Is That A Dumbbell In Your Pocket….?

Evangeline got to do a comic instead of a term paper for her graphic novel course at school…how awesome is that?  She left her Sharpies laying around so I started to doodle and made you a little story about what happened to me at the gym last week.  IT WASN’T EMBARRASSING AT ALL:

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Seriously, there was a tent in his shorts…AND I NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN!


A Burning Ring of Fire


I can’t stop staring at this photo. I want badly to be that lion.

I’m in limbo. I hate it. It’s my least favourite state of being, it’s so frustrating. I have angst in my pants and chewing my nails again. I’d rather be chased by a herd of weird looking horned beasts than be waiting for something that will almost happen, but maybe never, but hopefully will, eventually in bittersweet time, come into fruition. Fuck Zen Buddhism, I am gaping hole of wants.

It snowed today and it stayed all day, bring it on, I say, freeze all the things solid. Then my state of limbo might seem normal.

My gaping hole is frozen open, but with some kind of force field preventing anything from getting inside. You know, money and bones, I don’t even ask for a lot of either.

I fucking hate job hunting. Hey kids, here is a career path you might want to consider that isn’t medicine and you have a particularly cunty urge to play god with people’s lives: Go into the field of “Human Resources.” Apparently it is an actual thing you take at school then get a job at a big company where you can be the first orifice in the human centipede. The caveat is that you have to suck corporate dick so you can’t really breathe through your mouth either but at least it isn’t sewn flush on somebody else’s asshole. Good times.

Last week, I had the worst phone interview by a “human” resource dude from Company X who asked me the regular stock questions that I’m normally really good at answering like, for example, he asked this old chestnut: “What would your co-workers say about you?”  my stock answer reply: “I think they would say I am a team player” to which he replied, get this; “YOU THINK? OR YOU KNOW?”  I’ve been through a few of these phone interviews that they ask 5-6 standard questions to gage whether or not you’re drunk in the middle of the afternoon and coherent enough for a second interview. THEY ASK A QUESTION, YOU ANSWER IT, AND THEY MOVE TO THE NEXT. But this bozo was no corporate cocksucker, he marched to the beat of his own drummer. For each one of my answers, he would bombard me with questions like a toddler does when you’re trying to explain the most basic rudimentary life skill and they get all annoyingly inquisitive and they keep asking “BUT WHY?” when you tell them to brush their teeth with a toothbrush, not a tampon, and sit on the toilet, not in the bathtub, and wipe their bums with toilet paper, not a crayon, and wash their hands in the sink, not the dog bowl. That’s why we made up stuff like tooth fairies and Santa Claus and God’s doctrine so that there would be some invisible head of centipede of humanity and we wouldn’t have to answer so many fucking inane questions and just go on drinking more wine. Anyway, good job, Company X, for hiring a man with the mental capacity of a 3 year-old to weed out your potential employees, how very “Diversity Now!” of you, high five.


When I feel like this, all mangled up inside, but with a voracious appetite for flesh and blood, I need to talk to Jesus. He’ll usually calm me down as long as he isn’t in his self-absorbed mode and going on about how he has incorporated his ab workout into a leg day, I’m not kidding, this is the type of shit he needs to keep to himself or no one will ever love him. He has some serious issues (he lives in his mama’s basement!) but he is good for a couple of cleansing ales and a fresh perspective on life. He lives in the far west, and I live in the far east, so I hardly ever see him and he is not on the Facebook or Instagram, nor does he text because he has a really old Nokia, like from 10 years ago, without a keyboard, seriously. I don’t really trust an adult who does not have a Facebook account even if they don’t go on it, like what are they trying to hide? This lack modern social convention makes him a bit of an enigma but also really annoying because he never answers his phone, so he calls me when he feels like it. But somehow it’s always like he knows when I need him. He is a finely tuned machine when it comes to intuition. Yes, I will get to spew out my problems, he will nod his head and say something wise that will give me some little jizz nugget for thought but then it always ends up being the Jesus Show. who is he banging now and much more fish and foliage should he add to his sleeve tattoo.

