literally hours on end, I went on all fours like a dog…. to beg for painkillers maybe? And also  because the nurse told me it would help with the pain. Who knew? I flipped over and the next contraction later, Rocket Baby shot out IN TIME FOR LUNCH, the doctor LOL’d, barely managing to catch that slippery toad. The hardest part of this birth was untangling my legs from the umbilical cord while I awkwardly turned back over avoiding slipping my knees into the goopy birth byproduct that nobody tells you about. Also by the way, I was wearing the same lucky Blue Jays socks as the first birth because I’m hopelessly superstitious and I didn’t want to get them gunked up. If I learned anything that day, it was this nugget of wisdom:  If you submit to change, things will unfurl naturally and easily.  By the way,  I didn’t really worry about pooping because I didn’t think it could happen in that position (yes, it can!) and letting gravity do the work was key. And although this baby looked like a giant bruised frog, I loved him for his sublime efficiency.


Okay, now I’m going to tell you something and don’t judge. You know how when I was about to give birth that first time 22 years ago, I wanted to bail midway to go back into my own mother’s womb and stay there and never come out? Well I still to this day have issues with head in sand burial plots. Have I not learnt anything from giving birth to Rocket Boy that facing one’s fears upside down is the way to go and let gravity’s intelligence show you the way? And do not hold your poop in, proverbially speaking. Well, I just had another life lesson. Don’t be so self-contained!

I have like 3 or maybe 4 problems at any one given time. Sometimes they keep me up at night and sometimes the main problem takes a short nap and the other basic bitch sub-problems decide to play with my mind. These include: Leaky kitchen roof, electrical system in my car out of whack, enamel on front tooth chipped, crevice on forehead needs immobilizing with botulism product, getting old, tired, going to die alone, boo hoo. I toss and turn all night and everything becomes so overwhelming I can’t even get it together to change a burnt out lightbulb the next day.

My main problem these days is I’ve been fiscally irresponsible for the last few months. It went like like this, its textbook like in “What to Expect When You Don’t Pay Your Credit Card Bills.” Goes like this: Let the mail pile up in the mailbox, then one day have the guts to peak inside, bring the long white envelopes inside and stash them in a shoe box and get to them later. Bury head in sand. Another month goes by, lather rinse repeat. Then come the synchronized phone calls. At one point you will experience the overwhelming urge to push. Or not….like me, guess wot, bury head in sand some more.

Then a few weeks ago, I got one of those registered letters you have to sign for and shit got real. I was going to have to take some action because court order. Shoulda-woulda-coulda dealt with this sooner bit didn’t. I told one of my best friends my woe and she suggested I call one of those scary ass debt management lawyers. Oddly enough, there’s this one random dude who actually posts his services on my Facebook wall. At first I thought he was an emotionally intuitive internet genie but he’s most likely an opportunist who just sprays his jizz everywhere and hopes for business. Do you think he actually goes through his friends’ list and checks their credit scores? I would not be surprised. The paranoia was enough to cause more inertia. Anyway, I told her I needed her to nag me about this constantly as what I really need in my life is a domineering but coddling wife who would make me accountable for all the horrible things in life I keep putting off doing. She said okay and in exchange I can ride her about going to the gym. No probs, we went spinning the next day and she was fish to water! It was like she never took a gym sabbatical! I didn’t have to nag her at all! She started going on her own with her Fit Bit and new outfit. And then the Blue Jays started that winning streak and she kind of got distracted with that and I need a village to raise me, no person with a full-time job should be expected to take me on. Which turned out to be good because that Facebook lawyer seemed a little sketchy. Sometimes you have to listen to your intuition.

But! The good thing is once I opened up the first time, I began to feel less shame. I told another friend, and he had been through the exact same thing. I was floored, why did I not know this? I know his passwords and the smell of his farts, yet I did not know this. Well, because they don’t make t-shirts saying “Collection Agency Deadbeat”written on the front. Or do they?

And I realized everyone has their head in the sand somewhere about something. Yet another friend told me his estranged father let his diabetes go and both his legs got riddled with gangrene, the neighbours complained about the smell called the superintendent and he wouldn’t let anyone in his apartment. Talk about having your head buried in the sand and the rest of your body god knows what….there’s just no good metaphor for maggot infested legs because that takes the cake. He laughed and said my problems were nothing. Normal even. So yeah, I’m not the only one who let things slide a little too long. Then finally another friend I told actually raised the bar of friendship and kicked my arse into gear, googled up some non-profit debt management agencies, and made me go and open up the envelopes. OMG. Once I did it, it was cathartic, and almost empowering. And! It wasn’t even half as bad as I thought. Once I got that worked out, I changed a burnt out lightbulb, got my roof fixed, made a dentist appointment (ugh), and fucking wrote this blog post. Tomorrow, the world is mine.

SIGH, but those Blue Jays, man, I wish I still had those lucky birthing socks, for next year.