Mastering the Art of Procrastination

Happy summer daze, kittens! I’ve missed you more than you know but I’ve been busy with some other interweb activity for a group of cute dudes who asked me to write things for their website about Toronto neighbourhoods. They asked me nicely so I couldn’t so say no but it’s a lot of work. It’s research intensive and then I have to digest and ruminate before I spew things out to sound less Wikipedia-ish and more like that Drunk History You-Tube channel. I love it but it’s a brain workout and it’s going slower than I would like. People assume my stream of consciousness style comes out easily like a prolapse after Pride weekend but it doesn’t. It puckers up and gets shy. Sometimes I just have to take a break from reading about John Simcoe’s pissing contests in the 1700s and stop and stare at the wall. For about two seconds. And check out OkCupid. Pretend I don’t notice my OkC crush in on-line and not responding to my message. Freak out a tiny bit. I don’t need a dude to complete me. Especially one who drinks wheat beer. Deal breaker. I need a snack. Then go on Twitter and stalk the food truck situation within a 5 kilometre distance. Too much effort to collect rogue toonies and loonies around the house for $12 order of mad-fried chicken. Play with my bean instead, get temporary carpal tunnel, wash my hands (not really), repeat.

The worst is I’ve been neglecting y’all, and when I neglect you, I neglect myself. So I’m taking a break from procrastination to sit down and gab for awhile to get my fingering motor skills back in order. I’ve been thinking about procrastination a lot lately and maybe it’s not such a time waster as it is a way to recharge the old battery, maybe people need to put things off because everything is so chicken-with-head-cut-off-rush-rush sense of urgency bullshit. Although, I bet John Simcoe, during his 58 years on the planet, didn’t have to procrastinate all the live long day while introducing institutions such as the courts , trial by jury , English common law , freehold land tenure, and the abolition of slavery …why? Because he wasn’t on Facebook, let alone OkCupid or Tinder. He got ‘er done AND founded a little town called York, now known as Toronto btw…and he probably never abbreviated anything either because there was nothing but time back then. And vast swamp land to create a massive village of future finger-fapping, screen-addicted, orally-fixated, anal-probing (not me! you know who you are), citizens with ADD, ADHD, OCD and insomnia. Well done, sir.

I feel like most of us should live slower in order to disguise the fact that we’re actually procrastinating. I am sure this is how most people with 9 to 5 jobs actually function. I know this for a fact because they always have their green lights on during work hours. Busy bees checking out cat videos all the live long day, pretending to be productive.

My thoughts on time management: I have a real problem with dismissive people who say things like “You’re wasting my time” for being slow or asking questions when their time is as useless as anyone else’s. Time isn’t ALL THAT. My fucking crazy pregnant neighbour down the street probably spends the better part two hours every morning stuffing a bump-it in her hair and creating a cascade of blond tomfoolery so spectacular, it would take your breath away if you saw it IRL. This is precious time she can’t get back but she does it for whatever reason floats her boat. You can just tell her husband is dying of embarrassment when he walks her lumpy bumpy, sausage-encased self over to Starbucks every morning, waiting impatiently for that baby to come out and scream WTF? right along with him.

Anyway, here are some procrastination activities I’ve come up for yourself that I deem worthwhile and can maybe help get the creative juices flowing, but probably not. Go waste some time:

1. Watch the movie “Chef” on Netflix. Jon Favreau as a hairy fat man has finally got my full attention. I am in love. Hot, hot, hot, but! Also: this movie inspires me to cook. Especially that Cuban sandwich he makes on his food truck. I need to have that NOW, the way he fiddles with pulled pork, help me Jesus. I do like cooking kind of, but I take too many short cuts which always leads to something too crunchy or not caramelized enough. The other day I watched my friend Lo make a quiche. Not only does she NOT multi-task, she makes fucking Caesars in between each chopping activity, tells a story, then moves on to the next step. THIS IS HOW WE NEED TO LIVE OUR LIVES. Slow your pie hole down, and make the entire day a slow eating and yap-doodle day.

2. Drink beer with the neighbours. My neighbours and current tenants are the best and I’m very lucky and grateful to have them so it makes good common sense to maintain these friendships. Especially in the summer when you can walk outside and drink some beers with them whenever procrastination hits fever pitch. The neighbours are always busy hand picking out rogue clovers or other non-conforming spritely weirdlings in their garden and perfectly trimming the sides of the grass against the entire walkway so the blades don’t stick out willy nilly. Can they cut hair? No, no they can’t, or at least they won’t. But they will help me pull out that pernicious weed that has taken deep root around my Rose of Sharon and imitating its foliage so it strangles it like an ugly jealous step-sister. They will proceed to yank out more weeds because the OCD sets in. This is thirsty work that requires refreshments during and afterward. The tenants also make delightful Pimm’s cocktails from the mint grown in the backyard garden, so it would be rude not to except an offer of one. Also I feel like John Simcoe would approve of this procrastination activity as he gave all east end land in olden day York, including the lot I’ve parked my arse on, to the gardeners of yore.

3. Clean something, anything. My daughter wrote a list of what to clean and she was very generous in saying that we can do one area once a week. I cannot possibly go on a cleaning frenzy that lasts more than 2 hours. I always say I gave birth to my own mother but my mother would never write a list like that, she would just do it all and you would come home and take it all for granted, all the sorted socks and ironed underwear, and yes she read my diary but whatevs. Anyway, my daughter has been moving from the back end of the house to the front “doing ALL the work, FFS” except that I cleaned out the fridge and freezer the other day. It wasn’t that hard, I don’t why she makes such a fuss. So much forgotten ice cream though which is tragic because it gets gummy with those hard crystals on the top. DNR and toss but not before scooping out the bottom inch and zapping in the microwave for 10 seconds and a have break while watching “The View.”

4. Shop. I’ve been in an anti-shop mode for the last couple of years. I’m pretending to make a stand against excessive consumerism but it’s really because I’m broke as fuck. But! I have found that rifling through the endless racks of a department store so serenely contemplative that I don’t know why I stopped doing it just for the sport. I guess I was afraid I’d be tempted to buy something stupid except that I realize now I don’t have to, I have the power to say no! I think your nan called it “window shopping.” Possibly all that OkCupid scrolling has trained me to thinking you don’t have to bone everything you send your veiny boob pics to. This is a very liberating thought.

5. Have a nap. It’s so cute, I wish you could see what I’m looking down at now. I’m on my upstairs balcony writing this on a lawn chair under a shade tree, my backyard is like a camping spot, it’s really very nice and peaceful.. My tenants are on their deck laying eyes closed and tits up in reclining lawn chairs with their dog flaked out at their feet and they’re all having an afternoon siesta. Yes, they are probably in a Pimm’s induced coma but they spent the whole morning clearing out all the beer cans from the night before. I need to Instagram this before some little asshole Pomeranian-cross bitch with a smoker’s bark wakes them up. Goddamn, too late…oh, Betty.

THIS IS HOW TO PROCRASTINATE, BITCHES #GOODTIMES.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: dumb things, Handy Hints. Tags: Chef, John Simcoe, Jon Favreau, OkCupid, procrastination, wasting time. 6 Comments

May. ’15

Mastering the Art of Regret

Last week was my birthday. Which I regret having, even though it’s out of my control. Birthdays are a time of reflection and drunken ruminations. Regret comes along for the ride. I really regret leaving the womb entirely, it was a smooth ride, I think, my mom only ate bland food and I got out over 8 pounds with a cone head. That must have been good times. Also if I’m going to regret anything at all, I regret my XX chromosome arrangement, I’m sure I could have worked harder or used a different swim stroke to get the XY thing happening and I could have been born penuted (word of the day: meaning born with a penis or strapped on with a Shinjo) . If I was a boy, my parents told me would have named me Thor. True story. Do you think a boy named Thor would have made it alive through school in Quebec in the 1970s? I used to cringe thinking about it when I was young but now of course, I think it would have been bad ass. Through the taunts and the giggles, I would have grown emotionally like most awesome people who were tormented in school. I’d be hot in mind, body, and spirit. I’d probably be like my brother, handsome nordic type, but I’d grow a giant ginger beard which would make the girls wet, the boys stare, and my mother crazy, yelling at me about being a fecal dust trap. Oh, Thor. I’d work out at the gym every day and have sleeve tattoos and be a magnificent sexy beast who nobody would ever know if I was straight or gay, but I’d be focussing on deadlifts, so that might allude to something. I am Thor the Pansexual Gym God, and I regret nothing. That would be the slogan of my line of top-selling products, organic soap, tequila, pasta sauce, whatevs. Thor is just all that and a bag of chips. With his face on it, rakin’ in the royalties.

Anyway, this whole ageing process is not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s a constant fight and flight to the bitter end, to make it through somewhat intact. Also I notice that most people as they get older, become more set in their ways. And their ways are total bullshit. Like for example,they need to eat the same thing everyday. I dated an “age appropriate” dude last year in his midfifties going on half rotted corpse. 55 is young-ish (yes, it is, just wait, it’ll happen to you before you finish Games of Thrones final episode) but he was one of those wilting oldsters, slowly curling up and hunching over, morphing into an armadillo. He had to use every pharmaceutical available to make every top to tip bodily function happen from blinking in eyedrops every 30 minutes to a nightly toe fungus spray (btw, the Rogaine wasn’t working). He would eat only fructose corn syrup laden “power bars” all day then a frozen prepackaged sodium overloaded microwaveable something or other at night and he walked around all baggy eyed and scuffing the carpet with his dragging feet like they were too hard to lift since he was missing 8 bazillion nutrients…which he then attempted to replenish by gumming down handfuls of vitamins that he bought for dirt cheap on Amazon. Like that works, don’t get me started. “I don’t have enough salt in my diet,” he panicked one day when he ran out of iodine tablets. How do you fucking know that? “I’m so tiiiiired…” he said in his Droopy dog voice, popping a stool softener. This was only going to get worse. I definitely dodged a bullet there after he dumped me. Do you think people should dump you without giving you a reason? Neither do I. Jesus. At least I will go through life trying strange foods homemade from different lands (or from the walls, not the frozen aisle, of the grocery store every day) and gleefully pooping the rainbow with the greatest of ease, naturally, maybe regretting the occasional ghost pepper. I see him and his favourite fleshlight, Hello Dolly, living alone a one bedroom retirement suite with his power bars, pills, and ONLY his bitter regrets keeping him warm at night. He is the cautionary tale.