We meet at the Court Jester Pub on Monday, he’s there early, and I haven’t seen him since early in the summer. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m attracted to him sexually because he often wears plaid shirts which I am crazy about along with that beard fetish, as you know from last week’s pussy post, but! he has shaved off his strange little goatee completely and! he is wearing what appears to be 3 plaid shirts, layered. Like Kanye West in his ridiculous new video!


Wtf is that all about? Multiple plaid shirts cancels out the appeal of the one plaid shirt, am I right? Freak.

As for Jesus on Monday, definitely would not hit it, and haven’t, so let’s just keep your thoughts of sexual tension in your own pants.

It’s like he reads my mind and first thing he says is, “I know, I know, I’m wearing clashing plaid, but it’s freezing outside and this top one has bullet proof pockets.”

“Whatever you say, Kanye. I guess you need the protection since you live in dodgy Junction where there’s only two Starbucks per block.”

So we ordered wings…not suicide not but a step above called, with a warning, “Jestercide.” he is a Latin-based beast and I am a Nordic low taster so I think we can handle it…. wait, I don’t “think,” I *know* we can. I don’t get who these people are who find things so intricately flavoured like biryani spice “too hot” but I mysteriously gave birth to two of them.

It turns out there is not enough beer in the world to put out the fire of Jestercide, it’s a sauce made out of ghost peppers. Those are those tiny, seemingly innocuous peppers that if you eat one you can lay on the ground and blow a hole through the ozone layer through any given orifice. You totally have to wear gloves after handling these satanic little fuckers, and speaking of orifices, do not attempt to touch one without washing your hands with paint thinner afterwards, trust. I normally suck the bone dry off a wing, but I am barely hanging on to my life, these little meat infernos are killing me, and I’m hiding some of them under a napkin. Tears are rolling down my eyes, they are intolerably piquant. EVEN JESUS WEPT. Lol. Oh, Kanye.

It was impossible to talk about anything else but how hot the wings were so when I told him, through my tears of physical pain, about my invisible force field of repellent energy that is causing me such angst, he just said, wiping sweat off his forehead with 3 layers of plaid sleeve, “You need a Mexican inside you,” then downed a whole pint of icy cold Keiths. That’s his stock answer for everything by the way. SIGH.

In the meantime, four days later, I have a ghost pepper radiating like an A-bomb inside me, and it’s still searing its way through my innards, A BURNING RING OF FIRE, and it hurts like a motherfucker, but at least it’s something, and maybe if it makes its way out my ass once and for all, it will get around to burning a hole through my force field.

And speaking of breaking the force field, here’s my girl, Katniss:

Deep Sea Divers Wanted


“I’ve got more than enough to eat at home,” he said aaaand all jaws in the world dropped. I don’t even have to tell you the context of this sentence.

For the entire week all I could think is: ROB FORD IS A DEEP SEA DIVER! This makes me love him just a little bit. I’m sorry, don’t hate me, hear me out.

And then of course I had to go and imagine it all in detail and since I barely know what his wife even looks like, I had to be the recipient. Your turn to fantasize with me. THE VISUAL. I’ll wait here a few seconds while you catch up (p.s. he is wearing a white undershirt and blue checkered boxers and socks, especially the socks, so it’s not so much like be devoured by flailing mounds of indiscernible pink manatee flesh). Think of him eating an ice cream cone. It’s better if you imagine him inhaling it in one gulp with his eyes closed rather than licking it slowly and looking up at you all sexy like after each tongue stroke because GROSS.

Sorry to make you go through that, here is some eye bleach to help make it go away:

The Most Adorable Massage Ever

I know he’s probably even lying even lying about his at-home taco buffet and he hasn’t been near his wife in years because married men are like that. Still he made the proclamation that he “eats pussy.” Rob Ford dines on sushi and that alright by me. Don’t worry, I won’t vote for him in the next election for his box lunch. But A for effort, RoFo.

As for the thing in question (we’re talking about cunnilingus, we are all grown ups here):

Occasionally you do come across a dude who has crossed that off the menu and what’s up with that?

I’ve always been crazy attracted to men with beards because I assumed it was their way of subliminally expressing their prowess in the lady licking department. The bigger the beard the more wolf-like their appetite. Even the little douchey caterpillar-type ones under the lip, they are even called pussy dusters by the way, are alright by me.

And then it happened, a mutation of my theory, that one with a post modern Jesus-type goatee told me he doesn’t go ever downtown. LIKE NEVER HAS AND NEVER WILL. His masterful cocksmithery alone was enough, in his not so humble opinion. I was like all mind-blown, he needs to shave off his beard because of false advertising. It even had shards of silver hairs in it like he had some wisdom and would be good at it. But no, not ever, never ever, he said vehemently. What a waste. And by the way dudes out there of the same ilk, don’t expect a lady to get all Pompeii on your ass if you don’t reciprocate. Expect nothing more than a limp starfish, just saying.

I understand not everybody can be a pussy whisperer. I know, I have been lucky enough to have been on the top of Mount Vesuvius that time it exploded lava. THAT ONE TIME, THOUGH. There is much technique to learn but it’s okay to just to do the alphabet, you don’t even have to go to Z, J or K will do, and then move it along. WE JUST WANT TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED IN A WAY WE HAVE GROWN EXPECTED BY WATCHING SO MUCH INTERNET PORN. It’s really not that hard, and I get it, if you hate the taste so bad, pop a lozenge, that is why they call it “Fisherman’s Friend,” son. Oh my god.


In the meantime, my daughter has been having boy problems. We can talk like adults and she reads this blog without cringing, just so you know. She is almost twenty and is in third year U of T studying English and other such topics like human sexuality. She writes soulful, thought-provoking poems that shock my mind how smart they are. She has been encouraging me and I’ve been writing some poetry lately and have a little oeuvre stored in my laptop which she read without asking: “Mama, you should put them in your blog!”  My poems are so very, very embarrassing! Which means I will share one with you that I will leave at the bottom of the post because you know how love expose everything on the internet. But just so you know, I do keep some shit on my vault, I don’t share everything, so keep those emails coming.

Anyway, because of her boy problems which I won’t get into in much detail, we spent the weekend doing girl time. We watched a movie on Netflix called “Nowhere Boy” about the early days of John Lennon. And we both DIED at the actor, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, move the fuck over, RPatzz:


NOTICE THE FACIAL HAIR! Oh, I bet you anything he knows his ABC’s and eats his all fish tacos with relish. He is twenty-three years old AND! Get this: he is married to a 46-year-old, I AM DYING HERE! There is hope, that is all I will say about that.

Back to her and everybody else’s boy problems, though…they are universal, aren’t they? Why don’t they call? Don’t they know it’s the weekend? How come when you get upset, they back away? Why is it they hunt you down and then when they have you, all they do when they are with you is text their buddies and make plans to go elsewhere?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. You know I’m not a man-hater even though I have been put through the ringer more than once and enough times to be a bitter old cow, I am not. More menfolk read my blog than women (I think it’s because it’s like the of reading their sister’s diary) and I love you all but why are you all so very stupid? I sometimes think you have evolved from manly, hairy cavemen to giant, manscaping baby men. I blame modern technology for the demise of fortitude so no, it’s not your fault that all you can do is smoke pot and play video games. Women are so aggressive now, I’d probably hide in a basement, too, if I had to face one. But we have needs, people, so be attentive and you know what to do. It gets easy with practise.