When you regret things, you imagine what would have been if you hadn’t have made that boneheaded left turn when you should have gone right or straight ahead. “Oh but you wouldn’t have had your children!” you say, which is true and something to say to yourself to shake you into reality when you are in deep regret mode. All stupid things, including that tequila shot, led you to the births of your children, now go take an Ativan and shut up. But I wouldn’t have known that and I could have had other children, with different noses. And one named Thor, maybe.

I’m only mentioning the nose part because on my birthday weekend, I had a visitor from my past who lives in another city and was in town for business and looked me up via the google and this here blog…cut to the chase: He was my very first boyfriend, the one I fell in love with first, and the one who got away or I sent back into the sea, heart shattered and broken like my hymen, yo. But! It was a long time ago, and all water under the bridge. But talk about the fork in the road. If somehow I went in another direction, I may have ended up living in another city, in another country, and have children with his nose, it’s the kind you can’t genetically escape, because it is so majestic. But! After the roads he took, he has his own children (yes, with his nose, it even works Asian-style) and therefore pleased with his prowess. Men love to spawn la wherever and they probably don’t spend much time playing woulda-shoulda-coulda game. So it’s just me all reflective and trying not to regret anything which is pointless because I am an insomniac ruminator…. SIGH! I would have liked to live in another city, anywhere but this stodgy-ass town where no one gets me…but, yes, I wouldn’t have my awesome kids, or my sweet angelic dog, or my crazy friends and those great lovers (not the jackass ones, although they make for good cautionary tales), or experienced #porchlife, holy shit, that will be next blog post, stay tuned. No regrets drinking all that wine, beer and bourbon, so there’s no reason to ruminate over it all. Maybe just enjoy the ride wherever it goes, I’m sure it will all work out just fine.

Besides, what would Thor do? I don’t think he would bother to ruminate about what could have been, he’d be too busy posting pictures on Pinterest of all his hopes and dreams, isn’t that what men do when they’re not masturbating?

***HAPPY 21st BIRTHDAY TO MY SPECIAL OKC FRIEND, IT’LL BE WORTH THE WAIT FOR THE RIGHT ONE!

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: birthdays, fleshlights, regrets, stool softeners. 2 Comments

Apr. ’15

Mastering the Art of Misandry

I am not a strident misandrist, just a mild-mannered one….and this is interesting and something you can’t see but my misogynistic spell check puts a squiggly red line under this word that means MAN-HATER as though it shouldn’t exist even after I checked the spelling. WTF? Yes, I am going to go there and point it out, with my gnarly witch’s finger in yo face, Mr. Man: There’s a few eloquent and sexy words in the thesaurus for a misogynist, like retro 70s Norman Lear sitcom term “chauvinist” and “chauvinistic pig” (sounds delicious, like a French-fusion luau!) and the definition in the dictionary is “a woman hater, prolly because she deserves it .” I had to google up the word “misandrist” because I had always thought man-hater was “misanthrope” which does means “the hatred of men” but specifically in the collective sense of the word “men” (Sweet motherfucking Sowpods, why is our language so impoverished?), as in ALL the peeps; peen, vag, peen/vag combo, double peen, vag with a side of peen, gender fluidity united! But! The word that would be to hate men exclusively barely even exists! You have to find it on Yahoo Answers and even then you get a bunch of confused answers. So the word ‘misandrist” was suggested by the only the very few scholarly non-fapping interwebbers and it means, according to the dictionary from my beloved MacBook launchpad: “a man hater, by a woman, as in her brand of feminism is just poorly disguised misandry.” Really. So, simply put, a misandrist is a dumb bitch man-hater with a skewed belief system and a misogynist is the man who rightfully gets to hate her.

I’m definitely not a misanthrope, you know this to be a true fact if you follow this blog, I enjoy the foibles and follies of modern hoi poloi, but, as you also know, I don’t suffer a fool, particularly with one with a peen. However, most of my depredation of humankind has been that I am mean about other women (her eyes are too close together! I don’t think she can make scalloped potatoes as good as mine!) because I’m biologically competitive, for what? Sperm, apparently. I didn’t make this up, there are studies about this “catty” behaviour, women have to put each other down for some survival of the fittest to see who gets their eggs fertilized by Dirk Diggler for the greater good of keeping humanity bumbling along on the assembly line. Women are our own worst enemies, with each other and ourselves, which this is why, by the way, photoshop exists. We, the bitches of market research, made it happen as consumers of both dick and cellulite cream. We pointed out our perceived flaws out to the men and by doing so, gave them the power to judge. Whereas if we played our cards right, and said nothing while we ate everything, they wouldn’t give shit what we looked like at we’d all be happy, laughing and hanging out at the Dairy Queen. Misogyny is rampant amongst us all, not just men. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially if you’re like me and you have a daughter you need to guide into the world so she doesn’t get dick- swatted by the wayside. Thank the goddesses of yonic power (surprise, spellcheck hates that one too!) she is smarter than me. She is the new generation of feminism who doesn’t do duck-face selfies and best of all, they stick together and don’t let dudes get away with anything.

I’m ashamed about all that fellow female-bashing skulduggery in my past now that I am enlightened by modern girl power (and all my eggs are spent and fried so it’s not my place to snark). Presently, I have zero ovum to give, so this sperm fishing is just a sport for me, for what? Trophy, apparently. And a side order of sausage, just for snacks. I can swallow that, quite easily. It’s actually empowering to be an old bat who gives herself permission not to care, nobody really tells that the world is your oyster when you stop giving a shit, especially not those Madison Avenue tricksters who put the fear in you that your natural aging process needs to be nipped in the bud. Oh,wait a minute, you say, what about the Dove Real Beauty campaign that celebrates women of all shapes, sizes, cultures, and age? Sorry, sister, that’s just a bunch of men selling us soap, feeding the women what they told them in a focus group the crap they want to hear. Don’t kid yourself, the people who run Unilever are all largely a bunch of dudes blithely taking your money in typical white corpordick fashion while bamboozling you to believe the guntification of your muffin top and your wretched, sun splotched face is “beautiful” because deep down you don’t buy at it all, ummm, which is why you’re still sucking it in with $49 Spanx and smoothing it out with $300 Botox.

And while I don’t *hate* the menfolk, per se, I do sometimes think: What a waste of space. They always get in the way and ruin everything. Their constant need to butt-in in traffic, just so they can get to the red light first, is a metaphor for how they navigate their way through life: Me first, move bitch, coming through. Then they die sooner. And reincarnate faster, and the cycle continues except the next life, they come back as women and make fools of us all. Again. It’s amazing.

Scene: An indoor pool in a gym, roped into 4 individual lanes for lap swimming. Each of these lanes are occupied by 4 women doing the breast stroke or crawl in a civilized manner, one just had her hair did so she’s floating on a pool noodle, kicking her elegant legs like a mermaid, calming gentle waves soothe like a haiku poem. Then, out of nowhere, a big ugly hairy dude with goggles and fins on his feet jumps in one of the lanes, giving no consideration to the woman already occupying the lane and certainly giving zero fucks when he is “swimming” or whatever hirsute manatees do in the water, that he creates tsunami/undertow disaster combo over the entire pool, ruining the whole natural zen of the adult lane swim experience. One lady gets water up her nose and chokes, the mermaid gets her hair ruined, and another gets flustered and loses her lap count and disappears into the drain, never to be heard from again. And the woman “sharing” a lane with Fatfuck McNeptune writes a complaint letter to the management of said gym, stating that the lanes need to be reserved, only to fall on deaf ears because “that’s too complicated to enforce blahblahblah” so she writes a drunken blog post rant instead, like the righteous misandrist that she is but spellcheck won’t validate. Fuckers. True story. It might be #firstworldproblems to you but again, a metaphor: Men ruin everything.

And they don’t even care, they just take what they want because they think they are entitled to it. Last week, I went on an OkCupid date with a seemingly innocuous forty-something dude, prolly his name was Craig, I don’t even remember. I decided to test out a theory that you shouldn’t get too wrapped up in endless text messages and that it’s best just meet right away and see if things click BECAUSE DATING IS SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. He stated he wasn’t into anything “serious” which is code for easy boning. I have weird inexplicable and magical criteria for such things but when he suggested to meet for beer first, I thought, I CAN DO THIS FOR THE SAKE OF BLOG FODDER. You’re welcome.

He was perfectly generic looking, which means it’s all about the conversation skills to tip the scale: If he had a great personality, he would be fuckable, but if he didn’t, he’d be sent back to the ether where the buzzards fly…guess which? YO HO! FRIEND OR FOE?

If there was a conversation, I was not part of it, he talked about 9/11 conspiracy theories, GMOs versus organic farming, metric volume versus imperial, how vaccinations work with the herd, all these hot topics WHILE RUBBING MY LEG WITH HIS FOOT. Sexy. At one point, just to make personal banter, I asked him where he grew up. You’d think I asked him if he ever fantasized about having sex with his mother; WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THAT? He shot me down like that navy seal did to Bin Laden (which actually did happen, please stop watching stoner documentaries already). He quickly changed the topic back to his own mind-numbing arse-burger Ted Talks, where he blathered on while I couldn’t get a word in even if I wanted. While he was explaining the difference between a pint and half-pint of beer, he kept reaching over to stroke my hand. Oh by the way, the real answer will surprise you! Hang on to your titties for this: Because it isn’t actually another half-pint, it’s 330 mls which is metric for who the fuck cares plus he’s wrong AND stupid as any dumb dick could ever be who was desperately trying to lose his virginity at the age of 44.