Also on our girls weekend, we played with makeup which is by far my favourite thing about packing snapper. She is doing that wingy eyeliner thing and I am now wearing “Fire and Ice” red lipstick. I just have to make sure it doesn’t smear or get on my teeth, otherwise I think it’s F*I*E*R*C*E and hopefully sends out the correct subliminal message. That is all.

Here is my poem:

weird wolf

your hair is flames

from your brain

which smolders

a fire

so steady

it guides you

through the forest


your path is beaten down

by lesser beasts

who have been there before

and then elsewhere

where they settled

for chowder from a can



Supersize Slurpees

and whatever else convenient

wrapped in a package

at the corner store

in the darkened dusk

there is a flash of light

the brightest orange

you have seen the strange bird

its feathers shining, iridescent

it flies above you

its wings flutter

sending a shiver down spine

it stops you dead in your tracks

your heart skips

for a moment

Its seduction is palpable

its eyes catches yours

imbibing your spirit

the part that is vulnerable

a tip of red lipstick

slips out

the air smells of melted wax

and musky perfume

and dead leaves

the want hurts


the heart is a lonely hunter

and fear eats the soul

and if it was more work than it was worth

you would never know

there is an all-you-can-eat for $9.99 chinese buffet

with a beverage of your choice

in the strip mall across the street

chicken fried rice!

and mounds of gristle and glutenous globs

of cornstarched sauce like melted plastic

and an Arizona Ice Tea

the bottle is so pretty

and a fortune cookie that reads:


Soft Kitty, Bitter Kitty


I represent the cat in the foreground in this post modern tale of Noah’s Ark Redux.

This story about the Remainder Man, he’s the orange tabby mounting that patchy 43-year-old kitty…Quick recap in case you are new: he’s the one I tell you about sometimes because I see him occasionally when he is on a “break” from his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch but not in the good way. I have recently found out there are levels of “crazy bitch” by the menfolk at my gym, where I have been hanging out a little too much since I was fired from the dusty box store two weeks ago WHICH I AM BITTER ABOUT….STILL….Last week, I went to two other dusty box stores TO GET A WHIFF OF THE SWEET SMELL OF LUMBER and to strut through the cement floor race track, this time in high heels, not steel toes, just to change up the game. It didn’t really have the same effect, though, and the people who worked there looked like dull-witted Bitch Stewie replicates, kind of dead inside which is what the dust bin does in the end, robs you of your soul, as the legend has it. But! It had the opposite effect on me, it blasted away the concrete all that was blocking my mojo chokra and now I have to go out of my way and walk into random lumber yards and soon Christmas tree lots just for maintenance. It’s all about the wood, kittens, I miss it so. I AM BITTER AS FUCK! Although, I will say my heart has been warmed by some of my old co-workers who have read this blasphemous blog that caused my demise and shouted out their support via the interwebs. Some people you might not think would even care can be surprisingly awesome, and yet others are so alarmingly disappointing, they wear their masks well. That is what I took away from dusty box: There are some really good peeps in the world’s barnyard but most are just vapid, corporate cocksucking sheep…baaaahhhh, because mediocrity makes the farm run so much more efficiently.

Anyway, it turned out that exactly the same time I was fired, Remainder Man and his girlfriend broke up which is nothing unusual because it happens every 2 months. That’s when the levee in her left ovary (that’s the cranky one) breaks and she picks a fight so bad, he storms out, gets a bottle of rum that he washes down the Diet Coke (I know, barffff) alone in his basement apartment that nobody has been to because it is fuck knows where and he calls me #inadrunkenstupor that night. It’s clockwork! They don’t talk for exactly the next 5 days and I get to go out with him for wings and beers when he is hungover, always the following day, where he will chase the dragon with 2 beers to my 1, I usually have 2 so he will have 4, and if I have a third then he will break the pattern and have 8, it is a consistent set pattern of drunken math that will later end up with him text messaging a selfie of his chode at half mast. I will call him and sing “Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty, Little Ball of Fur” and he will pass out. Lather, rinse repeat, every two months.

This time, day 5 came and went and then before we knew it, nearly two weeks went by and he and I were enjoying daily beers daily on a daily basis. It was daily-riffic. I almost felt like I had a daily purpose beside the heinous daily activity of job hunting. I HATE JOB HUNTING, I AM SO BITTER, UGH!

Last Thursday, while we were having an afternoon pint(s), marvelling over the fact that his breakup just might stick this time, he gets a call from some -as he describes- “girl” (she is technically middle-aged) he has known since high school, who needs him to clean out some eavestrough or some such shit. I have an eavestrough, too, that could use a quick sweep but neither here not there. Remainder Man has womenfolk all crawling all over him like ticks on a deer, which, no surprise, was the big boner of contention with his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch* in a bad way. It’s hard to tell which came first, the jealous or the crazy, but if you want to hang with the Remainder Man, you better get used to him ogling twenty year old girls in yoga pants. He is who he is and if you can’t handle it, you have to dick wrangle some dude without eyes. Good luck with that, sister. They all look at ass but some hide it better, it’s just that Remainder Man has the impulse of a toddler and the enthusiasm of a puppy. Which I personally find endlessly amusing.

So Remainder Man goes on his little mission “cleaning the eavestrough” and the next morning texts me:

“I’m still at that girl’s house! we woke up naked, where u?”

‘I AM AT T&T ON CHERRY EATING SHRIMP BALLS, WTF HAPPENED?” (I am a Kanye West cap crazy texter)

“lol we got drunk and I tried but went limp twice lol”


“I tried but am coma toast, we ordered thai, maybe after.”



Texting sucks. He spent the entire weekend with her, texting me what they were eating, what progress he was making. It turns out she is not “that kind of girl” who bangs on the first date, although dry humping on the side of the leg is just fine. Amazing. Someone got the rules just right. Kudos, sister, well played. And now he is all like in that holding pattern of blue ball hell that simulates love. TWO WEEKS AND HE HAS A NEW GIRLFRIEND AND I STILL HAVE NO JOB AND I JUST WANT MY PHONE TO RING FOR ONCE AND IT NOT BE FROM SOME RECORDED MESSAGE SAYING I WON A DISNEY CRUISE! I am bitter AND frustrated. I am a crazy bitch which by the way:


I’ve been spending some more time back at my gym where the best thing about it is the bar and you can easily go there and have random conversations with people like they did in the olden days before cell phones. I’ve gotten an earful from the old squash dudes who think of me as a fellow dude but with lady fuck parts. Actually I don’t even think they know I have a concave dick, they just tell me everything like I know what’s going on. This week I learned:

Cialis is better than Viagra. it works faster! Lasts longer!

Describing the shape of their poop makes them laugh really hard.

When their phone goes off and it’s their wife, their eyes roll.

When their phone goes off and it’s their girlfriend, their eyes roll.

Crazy bitches are the best. NOW I AM LISTENING, what exactly is crazy? A crazy bitch someone in a black wig and no bra who will kidnap you from a diner during your Friday lunch hour and drives you to a motel off the highway and strips you down and handcuffs you to the bed. While she rifles through your wallet, she finds your business card and calls your office to say you won’t be in that afternoon. And then you bang your brains out for the rest of the day. Afterwards, she takes her wig off and she is blond and you end up going with her to her high school reunion the next day where you get beat up within an inch of your life by her jealous ex-husband who is just out of prison and they end up driving away together leaving you bleeding to near death. It’s all so scary but when you go back to work on Monday, all you can think about is her, the crazy bitch who took you out of the doldrums of your boring day. (P.S. she comes back wearing a lot of jewelry and still no bra, it’s the plot of “Something Wild.”) It’s fiction, Charlie, fiction.