Anyway, by the end of the night I was sitting on my left hand, clutching my beer glass in my right hand, pretending it was a hand grenade, and my legs impenetrably knotted and crossed like day-old challah bread, but do you think he read the body signals? Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t but it sure as fuck didn’t stop him from sticking his tongue in my mouth while we walked to the car.

Sadly, this is the typical mentality of a man on an on-line dating site. They seem to think they are picking and choosing out of a catalogue. If you say you’re into casual sex, or being tied up, or having your butt licked, then they think they can get it, like they are ordering Grocery Gateway. One dude once told me that I needed to “own” my profile as though it was a terms of agreement contract where there is no right to change minds clause.

It bugs me that women had to endure the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You” (don’t get me wrong, I lap this rom-com shit up, it is a footnote of my imaginary thesis) and we have take all that shit to heart, because some man did us a favour and told the best kept secret ever, as if it was such a revelation that if they don’t call, they don’t care, duh. But after that dude tongue bombed me, I puckered up my face like I had just licked a butthole (sorry, I just can’t with that, who put that on the menu? WHY? That’s what handheld showerheads are for) and he actually asked me if I wanted to fool around some more, ignoring my vomitface response entirely. I said nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo while whistling in the wind on my broomstick. Even after I hightailed it back home, but not before stopping by the licker store for some vodka to swirl and gargle on, he kept texting me for a second date! Was I sending a mixed message? I don’t think so. But he doesn’t care. I’m just a vessel of beauty for him to stick his dick into, but thanks Dove, for the validation! I shall self-love myself with your products, I’m pretty sure Unilever owns Ben & Jerry’s, how convenient. And this fucker, he’s just postponing the ultimate shame of the inevitable fleshlight purchase from Amazon, why don’t you start manufacturing some lube to go with that?

Still,I don’t hate men entirely. I love them with my soft, downy wings and my milky breassessts and I hate them only sometimes with my vomitface, and I always hold hope for that one particular motherfucking gentleman-type sex pig with some tongue game who delivers pizza and doesn’t yell at me when I drive slow because really, what’s the rush? That red light is ominous. *washes face with Dove and puts on $180 Elizabeth Arden face cream while dreaming of a dewy jizz facial*

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: misandry, OkCupid, online dating. 4 Comments

Apr. ’15

Mastering the Art of Self-Diagnosing: A Cautionary Tale

There’s always something going down in the body department. It’s constant pain in the ass it is to be alive, that’s for sure. If you are lucky, there might be maybe a couple of days in any given year where nothing is noticed, all orifices are clear and everything is copacetic and in reasonable working order. Most of the time some kind of alarm is going off and for me, the list reads as such:

A motherfucking hangnail!

Annoying mouth canker, a crusty bitch of a cold sore in the corner of the lips

A stiff neck crick, a delicate tenderness underneath the wing part of the right shoulder-blade, hurts to back out of a parking spot

Throbbing headache, double vision, halo vision…hallucinations of a faerie-type-being or ghostly apparition coming from behind as if out of nowhere, whispers sweetly in my ear “don’t sweat it,” but sweat it anyway

Peripheral-only vision, a stubborn floater that doesn’t actually “float” per se, but sits in the way in plain sight, right in front of everything important making it impossible to read anything on the Internet

Stiffness in previously broken big toe, shooting pain in the foot arch, comes and goes

Itchy vagina

Sore lower back, throbbing tailbone STILL from that drunken bike spill in 2003

Scratchy throat the morning after eating Krinkle-cut Kettlechips, hurts to swallow

Flaming butthole, churning stomach, cramps, bloating…

Super farts!

No bladder control whatsoever, I’m sure we’ve talked about this before, this is only going to get much, much worse

Creaky knees

Slippery grip

Night sweats, emotional distress, insomnia

Impromptu nosebleed!

Ass cheek chafing, strange butt rash

Tender titties, achey ovaries, Aunt Flo left the building 6 months ago but left her pet fish, Mojo and Moodswing, and they fight in public

Tightness in the ribs due to inflammation of the organs (prolly)

Heartache, memory loss, ennui, no interest in socialization, huge interest in BBC when the moon is full, no appetite, voracious appetite, angry self-inflicted flesh wound

Gluteal muscle strain, HURTS TO SIT ON TOILET

Charlie horse in the middle of the fucking night!

The Fear first thing in the morning

Excessive sneezing second thing in the morning

OCD hair twirling (chews hair but won’t admit to it, shhh)

Poop smells “chemical”

Poop formed itself “in a weirdly shaped ominous symbol of Satan”

Poop is Pantone’s Colour of the Year!

Recurring dream of teeth falling out

Tiny white bumps on arms

Giant hives everywhere there is hair, including head, armpits, pubes, and eyebrows, tongue too big to fit in mouth, swollen cheeks, after touching a peach at the Farmer’s Market, would be scary if face didn’t look sooooo comically funny

**************************************

I file these things in the back of my head so when I go for my annual checkup, I have something to tell the doctor. She enjoys my stories and in particular, my Yelp review of my colonoscopy. I will probably not tell her about my hangnails or my full moon activities (never mind, yes, I will) but! I will stress my insomnia and anxiety hope to gods of benevolent pharmaceuticals she finally gives me some drugs once and for all. Jesus Macauley Christ, I am the only adult I know who doesn’t have a prescription to some Xanax-type drug in order to cope, holy shit. A couple of weeks ago, Bob gave me one of his magic pellets, miraculazipam, and yes, please, I should have my own stash. I fell asleep easily, like I normally do, at around midnight, woke up at 3 a.m. like I normally do BUT! this time I didn’t toss and ruminate about sheep inventory for 3 sweaty, pillow-beating hours, I FELL RIGHT BACK ASLEEP IN A FIVE SECOND FINGER FAP OF A LAMB’S TAIL. And! This is the clincher: Woke up at 7 a.m. without The Fear. Sign me up, Dr. McC. Please.

I know what you’re going to say; “Xanax is addictive, blah blah, Big Pharma is evil, blah blah, unpronounceable chemicals, blah blah blah… try rosehip thistlewort and wild boar dingleberry dust from the Wiccan Farmer’s market or you can get it on-line for $400 USDs per gram plus shipping. Yes, holistic bitch, whatever you read from the Food Babe’s blarf must be true. Or! I can get Valium or one of its sexy cousins, and guess what, yo? There’s no chemical I can’t pronounce, I am that articulate.

But you know what? I am really bad at going to the doctor and probably will just let it all slide, like my inflamed organs that I am going to cure with tumeric tea, which I have yet to buy, much less brew. I am a lazy Wiccan like that. Yes, I really do wish dried herbs would trump chemo to cure cancer, but it just won’t. I will google but with circumspection. I have learned the hard way.

So here is the cautionary tale that I should share with you before you self-diagnose, like I do, and fail to read instructions, because who reads instructions:

Last year, during the Victoria Day holiday weekend, I had an ear infection. I’m a pro at these and you do not need to know what exactly caused it. I’ve had them a million times before, I know the drill. You don’t bother calling your actual doctor because you have to pay for parking. It’s Canada, land of socialized medicine, you go to a drop-in clinic, you get probed then you get a prescription for whatever putrid discharge is putting a damper on your day. For some reason, I was probably drunk like patriotic Canadian should be on May Two-Four, I thought: “Oh, no clinics will be open, but didn’t Dr. Oz have a show on home remedies, like onion and garlic are natural antibiotics?” Yes, I was really thinking this through thoroughly, I type sarcastically. I did not google for confirmation like a sensible Wiccan would. I just went into the kitchen and peeled out a sliver of garlic and gingerly placed it in my ear and went back to drunkytime holiday activities. Well, in no less than two minutes, there was a burning sensation that aggressively took over the pain sensation which in my mind means it’s working, like the way Vicks Vaporub clears out those petrified snot barnacles….dat smell, yaaaassss.

Stoically I kept it in a little longer until I was yowling in pain. I took the clove out. THEN I googled. It’s garlic-infused oil, not garlic that you are supposed to use. GARLIC INFUSED-OIL, AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT. Even had I read it first, I still would have stuck the clove in there to save time. What, really, am I going to marinate garlic in oil and not get to put it on lamb kebabs? Why would Dr. Oz not warn people: DO NOT STICK A CLOVE IN YOUR DUMB FUCKING EAR, YOU COULD POP OPEN YER EARDRUM. Btw, did you know you can remove a plantar’s wart with a clove of garlic? You know how salicylic acid (sound it out, Food Babe, take your time: sal-i-sil-ic) barely works, I’m not naming any brands, those fuckers stay around forever unless you go to a doctor and pay for parking and whatnot…trust me: garlic vapour will excavate a hole beyond your skeleton and down through your family roots find its way to the first amoeba that ever walked the earth. It’s that strong.

The next day, I went to a drop-in clinic. I did not say a word about what I did but , the doctor on duty gave me ear drops for 7 days. The whole thing went awry. The pain was gone but I can’t even describe what was happening inside my ear….oh, yes I can, it was like stinky cheese fondue from another country where the cows eat cabbage. It was disgusting and amazing at the same time. Then some lady who I now actively hate at my gym overheard me talking to someone and she chimed in and said her son had the EXACT SAME issue (I don’t think so) and he went to such-and-such a clinic, I won’t point fingers (oh yes, I will), and he got his ear “pumped out” and it was fixed right away. I am such an idiot for not going to my actual real, beloved associated-with-a-reputable-hospital pay-for-parking (suck it up) doctor straight away, but I went to this other clinic instead. I looooove having my ears pumped out and the other doctor wouldn’t do it even though I begged her. For a good reason, it turned out. This doctor was insane, he wore blue shiny, silk suit and spoke no English. He irrigated my ear, old school-style, which cleared it out and confirmed that yes, there was a hole but now it was probably even bigger, and some of the fondue went back inside my head. It was most wretched and the party lasted for days.