A Crazy Bitch in a Bad Way is the one who will call you on the phone and ask you to pick up some fried chicken on the way home and then remind you that you have to go to her sister’s for dinner on Sunday so there will be no football watching and that you need get winter tires for her car and why haven’t you noticed her new haircut and short hair is easier to keep up so fuck you and why are you not home yet and stop snoring and don’t chew so loudly and why do you trim your pubes when you haven’t sex with her in six months anyway?  In other words, bitches just can’t win.










A Portrait of a Sad Clown


I know, Rob Ford…it’s not exactly fresh hell, more like “what else is new” kind of hell, but something has got to give with this spectacular fat fuck of a hot mess, like a coronary artery bursting firework display, you would think. But no, he keeps going, wheezing, sweating, snorting, squealing, urinating, text-messing, fake apologizing…. tralalala, he goes on and on, and gets to keep his job for smoking crack AND WHATNOT, but little old me gets fired from a dusty box store for writing a salty blog that my Polish mother reads, by the way, and laughs. And well, well, well, look what happened to me: a blood vessel burst in my left eye. Okay yes, I enhanced it a wee bit using a crude photoshop technique because a lady needs a filter for the baggy eyes and ruddy tear ducts but I assure you, I look like prize-fighter, holy stress balls.

And don’t get in my grill about me picking on fat people. Ford’s fatness is not the satiated corpulence of a man who enjoys mama’s good eats, I hope to marry a dude like that some day. Ford’s fatness is not jolly, his inflamed physique is the manifestation of his giant assed ego ready to explode its venom. At least that is what we judgey-wudgey citizens of Toronto project upon him.

I don’t spend as much time thinking about Rob Ford the way y’all do. I am thoroughly enjoying the pageantry of buffoonery. Nary a “tsk tsk” has crossed my lips. In all of it, I see his humanity AND! believe it or not, I think his blatant display of fuckery is healthy. At least you can see it! Most of these types in high places keep it more under control but they are equally as guilty of everything he does, if not more. Trust me, I’ve seen an underbelly far worse than Rob Ford’s and insidious evil is the most despicable in my opinion. Is he a sociopath? Or is his fatness the indicator that he eats his feelings, ergo he is human after all? Aren’t we all human? Or are some more human than others? One thing I will say: Rob Ford, crackass, jackass, drunkard, is still a better mayor than David Miller, just saying. Suck on that.

Will Toronto survive this? Yes,definitely. (That was me shaking the 8-Ball app from my i-Phone, I am an addict, that is a post for later) I wish you’d all just come to the dark side with me, kittens, and enjoy the spectacle.


So it’s been a full week since I got fired from the dust bin. I’ve had the weirdest cocktail of emotions over it. Not what I expected. I am most profoundly sad, but not the kind of sad that makes you want to crawl under covers and eat ice cream. I’m having a hard time eating at all, although me and Rob Ford would make great drinking buddies. The dank air of mirthlessness that hangs in my house (some other stuff of sadz going on) makes me want to get out and shake shit up. So I’ve been going to my gym like twice a day. Get this, I pretend I’m back at work and I go on the stairs that don’t end (I’m up to 20 minutes which is brutal)  and then I go in the iron room and pretend the dudes in there aren’t gay and I smile at them (gotta keep the mojo up) and then I lift 45 pound dumbbells from one side of the room to the next to simulate the haul of 5-gallon pails of paint. I slap my legs with 20 pound weights so that I maintain the bruise pattern on my outer thighs from walking down an aisle with two gallons in each hand. Then I throw little pieces of paper along the ballet barre and I bend over and pick them like they are paint chips that savage customers throw around willy nilly. This is a genius work out, you should try it instead of that elliptical you are so crazy about but is dumber than a side salad with a bacon cheeseburger. The whole thing is under an hour but simulates an 8 hour work day minus all the Fishermen’s Friend I used to suck on, I now think that was a metabolic booster so I’m going to take that up again. This morning I took a restorative yoga class, though, because everyone needs some gentleness and tonight is Dance Party! where a gay man will teach me to finally twerk proper.

On the second day after being fired, and after crying randomly in the steam room, that blood vessel popped in my left eye. This happened to me before, the last time I was profoundly sad, when I was blubbering over a dude who dumped me a few years back. It actually happened when I was in real estate school, taking some crazy advanced math class and I was so engrossed in solving some loan to value ratio that a little pop-sound went off in my head, I thought it my brain having an aha! moment, because I had just come up with the correct solution. But no, it was just a popped vessel and I didn’t know that the white of my right eye that had just turned a sinister shade of crimson. I went up to the teacher, a cute Armenian man named Norair, to show him my genius but instead of giving me a gold star, he was all like :”WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” when he looked at my face. I was so scared, I started shaking, I thought I had done something really stupid. Even if I seem like a badass rebel, I am not. I was not raised by wolves, which might be what you have thought all this time if you have been reading this blog. I was actually taught to respect shit and at that moment I thought my teacher who I had a slight crush on because that is how I roll, was admonishing me. But he wasn’t, he thought I had an aneurysm or something serious and took me to the washroom where he showed me my eye. And I was like “oh wow, freaky! But I feel fine…” and his hands were resting on my shoulders and as I turned around and he kissed me, his lips at first softly grazing mine, tickling me with his Armenian five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning, and then he tongue plunged deep in my mouth, our tongues probing, our bodies pressed together like a tightly wrapped shwarma…okay I made the kiss part up. I AM A WRITER, FUCK YOU! He did insist I go to a walk-in clinic in a strip mall down the street where they were all like, it’s really nothing to worry about, go back to class.

Anyway, everyone has that one person that took your heart and broke it and then maybe shat on it a little bit before flushing it down the toilet. You have to claim responsibility of that toxic relationship also, like maybe you were hurling out some projectile vomit and not aiming for that proverbial toilet on purpose and maybe deliberately shooting poison shrapnel in their eyes or their mouth or some other vulnerable orifice. It happens, but it’s a growing experience, your  clean up your side of the street (I got that gem of a line from Gwyneth Paltrow when Brad Pitt dumped, can you even imagine those two rubbing fuck parts *shudders*) and you move forward and make decisions how to handle it when you run into that person again. Well that dude I was blubbering about years ago in what was, looking back, AN INFINITE SADNESS, goes to my gym and has been all this time. So we have run into each other regularly. Sometimes it has been superficially friendly, not without tension, but mostly it has been a forced ignore, like dogs on the street who won’t look at each other. You should see Betty pretend a Rottweiller tied up in front of Starbucks doesn’t exist, her head rolls sideways into her fat scruff like a sleeping pigeon. Hilarious bitch.

Because the gym is a soap opera, I knew through the grapevine that he was married and had a baby recently  which was fine, I HAVE A DATE WITH A SOLID DILDO EVERY NIGHT, so I am A-OK. (My mama hates when I talk about sex, lol). But I lived in fear and dread of running into the family unit because it is bound to happen sooner or later. And how do you act and what do you say?

So the day after my blood vessel burst, my sadness was carrying me around like a good buddy, enveloping me like those ubiquitous Snow Goose parkas that we are about to be plagued with, hello winter. My gym has a bar and a forlorn ho needs a beer(s). And there he was, sitting his usual spot at the bar. FIGHT OR FLIGHT???? My mind shrieked because it’s like a hysterical fishwife, always questioning, my body sometimes has to shut it down by pretending it’s a dude and scratching its phantom balls like it doesn’t care. But this time my sadness piped up in its little sweet voice said; “Fuck It Purple (that’s an inside paint expression meaning: Go Girl, Who Gives a Fuck) just go sit beside him and talk to him and just don’t forget to breathe. You’ve got this.”