In July, after two months of garlic-induced, cheese-reeking deafness, I finally went to my real doctor and paid $4.50 for parking. I got referred to and ear specialist who never asked what actually happened but probably has her own juicy 50 Shades of Pus book to write. I fell in love with her during the time she spent probing my canal. She babied my ear like it was her own for months., monitoring the hole, vacuuming out the fondue (which was developed into more like a delicious poutine over time), making sure I was keeping it dry, so it would hopefully close on its own. It almost healed but never did entirely. The solution I chose, if I ever wanted to swim again, was to operate: Slice a skin graft from the back of the ear, and seal the hole with the flesh and hopefully everything will be restored, hearing-wise.

That was two weeks ago, I’m still kind of deaf but now my ear feels like it’s going to pop any minute, kind like being on an airplane, so I’m chewing gum, like my mama told me, long before the Internet and Dr. Oz fucked me over. And never stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear. That’s what she keeps saying. LOL. As if.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Do This Not That, health. Tags: Dr. Oz, ear infections, Food Babe, holistic health care. 2 Comments

Mar. ’15

Mastering the Art of Living IRL (In Real Life, duh)

It’s Springtime here in the Big Smoke, my pretties! Except it’s still as cold and gross as the mysterious crusty smears on the sleeves of your parka that you need to get dry cleaned and thrown in the back of the closet. Like today. It’s your fault it’s still cold outside, you keep wearing that wretched thing and the weather complies. My friend from another village a five hour train-ride away came to visit last week and remarked, “Why is everyone here so fucking ugly?” That’s a good question and you can blame the wind and the baa-baaa black sheep wearing the same goddamned Canada Goose parkas but I think the ugly runs much deeper. It’s so metaphysical that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact root of the pustule but I’m sure it has something to do with mass sucking of The Man’s D (whoever that is) for the sake of obtaining granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Everybody in this sad town strives for the same thing while whistling the same tune, and it’s all so disparagingly mediocre.

I guess I’m ugly, too, since I live here. But! At least I stopped with the black parka and now I’m layering it up with a charcoal grey hoodie. Baby steps. It’s not THAT cold, pussies, we can keep warm if we huddle and stop ignoring each other. I’m staaaaarved for the human contact. I’m ready to step out of the hermit-mode and fraternize with the real flesh beings, those who enjoy eating fried chicken and actually bleed real blood when you stab them. As opposed to the tricky internet motherfuckers, the ones you meet from OkCupid and Tinder, who scurry into The Cloud (wherever that is) like veiled chameleons because they spook easily. Although,there’s a certain appeal to that, I must say, because when they go silent farting into the ether, they simply cease to exist. Or they become fodder for your screenplay.

I’ve officially decided that I finally had too much Internet over the winter. Not because of my OkCupid addiction, I’m still working on my own personal Kinsey Report, and it’s a never ending scroll of fascination for moi. I have some more wild oats to sow before I settle down with my collection of Magic Wand attachments. It turns out In Real Life (IRL from now on) my heart more resilient than I originally thought, so this is good Internet usage for my research, otherwise known as vagine fieldwork. Let me have this one vice and I’ll cut back on the Facebook, I can’t handle it all the poop anymore (more on that later).

No, there are 3 distinct things have made me realize I need to reduce the hours of screen time and snap that MacBook shut and here they are:

1. I knew how to make “Truffle Butter” without having to google it. It was like the knowledge had been implanted in my brain by osmosis. The song came out and I’m like “Oh yeah, truffle butter,” and thought nothing of it, where everyone else was all “Ewwww, I just googled “truffle butter” and it’s nasty.” Whatevs. Now, don’t get excited, I have never made truffle butter IRL but if I did, I would doctor the recipe and add some low-fat Cool Whip to lighten the flavour, it’s less sticky than the other brands. Still, it’s a bit disturbing that I am a walking urban dictionary, and I long for the days of innocence of when a bible study was just a bible study. And did not involve so much liquified solid waste.

2. I have komplicated and konfusing feelings toward Kanye West. A good chunk of my Internet time is spent on celebrity gossip sites even though I am proud to say I still could not pick Ariana Grande or Rita Ora out of a line-up. But! When I see the name, Kanye West, my heart rate goes up. And I feel I am discharging some potent hormones from various pores. When Kanye West does or says something douchey and the whole world is tweeting “Kanye needs to be banned from the Grammy’s 4evah,” I nod my head in agreement but deep inside, I am thinking: “Oh, Kanye” like the way a mom is pretend-mad but secretly tickled when their toddler does something charming and Instagram-worthy like putting lipstick on the dog. Sometimes when I’m not on the Internet and out IRL, like at the grocery store or hanging out in a yoga pose that doesn’t hurt, I find my mind happily wandering and my thought path always ends up at Kanye’s doorstep. SIGH. I wonder what he’s doing, what’s he wearing, is he keeping warm? What did he have for breakfast? Does he wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom and apply cocoa butter hand lotion? They get so dry. Is he flossing? Did he remember to pick Kim’s flesh-coloured sausage casing from the dry cleaners? Is he reading “Goodnight Moon” to Nori? I think if I ever saw Kanye IRL, I would spontaneously lactate. What is this unconditional love I feel? Am I his mother? See, what I mean, isn’t this krazy? And embarrassing?

3. Okay the third thing is the clincher, as if truffle butter and wanting to be Kanye’s mom wasn’t enough to send me to rehab. On the Facebook, I’m in a closed group that I don’t remember even joining. It’s all about my neighbourhood and the informative goings on that individual citizens post, like as examples: the Tim Hortons is closing down but a new one is opening up, a certain naturopathic doctor is a charlatan (umm, duh), lost dog, found dog, etc. Some people randomly post antiquated memes and that talking dog video from the middle ages. I figure these folks are lonely shut-ins and want to feel the gentle rush of “likes.” There’s nothing wrong with that, I can scroll by most of those and enjoy that talking dog video for the billionth time because it never gets old. But then something happened on the page when the weather got (only somewhat) warmer and the snow started to melt/evaporate. The citizens began posting pictures of exposed dog shit that they found on the streets. Whoa. One particularly righteous woman wrote about how she was walking down the street with her precious baby in a fucking stroller, and she saw countless dog turds as though she was the fecal police writing a report of the most heinous crime since Sandy Hook, she clearly needs to lock her stupid family up in a panic room until all the shit gets scooped up. HELLO, BITCH,THIS IS HAS BEEN THE NATURAL PART OF THE FOULNESS OF SPRING SINCE WAAAAY BEFORE THE INTERNET, WE’VE ALL BEEN AROUND THIS BLOCK FOR GENERATIONS. What kind of thought process makes someone go for a walk outside in the fresh air, get so incensed over some random dog poops that she comes home, gets her sleeping baby out of the stroller, goes in the house, shimmies the squirmy baby out of the snowsuit which takes approximately the better part of an hour, dumps the screaming baby in Neglecto-matic swing, stuffs a binky in its mouth, pours herself a glass of boxed Chardonnay, then hops on the Internet to express her outrage? Her outrage becomes my outrage, but for the opposite reason. The Internet is a sacred place for cute kittens and porn, and maybe some recipes, not a forum for a bitch’s whining over a few innocuous mounds of dog shit that will turn into green grassy splendour come May. It’s all biodegradable, you dumb twat, just shut the fuck up and stop complaining, I want to write on her post but I don’t, I shut my pie hole and blog about it instead. Which I realize is another big fat waste of interweb energy that I am foisting upon you and we are all a part of the never-ending circle of ridiculous Internet pettiness.. As an aside, just a quick life hack tip for dog owners: If your dog is on a raw food diet, and really why would you want to feed your beloved dog anything else? The turds are much more compact and dry up and then turn to innocuous white dust within days if you neglect to pick them up. Sweet. Anyway, I hate this neighbourhood mom with the same fucked up intensity and passion that I love Kanye West. And I know it’s crazy but the feelings are real. So yeah, that’s enough Internet for moi.

I think we all need to get outside and get lost in the wonder of living IRL. And look at each other straight in the face and stop letting our fingers do our communicating because things go awry so easily. Let’s use our actual voices. We should be like the girls on “Broad City” stand on top of the hill and yell out at the top of the lungs: “WANNA FOOOOOOOOOK?!” I double dog dare you. We can always run away.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Field Trip, Get out of your comfort zone, okCupid. Tags: Broad City, Ew, kanye west, Truffle Butter. 2 Comments

Mar. ’15

Mastering the Art of Burying the Body

I’m not even being metaphorical here. We’re going to totally talk about burying a real life hypothetical dead body. Stay with me and maybe I’ll hand you a shovel and we can drive into the woods, dig a grave, and hold hands and skip afterwards.

I FINALLY finished listening to that fucking podcast that was all the rage once upon a time, like 4 months ago, Serial, that “This American Life” spinoff about a true story teenage murder that took place in 1999. Okay, I don’t care if I’m giving you a spoiler, whatevs, if you haven’t already listened to it, you won’t now, it’s a time consuming commitment that is basically a series of interviews, and journalist Sarah Koenig’s speculations of why the convicted killer, Adnad Syed, may or may not be innocent of the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Hae Min Lee. It all takes place in Baltimore where the girl’s body is found shittily buried in a place called Leakin Park, which sounds made up but isn’t. The very last episode comes a convenient theory of who else could have killed Hae which makes you mad that you bothered to listen to all 12 episodes when you could have just wikipedia’d that shit and be done with it.

It’s all so real that it seems fake. But it’s true and tragic, for the family of the murdered girl and especially if Adnad is actually innocent, what a waste of a life.

Koenig’s voice is the true star, I can listen to her yap doodle all the live long day and be in a zen state, she’s just like all mellow and I bet smokes pot before she maunders her spiel into the microphone. Her cadence is soothing and she goes off on tangents and even though I sometimes zone out, I’m more or less riveted. Every time she says “Best Buy” take a shot! It’s a drinking game!

No drinking for moi, though, I listened to it at the gym! Okay, I do not have one of those bicep strap-on-audio device holders, that would be far too practical, I could probably get one at the Best Buy, speaking of which, if I had the wherewithal but I don’t…Anyway so I need to hold my greasy iDick in one hand and stuff the testicl-ay headset in both ears because cramming it precariously into my bra, with all its moist hooter sweat, causes too much static and the wire to unplug. So! I developed an entire 45 minute work out routine, laying on a mat and rolling on a ball. It’s what I call the Starfish Workout, it works! I’ll post it below, trust me, you can actually bounce a quarter off my ass right now. By the way, I don’t believe in modern-day cardio machinery, especially those ellipticals, I think they actually make you spongey and complacent. And I love the idea of a workout you can do in a 4 by 8 prison cell cuz you never know, you could be as unlucky as Adnad Syed too.

Anyway, I’ve been listening to this podcast week by week…it’s hard to follow the plot because nothing happens and I have a low attention span and in the process, I developed a new gym crush, #fml. Yes, I know, all my ridiculous gym crushes, Sweaty Man, The Oaf, Kettlebell Jesus, Turban Dude (still makes mine heart flutter so), have been pathetic chimeric illusions that I have pined over ad nauseam so I hold no emotional attachment on this one. I have evolved somehow, having lived and finally learned BUT! He is TO DIE FOR! While I roll on my bouncy ball and try and absorb the Serial plot, new gym crush, let’s call him The Viking, does this crazy caveman circuit right before my very eyes. Uurgh, I am weak in the flesh fo sho, and brace yourself, Spring is coming. The Viking is a study in dichotomy: From far away, he looks stocky and short because he’s muscly and bunchy-butt and has that compact running back swagger but when you shimmy yourself near him at the water cooler, he is fucking TALL, holy shit, and you feel like you’re in a fairy tale, it’s amazing. His face though. It’s kind of rough and weathered and his teefs are all busted up like he chews on bones and nails and maybe I don’t want to kiss him with my delicate lips and tongue and stuff but I definitely want to sit on him, ladymeat to fugmug, and, oh my god, you know he’d be good. It’s just the way he flips the tires and pulls on ropes, heaving and hoeing, he is strapping and capable… of flipping and pulling big ol’ starfish me all around and upside down. SIGH. And it occurs to me, he’d be the perfect dude to help clean up a crime scene.

Anyway, what I take away from the podcast aside from how flawed the American justice system is, is that if you actually commit a murder, you better be careful who you ask to help bury the body with you. If Adnad actually did it, getting his stoner compulsive liar buddy, Jay, to be his partner in crime, then that was his big mistake.

Who would you ask to help bury a body if you murdered someone?

I asked this question to my son, Freddy, and he, without missing a beat, answered, “You, mommy.” And my heart swelled up with emotion. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing anyone could say?

Later on I asked the same question to my daughter, Evangeline, and she was at first all shocked and appalled,”What do you mean, I murdered somebody?” And I realized how telling it was that Freddy and I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the hypothetical prospect of having committed a murder. So I had to make up a scenario where she actually accidentally murdered a crazed doggie killer who broke into the house to kidnap Betty and make a catsuit out of her exquisite hide and secretly disposing the body herself would save the taxpayers’ money, blah blah blah, which let her wrap her head around the moral dilemma, but anyway, she chose me also! I am so proud!

I wouldn’t choose them, though, I wouldn’t want to burden them with a crime on their delicate consciences. My first thought would be I would run over to the next door neighbours, they are always my first stop when I have a sticky problemo that has turned into a conundrum that needs some slapstick…or I simply need to borrow a cup of wine, they are my touchstones. I know they’s be all like “YAAAASSS, Peterson! Let’s do this!” And then they’d make a day of it, and get a cooler full of Coronas, some chips and guacamole, and start Instagramming that shit. Then we’d all be in a fine mess on social media, no less.

Then I have a list of lady friends and sisters but they are small and petite and have bad backs and tiny cars and that leads me to the obvious choice of Bob and his junk trailer that he parks in my backyard. But he is sometimes so unreliable, he’d be like, “Okey doke, Starfish, I’ll swing by on my way to the dump,” and he’d really be eating chicken wings and forgetting all about me on his fourth pint on the other side of the Beach at the Filling Station while I’m waiting tapping my feet with blankie-wrapped stiff on my front porch.

I briefly considered the hot dudes at my butcher shop, they have knives and a power saw and they always take care of me when I am bordering on hysterics, the shop is my “safe place” so I wouldn’t want to tarnish it with a felony and risk them getting a bad Yelp review.

Then I thought of the perfect person! My ex-husband would totally groove to this…CHALLENGE ACCEPTED…and do it with the prowess of a ninja. He is a one hundred percent law abiding citizen, trust, but he has a clever criminal Heisenberg-type mind and not only would he surreptitiously dispose of the body, somewhere, somehow, he would do it without me so I wouldn’t fuck up. Phew, that’s a relief. Everybody needs a friend who can keep a secret.

Okay, here’s one ball exercise I’m sharing with you, I’m going to keep some secrets to myself, this is where you can attack that problematic lady part where ass meets leg…you’re welcome. By the way, I saw The Viking out on the street in his civilians, he really should have his own Tumblr blog of his outfits…he was wearing a pink cardigan and he managed to make it look all testosteronic (yes, it’s a word) because he paired it with classic cut Levi’s, I wish all men knew this trick to showcasing a traffic stopping bubble butt…anyway, I nearly ran over his dumb wife with my car,but at least I know what I’d do with the corpse.

Here you go, Bubbles, roll on this and daydream:

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: This Charming Man. Tags: Adnad Syed, bubble butt, burying the body, Sarah Koenig, Serial podcast, stability ball workout. 5 Comments

Feb. ’15

Mastering the Art of Modern Suffering

It’s Lenty-times, did you know? In case you missed the cue, which was your uber-annoying skinny-ass bikini-selfie Facebook friend, Fallon, posting on Ash Wednesday (yes, that’s still a thing) that she’s “giving up chocolate!” after “devouring” her giant box of Godiva truffles that she got from her “amaaaaaaazing” Latino boyfriend (now fiancé!), Jorge, on Valentine’s Day along with a giant fucking engagement ring while they were in a five-star! resort in Cancun, “just in time for Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs to hit the shelves,” she cyber-lols and 8 million “likes” ensue. By the way, dem eggs were lined up in boxes by the checkout on February 15, proving she has an eating disorder or she would know that. She obviously never eats chocolate anyway, what with that thigh gap the size of a wind tunnel. So much for self-sacrifice. What a fucking bitch. Even the Pope thinks she’s a tool.

I wasn’t raised with the tradition of Lent but I enjoy watching y’all suffer, and this year I’ve given up hooch for the sake of solidarity. I learned about this oddball practise as an adult from one of my roommates who struggled with it earnestly every year: No meat, no cheese, just white carbs like bread and rice, for weeks! Except on Sundays, which were free days, when she would get a Licks burger with cheese and heaps of shit and extra garlic splooge, chili fries, and wash it all down with a diet Coke, and then pass out from more self-loathing than her Catholic guilt could handle.

I admire the symbolism of some religious practises but this one seems paradoxically more self-indulgent than noble. Like what good does it do for the community if you starve yourself? Self-deprevation for the sake of what? Atonement? Really, does it work? Or does it just perpetuate some kind of cycle of shame to penance to faux-humbleness? I, without the help of any kind of religion whatsoever, am full of natural self-hatred that stems from the simple embarrassment of being alive. It comes and goes in waves, though. I’m currently riding high on my own foulness, as is everyone else in this deep freeze. Don’t you feel the collective energy of all the lonely people in their stained sweatpants enveloped in the blue haze of Netflix (or Pornhub)? I think it’s a normal part of the human condition unless you are a sociopath, but it would never occur to me to cut out chocolate for 6 weeks, like what good would that do? I should cut out cheese entirely, seriously, I think I am lactose intolerant in my old age. If I was going to be doing any favours for the sake of religion, depriving myself of Toblerone would not be it, I think the sensible thing would be to go out it and help the less fortunate, even though it’s occurred to me that I AM the less fortunate, but it’s all relative. I shall find a cause, and so should you. And as for your stupid Facebook friend Fallon, we should report her for spamming (and her insufferable Instagram too!) and shut down her cyber pie hole once and for all.

It’s been a looooooong winter and a bullshit February. I found myself in a rare state of perpetual boredom. I’m hardly ever bored but I figured out recipe: In a giant bowl made out of helpless inertia, mix in piles upon piles of exasperation, sprinkle with rage, a dash of sadness, and a dusting of despair. I even went and got my hair did and nothing changed. Same shit, different day. I should really dye it, I’m questioning the silvers now but I don’t care enough. Apathy, it’s a silent killer.

I don’t got 99 problems, so I’m not whining *per se*, so you internet trolls can go fap your fingerling floppy drive on Facebook Fallon, but I have 2 and half, or maybe 3 whole annoying fucking issues that I won’t bore you with, and they only partially in my control. I definitely need more therapy and clarity (hence no more booze for moi, Lent or no Lent) but in the meantime, I kind of got a lot out of this Ted Talks which is about “shame being an unspoken epidemic, the secret behind many forms of broken behaviour.” I cried when I watched it, holy shit, I’m breaking down, which is what you’re supposed to do in order to achieve vulnerability, which is a strength, by the way.

But! In the meantime, sometimes you have to take your head out of your bellybutton and live amongst the people who you hate. I don’t really hate anyone in particular, just everyone in general, BUT NOT YOU, don’t worry. So I composed a list of some modern life hacks to help us (I know you’re in a funk, too) get ourselves a few more feet away from the ledge.

1. Get a white board and write a list of goals. Okay, I really don’t know what I’m talking about here but yesterday my friend called me all excited that she had bought a white board (?) and wrote a list of goals on them. I don’t think I will actually do this out of sheer fear but I was very happy for her. Topics include: Health, Finance (UGH NOOOOOOO), I can’t remember the others, that’s when my brain bailed but! she did say after writing everything down, she felt a) things were not as bad as she thought and b) she is more in control now and c) she’s going to be checking things off week after week while another friend of hers makes sure she’s not slacking off. A white board. I don’t know where you get those but I’m guessing Staples. I’m not doing this but you do it and report back.

2. Yoga. Yes, shut up and just do it. I don’t care what kind, even that sweaty bullshit Bikram-style will work, I might even psyche myself up to go back. I haven’t gone to a regular class in a while because I can’t bear to be stuck in my bloated thoughts without the disco distractions of tv screens and whatnot. But yesterday I did a class with my beloved David, who should be the Pope of the entire universe and for at least an hour, all was right in the world. I’m definitely going back next week. I don’t know why I have been avoiding it AND! he said something very profound that made me almost cry but I forgot what it was, oh well.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

3. Bake some cookies. This is something Martha Stewart would do because she doesn’t get all depressed and cry over a Ted Talks, I bet. Too much shit to organize and clean and iron and fold and fuck. I wish I had the busy gene like Martha and get satisfaction out of sorting socks. I only suggest baking cookies because you can eat them if you’re not doing a Lent cleanse, or whatever you’re calling it. You know, I used to do this all the time, bake a double batch of chocolate chip, and give them to boys I had crushes on. And I was not so lonely then. Huh.

4. Read a book out of your comfort zone. I’m used to reading all the hand-me-downs from friends who toss a book at me and say “read this, it has your name on it” and it’s “Gone Girl,” or “The Goldfinch,” I don’t know what that means but usually this kind of literature is ladies’ book club type fodder. If it’s a pristine hardcover, I will read it out of guilt, propped up in bed and finish the whole thing. If it’s all dog-eared and soft covered, I’ll toss it around with greasy fingers and read it casually in the tub and maybe dump it midway. I’m such a princess. The other day I ordered a book off Amazon on my own freewill “Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind” by Yuval Noah Harari because hello, if that doesn’t have my name on it, I don’t know what does. It’s soft covered though, so we’ll see how it works out.

5. Smile at a stranger. The zombie apocalypse (ugh, I can’t believe I even typed that) is here and we are living it. Everyone walks around in public with a puss on all dead inside, never making eye contact, then get in their cars and yell obscenities at each each other behind closed windows. It’s sad really. Every so often I become acutely aware of this and I randomly make eye contact with a stranger and smile…and they always smile back! It’s so cute! It’s like a zoo trick. Of course if you’re a woman and you do this to a man, he will automatically think you love him, want to marry him, and bear his crotch spawn. But that’s okay to feed a dragon’s massive ego once in awhile, he needs perk now and again too. If he smiles back and holds your gaze for 1-banana, 2-bana-, get his number AND BAKE HIM SOME COOKIES and maybe you’ll have a friend for life.

So that should keep you busy til Spring rolls around and the only thing I can say is every thing is in constant change, and this, too, shall pass. And! if it makes you feel any better, Facebook Fallon and her amazing Latino boyfriend-now-fiancé, Jorge, probably won’t last, he still has his profile up and active (with dick pics!) on Adult Friend Finder and she can’t even bake those cookies from a tube, it’s all downhill for her.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: sadness. Tags: dealing with sadness, February blues, Lent, SAD, Shame, Ted Talks, the pope. 8 Comments

Feb. ’15

Mastering the Art of Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition

Valentine’s Day countdown, kittens! You know I love this day even if you think it’s just an excuse for the charlatans that run the diamond industry to peddle its lies. Whatevs, me likey shiny things, even the fake shit. I just went through my giant fishing tackle box filled with bling memories, all tarnished and busted up. Why does conventional society insist that earrings have to come in pairs? Hardly any of mine match and if they do, one of them is missing a rhinestone or an essential dangly bit, that makes me so fucking sad. I found a pristine pair of gold Playboy bunny earrings, I bought them them for myself, ironically style-wise even though I am actually a cheap whore (no, I’m not). But! I can’t shove them in my ears because MY HOLES HAVE CLOSED, is this some sort of natural metaphor that has the gods of fertility laughing at me? I shall show them, later on today I will slam down a bunch of vodka and thrust them into my ears whatever it takes. There will be blood. By the way, you know that the original Valentine’s Day was to honour ancient Christian martyrs but that whole dance got tiresome so that in the High Middle Ages, Chaucer and his poet hos decided to make it all about boning, although they called something else back then, like “bownyng.” These were simpler times, when the one you wanted to betroth your boneage into was the one that had your heart in a romantic way. Now all our modern feelings are repressed by constant communication punctuated by those diabolical emoji emoticons and everyone is so fappingly confused. And afraid. And there’s no boning, not even for the wicked. SIGH.

I like chocolate, too, even if I have to buy my own Toblerone bar. The giant one, the size of a quonset hut. Fuck and ouch.

This Valentine’s Day, my fantasy would be to take some olde tymey ecstasy and go see “Fifty Shades of Grey” with an audience full of bitches also on chemical drugs. I think it would be epic, let’s make it happen. This has got to be one of those times when you can honestly say the movie is better than the book, but judging by the trailers, that’s not saying much. I’m not sure even that awesome Beyonce song can save this mess. But drugs can!

I’m trying to read the book right now. I am actually charmed by how badly written it is. It reminds me of the sardonic stories based on Harlequins I used to write as a hobby when I was a teenager. I used to give them to my English teacher, who looooved them, but I always wondered if she got the joke or she got swept away by my jacked-up romance bullshit. Anyway, I think even in grade 9, I was a better writer than E.L. James and that’s not saying much. If you made a pie chart out of the content of this book, 75% would be descriptions of breathing. I get so bored, I can only flip through it, trying to find the juicy bits. I can’t fucking find them, SO MUCH BREATHING. And eating, which I am pro.

I don’t think I respond to contrived erotica, it’s kind of like watching professional porn, it’s just too slick to feel real. Even trying to make Barbie and Ken hump (when you were a kid because no, you did not do this as a grown-ass mom when you were cleaning up your daughter’s room while she was in kindergarten) is more titillating cuz Ken doesn’t actually have a weenie much less a boner and Barbie is so rigid, she can’t even starfish. The thrill is in frustration. GRIND DAT PLASTIC! Remember?

Anyway, I personally have never had a fantasy where “my breath hitched” when a man said “Let me make love to you, Anastasia,” while stroking his beautiful cock in one hand and holding a cat o-nine tails in the other. Every word that last sentence closed every hole in my body, even the ones I didn’t now I had. And my eyes bled.

Okay, there’s no way I’m going to read this book but I will write the fan fiction! Isn’t that how it started, as X-rated Twihard prose? Mine goes in another direction, it’s middle-aged milquetoast erotica, set in where else? The Home Depot, hold on to your moobs, middle pudge,and mudflaps, here goes:

Beverly Shipman walks into the Home Depot, the giant doors automatically opening for her. She is disheveled, her hair, still smooth from her Tuesday blowout is in need of a root touch-up and is in a high ponytail. Underneath her black parka, the one with what looks like a pair of metal scissors on the left upper arm, she is still wearing her flannel pyjamas pants, boldly coloured and emblazoned with cartoon monkey faces. And stuffed into a pair of Uggs. If this wasn’t a sight you see every day, and you came here from a time machine, just by the outfit, you would think this woman was 50 shades of cray. But she barely registers and she slips through the doors like a ghost.

Furnace filters? She wonders where and looks around the big box warehouse. The smell of freshly cut pressurized lumber fills her nostrils and goes straight to her temporal lobe which triggers a memory response that sends a rush of blood straight down to her blowfish. WTF. She tries to ignore this sensation as she looks up at the signage and makes her way down the giant aisle.

Even though the store is cavernous and confusing, the colour orange whets her appetite. There’s a Harvey’s inside this one, beyond the self-serve cash registers. Maybe when she finds her filters, she will pick up an order of fries. Too bad there’s not a Swiss Chalet, she could really go for a quarter chicken with extra gravy, yes, bitches, EXTRA gravy, it turns out it’s all just liquid and cornstarch, not fat, she can drink it if she wants, fuck the sodium content and fuck her nutritionist. She salivates. Breathes, more lumber smell, blowfish gets bigger, tingles now. Focus! Snap out of it! Find the filters!

Finally someone in an orange apron is standing in front her. On his bib, written in a black Sharpie is “Al” which could be short for Albert? Or is he being tongue-in-cheek and he is A-1? He smiles in a kind peepaw way, he has sparkling blue eyes surrounded by crowfeet and liver spots. His generic darkish hair is white at the temples and pulled back in a tiny wispy ponytail. He must be one of those Freedom 55-type retired baby hippie boomer dudes with nothing to do but hobbies and Home Depot. (ed note: if that’s a type then sign me up) His shoulders are sloped, and some giant ass white hairs are sneaking out like tentacles out over the top of his collared polo shirt, but he has muscly forearms, and this does not go unnoticed. Beverly smiles. Probably for the first time since her husband left her last month for his mistress of 11 years. Who says it doesn’t happen? It happens! They leave and you are left alone!

“Can I help you find something, Miss?” He asks. MISS! Not Ma’am! Like the young hipster clerk at the liquor store who barely even looks at her, calls her Ma’am when she buys her bottle Belvedere and has the audacity to ask her if she’d like a bag. Yes, of course a bag! Jesus Christ, I want a bag! What am I, a hobo? I don’t deserve a bag? Is that what you think of me? Oh, wait, never mind, I can fit it in my Kate Spade tote. Okay.

Al smiles at her again. A warmth rushes goes through her core and her blowfish blows a sweet, tiny bubble of hope.

“Yes, please, where would your furnace filters be?” She asks, flushing blood all throughout her veins, she feels alive.

“Oh, they’re over in Aisle 8. let me walk with you,” he points in the direction and they move forward. His hand grazes her left arm, the one with the metal moose knuckle on it, and even through the layers of fabric and goose down, she feels an electric charge. Her legs feel light suddenly, although her Uggs are covered in slush and weigh as much as a bag of hammers. And look like two bags of gross medical waste.

Suddenly she has a hot flash. It’s not because it’s hot in the Home Depot in the deep freeze of February. It is precisely two fold, the vodka hangover and hormones. This is the basic schedule of what happens to old bitches all the live long day: Hangover, hot flash, drink, lather, rinse, repeat. She unzips her parka, but of course that ridiculous decorative ball of fox fur gets caught in the spokes and she lets it go halfway. She forgot that she was wearing only her pyjamas bottoms as most of the time she sleeps naked because of the motherfucking hot flashes so there’s actually nothing else on underneath. Hungover, menopausal bitches are that absent minded. So her zipper is stuck and her boobs are basically flying out of her parka in the middle of the Home Depot on a Tuesday morning. She holds her coat shut but in doing so, her Kate Spade tote swings and hits Al, or A-1, upside the head, and he turns around. Like a magpie, older men have the sharp shooting instincts down pat, his eyes go straight to her tittage before she has a chance to cover them up.

There are two of them, one slightly bigger than the other and therefore droopier, the vein configuration resembles a muddled map toward two erect cherry cola coloured nipples, approximately 2.75 centimetres in diameter…holy shit, one of them has a piercing, so he thinks, but it’s not actually, it’s part of the inside zipper tab grazing the nipple as she clutches her coat shut. Wow, he thinks, and that’s basically all he thinks for a moment that seems to stretch out longer than the beginning of time. Al, and that is his name, short for Alonso, hasn’t seen real life flesh boobs since Christ was a cowboy. His wife has long since abandoned him, not physically, but spiritually and sexually, and yes, they still share a bungalow where they raised their two children, who are now grown. but he sleeps in his man cave, in the basement. The humming of the furnace soothes him to sleep after his nightly fap, to reruns of “Hot in Cleveland.” Valerie Bertinelli. Nothing wrong with that.

When he finally finds his words, he says, “I know all about furnaces, can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a mid-efficency furnace and it’s so cold in my house these days, ” she bites her lower lip coquettishly, “I was googling on the internet and maybe I need to change my furnace filter? The pilot light is still on, so I know the furnace is okay…” Her voice trails off, a look of barely anything goes over her face, or at least that is his perception, he’s still staring at her tits with that part of his eyes that aren’t his actual pupils which are still looking at her in the eyes, but is the tip of his dick, it’s one of the mysteries of science, yo. Dicks have eyes. I.t says so in a Chaucer poem, trust.

“Oh, well if you have a mid-efficency furnace, you should actually be using the cheaper furnace filters, let’s the air go through easier,’ he pulls out a pack of filters, 3 for $5.99, seemingly made of popsicle stick wood and blue plastic silly string.

“What?” She is incredulous, “I have been buying the $35 furnace filters for over twenty years! Are you sure? Also I have a pet dog. With fur, not hypo-allegenic breeds with “poo” at the end of it name. Do those filters work for my dander situation?”

“Yes,” he says with manly manliness and actual real-life know-how, not the fake kind that you can spot a mile away from someone who is full of fucking shit that he mis-read in a manual,”The looseness in the cheap shitty plastic not only lets the air go through, the dander and fur that you speak of will get caught in the nettle, the only caveat is that you have to change the filters every 3 months instead of once a year. Still cheaper and your heating bills will go down expediently.”

“Oh!I wish I had known this sooner!” She exclaims. Her breath hitches. Her parka swings open, her tits fall out, one by one. Kind of, one gets caught in the zipper again, the floppier one, but that’s okay. He leans over and hands her the filters, 3 for $5.99.

“Is there anything else, I can help you with?” He asks, his apron is now a tent, kind of pointed south, but still.

Her blowfish explodes.

Fin.

Okay, Happy Valentine’s Day all, spread the love cuz that’s all we have! ❤

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: 50 shades of grey, Home depot, hot in cleveland, middle aged erotica. 3 Comments

Feb. ’15

Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation

This is my daughter’s creative writing homework assignment:

In the first person, write a relationship sketch between two characters.

I’m going to do this now as I’m inspired by some internet hate I got last week. I wish I were in university again because the real world sucks tiny insignificant proverbial cocks, it’s one squirt-it-in-your-eye woody hurdle after another. She doesn’t think so though, she can’t wait to finish this spring and sling beers for tips in the summer and then in the fall, backpack in Europe. She will see the sights, drink all the jaunty craft beers, eat all the crust-made-with-actual-lard covered things that don’t contain nuts or sesame (don’t forget your EpiPen, my darling!) and meet all the foreign peens and fall in love with the lot of them. There will be tall, pale, hilarious British boys, pompous French dudes with oddly enticing body odour, freaky aggro German ones, sexy to-die-for Italian motherfuckers with all bark no bite, and maybe a random hot Scandinavian-type girl with some refreshing scissor game. Oh, to be young again. The last time I went to Europe, I was the old bat I am today minus two years, I met nobody. But! The elevator in the hotello I was staying at was so fucking small and squishy, I got to brush my boobs against the back of the concierge dude as he was carrying a stack of carta igencia (toilet paper! There’s hardly any toilet paper in Europe, you have to beg for it so there’s two words you’re going to need to know, my angel baby). The elevator ride was so painfully slow that at one point, I just kind of rested them against his back, smooshing them against his ribs. I could see the tips of his ears turn purple with mammary awareness as he stood still, his back to me, watching the dial go from one to two to three to four longer than it takes to load Adult Friend Finder Live Webcams on Sunday morning, you know what I’m talking about. His hair was black and curly with silver shards, which makes me crazy, and I wanted to run my fingers through it like it was a must-do tourist attraction, way more exciting than Vatican City, right? The sexual tension was so palpable you could bottle it and call it “Emergency Stop Button” by Dolce & Gabanna. It truly was one of those moments of time that could have turned into something worthy of a blog post you would actually want to read, what a chicken shit I have become, so it may seem. I should be ashamed at my lack of behaviour, but believe me, exercising my control was actually a small feat of self-preservation. Even though in this case, I shoulda-woulda-coulda, it was symbolic of something else, a personal triumph of sorts.

If I could bestow a life lesson on my girl, like a method of self-preservation, whereby she is spared pain and heartbreak, I would do that, but I think somehow by osmosis or some other mysterious natural phenomenon, she is inherently smarter and wiser than me. I want to save her from having a broken spirit like mine, which has been shattered, manacled, and beaten like every other middle-aged sad sack on the dating circuit. We were never supposed to live this long, bitches! Childbirth was designed to kill us, then the farmer would marry our much younger sister who hopefully had the wherewithal to make gooseberry wine with yeast and honey and get him drunk before they would ever get to “churn the butter,” cuz he be old and so very, very gross.

But now we’re supposed to spawn, move on, and swim elegantly in each other’s wholesome shit AND toxic chicken shit like farmed talapia, it’s such a mess, this pond.

I am the type of person that would see a body of water and no matter how many signs that boldly said: BEWARE OF POISONOUS SNAKES, I will go skinny dipping and swim, get bit, go back again nekkid, get bit again, then more because “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” is just the kind of inspiration I need for a challenging game change, THEN! I’d get bit some more and wonder what I did wrong. Seriously, even with a SIGNPOST TO TERROR thrust in my face, I would boldly dive in. I peaked with this kind of self-destructive behaviour at 40, then it took me years of therapy to figure out what was wrong and even then, I slip up, hence The Cornfield Incident 2014. Your girl needs a life raft.

Here’s what I learned about self-preservation because telling me to not swim at all is like telling Justin Bieber not to douche, it’s in my nature :

When diving in snake infested waters, wear a wetsuit. An impenetrable one if such a thing exists, or make your own out of raw cookie dough and that hard as fuck gel shit they use in nail salons that makes you never want to masturbate. When you start to feel the feels of a set of fangs sinking heartily into your mighty upper thigh, say, swim your motherfucking sorry ass to shore, because it might feel good now, all hot and tingly, but trust, the venom is on its way. If he hangs on, divert his attention by squeezing his tail, this seems to work with all kinds of snakes, and even puppies, and let him sliiiiide back in the water while you dry off in the sand. Oh look, there’s an ice cream truck parked over yonder. Go there and get something coated in chocolate. I know, I know, I’m more confused than you are. But at least I have a method and I am good.

So on to the internet trollage and the homework assignment I promised.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Apparently,unbeknownst to me, my world wide web in-box was hosting a Haters-Gonna-Hate Festival because last week I got barraged with a whole whack of messages, including:

“Ur a narcissucks (sic: clever tho, right?)” And true, I DO suck. Call me.

“You are a whiney, vapid cunt” Vapid? Really? That actually hurts: ICE CREAM!

“I hope you die and rot like an upstream trout”…what? Is that what the trouts do? If I’m going to die upstream, isn’t that any worse than dying and rotting downstream? That’s a fucked up metaphor, right? I think I’d way rather upstream (closer to heaven!) than downstream (cig butts! tampon applicators! those plastic things that hold a six pack together that strangle birds and turtles! humanity’s blight on nature! all downstream, why would I want to rot there?).

Your (sic: lol!) too old and fat to fuck…” Meh. You’re dad doesn’t think so.

Can you imagine the kind of person that would be bothered messaging such rude things to a lady whose only M.O. is to love and be loved? I can!

Here’s my homework assignment, dedicated to the all internet trolls out there, a relationship between two characters described in first person:

I hate this, and I’m bored. I wish for his sake, he’d get off the computer. I’m tired, but not the good tired like when we used to play basketball or build that fence, even when he was using that sandpaper that scratched my skin like a motherfucker. Still, it was better than all this tap-tap-tap, then stroke-stroke-stroke. Ugh, I feel like my talents are wasted. Remember when he used to draw those cartoons in grade school, all about super heroes rescuing damsels? His power was unbridled back then, I felt so much hope. Then came the real girls, and then that one girl in particular who we both liked, her skin was so soft on all her parts. The tits, especially, were like the joyous days of Play-dough, until the baby came and the whoa, they got huge and rock hard, and she wouldn’t let Dude’s lips or me and my twin touch them. Yes, I get it, I was pissed off too. The disinterest hurts, but those other times, the little pleasures, for example, when I enjoyed my index finger dipping into peanut butter and then getting licked by the Bichon Frise owned by the downstairs neighbour and because he got so drunk, I can’t remember what else happened but something felt different. And smelled fishy. There were more good times, let’s not kid ourselves. With all that diversion, couldn’t Dude have waited longer? But no, he had to make a fist out of me and pound me through the drywall, what the fuck? And then when he shoved her, with both me and my feckless twin, who seems to be only good for stabilizing the bagel when I hold the knife and cut it. Dude is mean to my twin because he likes to shock him and slice through his skin between his thumb and his forefinger cuz he’s impatient. I admit, I’m also fed up with Leftie these days, some things we can do in such harmony (remember waterskiing? rock climbing? Saxophone lessons?) but I need him especially now to pick up some slack with that wretched Dick when I’m too tired for this fucker’s nonsense. I very much need help to sweep the dark times under the rug. I’m a hand, not a conscience, but it’s too much for me. And like I said, I wish he’d stop tapping me on that keyboard and spewing out his venom, and maybe do something like shovel and old lady’s walk way, or something for the good of society. What an asshole. Speaking of which, I think tonight, while he’s sleeping I’ll shove my fist up there and see who’s boss.

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: Uncategorized. Tags: meh, motherfuckers, self-improvement, self-preservation. 3 Comments

Jan. ’15

Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)

This reminds me of that Pink Floyd song (remastered) that goes something like “we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…” whatever, so sweet, let’s kiss because we’re so cute together. AWWWWWWWWWW.

So I’m back on the OkCupid which is how y’all like me, flailing around, swinging my dick, telling my tales, crying in my beer, blogging the blog of shame. The past few months have been an awesome learning curve for a celibate old hermit lady, I AM NOW FEARLESS cuz really, who cares? YOLO HO, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Yes, some douche shat on my heart but I got a good story out of it and then some boneheaded (but loveable) dawg randomly peed on it just a tiny bit, enough for it to sting ever so slightly but not enough send me to the cat hospice, no harm done. So back into the fishbowl I go, HOLDING MY BREATH, BITCHES!

This time around, I won’t lie, I’m really kind of jaded, so I’m a cold fish, because that is my self preservation persona. But! I’ve been going on and off the site voraciously all week, so what. I haven’t really written back to anyone new except a 19 year-old who wants to take a road trip with me to Mount Rushmore. He tells me will drive the whole way with my panties in his mouth. And then when we get there, we will bang our brains out. This is like the best message EVER. I think about him in a way that is inappropriate. I could be his mother. This is what David Lynch films are made of, tho, and I am so in. I wish that in real life I have nicer panties, lacy or silky ones, in a soft colour, pink or blue. I think about the long highway drive on Route 16, going south from Rapid City, I’ve mapped it out because my sex fantasies are that meticulously detailed, and I’m sitting on a seat warmer feeling all vulnerable and fishy without my panties and maybe even without pants entirely but I can’t really handle all that, so I’m wearing a skirt. And are my panties really in his mouth the whole way? No, that’s ridiculous…I take them out and fold them into my purse and we can drive and chillax and maybe listen to a podcast. I look over at him and see the peach fuzz on his chin all shiny in the sun. He’s got a zit cluster on his cheek I am DYING to pop all of them. Oy. I’ve made sandwiches in the cooler in the back and I offer him one. He takes the one with ham, havarti, and sliced tomato which ends up dripping on his chin. Juice on his peach fuzz. I reach over and try to wipe it off with a napkin, he winces and holds eyes elbow up, blocking me, STAHP, he says, and wipes his own chin with his bare hand, then smears it on his pants. Really? Now we’re going to have to go a laundromat. I don’t know…this is just not going to work out, is it? Ugh. I really wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Anyway, I message him back: “Awww, so cute.” Haven’t heard back. I’m sure I killed his boner with that memaw response. One of my many talents.

SIGH. Scroll on.

Okay, so here’ s the thing: I’ve been on this site so long, I can decipher some of the new buzzwords and some those coded letters that were mysterious to me 6 months ago. Let’s go over some of them, save the rest for another day, I’ve figured the nuances so you don’t have to, ur welcome, kittens:

DTF: “Down to Fuck” Yeah, you know this one from Jersey Shore but my question is: Why would a man send an inaugural message to a woman on a dating sight with just three letters? How lazy can you possibly be? This could work for some sites but I, personally, have written an eloquent and loquacious erotic profile and all I get is “DTF?” NO. Just no. Much better: “Ur hot, DTF? :p> ” Now you’re talking my language. Jesus Christ, put a little effort into it. And tongue game because otherwise I’m not interested at all.

FWB: “Friends with Benefits” and yes, that old chestnut from your Melrose Place style rental apartment and you also know from that Justin Timberlake/ Mila Kunis movie, so good because they fall in love in the end WHICH IS THE LAW OF NATURE. But! In real life, this term means different things to different people. It’s a very ambiguous contract to get into so caveat emptor, hos, is all I have to say. With many single women, for example, they are oftentimes very busy with shift work, raising children, going to night school, taking care of their elderly parents, fighting their parking tickets, et cetera but still have “needs” so a friend with benefits scenario seems ideal because who needs another egg to fry when you have all that bullshit on your plate? Get your handy neighbour to bone you. Done. Or like that episode on Sex and the City, oh shut up; THIS IS MY THESIS, where Carrie calls her fuckbuddy when she is between relationships. These type of dudes are handy for quick comfort and mojo restoration. Personally, I’ve never been able to wrangle one of these breeds of FWB/FB’s and I don’t really want one either as I suspect they are much more work in real life than in theory. Conversely, the type of man who actively seeks a friend with benefits is the kind of dude who is just waiting for someone “better” to come along, a lady who in his immutable dimwitted mind, is worthy of a Real Relationship That Leads To Marriage with him, is basically just his bossy ass mama lookin’ hot in a chicken cutlet bra and skinny stretch jeans and pumps. Will not age well, trust, and neither will he. You are so much better than them, sister, your brain warned you but your vagina caved, don’t beat yourself up over it, move on. It’s very important to note for next time: This man is a social pariah and should be avoided at all costs. Or not, take his wallet.

Polyamory: It’s a whole new world since Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice so it’s not necessarily swinging and key parties per se. Couples are exploring other peoples! With blessings! They make up the rules as they go so you don’t have to. You, the interloper, just do what they say and please don’t blog about it because some of them are affluent members of society which is why they are wearing masks and capes when you enter the front gates with the password, “Fidelio.” I don’t get it either, so we’ll just leave it and hope they make one of those multi-casted movies where everyone’s plot-line intertwines and we get more insight into the lifestyle. I hope Cameron Diaz is in it. I love her.

Sapiosexual: This is me! I am a sapiosexual! This means you are turned on by the brain. The upside: It’s way less messy, you don’t have to worry about changing your sheets or shaving your pubes, your wit is your fuck meat and your discourse is the boudoir. The downside: Brains are liars and tricksters, and I’m talking about your very own noodle, which will project a whole technicolor fantasy based on no reality whatsoever. As a sapio, you will forever be disappointed, I have learned the hard way, I’M SO DUPED ALL THE TIME, so I am exploring this:

Heteroflexible: I don’t even really think I care about a stupid dick anymore. Even the seemingly nicest dude is an arrogant douche by virtue of the fact he holds the torch. They all have that sense of entitlement engrained in their behaviour even if they have manners, it’s always there. Recently, when I lay myself down for the nightly fap, I no longer fantasize of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson smothering me to death in a single thrust, I think of soft spoken Asian ladies with feathers tickling my ears, OKAY THAT VIETNAMESE EAR CLEANING IS MY THANG, I CAN’T HELP IT. I really, really want a wife.

Meyers Briggs: Yes, this is that personality test that employers make you take to determine if you are a laid-back slacker or a whining worker bee or a fucking asshole with a heart of gold. There are 16 possible combos. Fucking A-type AND Zen people are posting their scores on dating sites now, IT’S THE NEW HOROSCOPE. But even worse because so goddamn boring. People are proud of their scores the same way they are so proud that they are Scorpios. Have you ever noticed that for some reason Scorpios are the most puffed up in all the Zodiac about their sign, “Don’t cross me! I sting, LOL!” Oh fuck off, you pompous, tiny, feckless arachnid, you don’t know from sting, I can fucking make you prolapse your joke gelatinous innards just by staring you down and flaring my nostrils ever so slightly, bull powered. Anyway, Myers Briggs people are even more fanatical. I have perused profiles with details on what INFP is and that they may be looking for an ESTJ or at least a ENTP. OFFS (wait what? Oh For Fucks Sakes), like you didn’t lie all the way through the test because you had pussy and or employment advancement on your mind.

Me personally, if I have to reduce it to four letters, I am looking primarily for a DICK who gets/tolerates me or if that fails,and we all know that’s a long shot, I’ll take a LADY with a feather who will tickle my ear. I don’t care if that sounds weird, it’s the internet and anything goes. Until then OMFG, my internet crush never fails me:

Posted by Kristin Peterson. Categories: okCupid. Tags: dating, dating terms, friends with benefits, heteroflexible, Myers Briggs, OkCupid, Pink Floyd, polyamory, sapiosexual. 4 Comments

art of modern living

vodka, good times, urban tales, insomnia

Mastering the Art of Procrastination

Mastering the Art of Regret

Mastering the Art of Misandry

Mastering the Art of Self-Diagnosing: A Cautionary Tale

Mastering the Art of Living IRL (In Real Life, duh)

Mastering the Art of Burying the Body

Mastering the Art of Modern Suffering

Mastering the Art of Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition

Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation

Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)

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