And so I did, and guess what, kittens, it was like taking a two hour piss after holding it in for 8 years! It was the best thing ever, my sadness even took off for a while, we had a couple of beers and laughed at Rob Ford. Get this: He went to high school with the Ford brothers! How cool is that? So many stories he has. It was easy and breezy and when his wife and baby showed up later, it was actually really nice to meet them. And if they noticed the burst blood vessel in my eye, they were kind enough not freak out over it.

So that was one good thing that happened last week and other than the that my sadness has transformed from a warm fuzzy parka into a scratchy mohair scarf. It’s annoying me now. Fuck It Purple, I’m going to have to take it off soon *scratches balls* because crying so boring. Let’s get some anger on, maybe in the form a a clown suit, and turn it all into a screenplay.

Aaaaand here is the best sad clown of them all…you were right, Gary:

Gravity, It’s Yer Friend


So yeah, I got fired from my job today because of you, rat bastard internet, for giving me the forum to vent, rave, tell stories, lay my shit out, share my feelings because heaven forbid, someone might get offended. But! I still love you and have no regrets because I just don’t. I’m too old to be compliant and that job had a shelf life, let’s not kid ourselves. The last shift before I was sent to the principal’s office  manager for some protocol fuckery, I got into a staring contest with a can of white base Glidden paint and it won. It said: “I got you, bitch” and I was actually truly terrified for a few moments. I can’t be slinging paint forever! My knees will give out and my hands are wretched and I have a callous the size of a plum tomato on my pinky toe. What is my game plan? Existential angst times infinity, hookers, that is what I felt at that moment until I gave into popping another Fishermen’s Friend into my mouth. I had a lozenge salad on the counter at work that is comprised of Fishermen’s Friend, Halls, and Werthers. I was totally trying to go cold turkey on those things but I have an addiction, sir, and they make me feel alive and ready to pipe up and say the shit I gotta say.

That very same day my fate was sealed and I didn’t even know it. This blog is like just my dog, they both give me great comfort but they are both such assholes. I can’t take my dog for a walk without major embarrassment with her pulling at the leash and barking randomly like a crazy bitch and this blog does exactly the same thing. But I love them both so very much! And at night when my dog is asleep, she curls on my feet and makes sweet snoring sounds. So peaceful and serene. And I figure my blog, when it sleeps at night, does the same thing that Sandra Bullock is doing in that still from the movie “Gravity,” kind of just hovers and floats out in space. Maybe somebody notices and reads it because they just clicked on a link to “Kate Upton’s tits.” It’s so random, but they are my words and they are out there, floating and snoring out in the blogoshpere.

During my “suspension” aka pre-firing holiday weekend, I went to see “Gravity” at the Scotiabank Theatre downtown. I have to say, no one is less impressed at a 3-D cinematic experience more than me, kids. I have an astigmatism in my left eye so I am convinced the extra money is not worth it for my impaired vision. I can’t see peripherally and the the little zings of debris that pop out of the screen are too few and far between to make this a worthwhile, just saying, soooooo not worth the money, $18 and $20 for parking, that is just crazy town. You could totally get away with Netflixing this on your laptop. Yes I am getting old because I avoid the theatre but I don’t care.


What an amazing, awesome, disturbing, inspiring movie though, 3-D glasses aside. Fear, anxiety, nausea, and dread and then some bravery all rolled into 90 minutes of nail-biting. I think everyone needs to see this movie when they are faced with the unknown. I know, it’s all relative, Sandra Bullock is floating precariously in motherfucking space, sucking up all the oxygen in her helmut and I am in the manager’s office, sucking on my very last Fisherman’s Friend, at that home improvement box store that will remain nameless, being terminated. She wins at fear factor but both of us need the spirit guide of George Clooney, some vodka, and a couple of parachutes.

Actually being fired was so strange and surreal that I wrote a poem about it, gather round, kids:

Waiting my fate

He is more than an hour an a half late

Did he say 9 or 10?

It’s 10:30 now, wtf?

I’m sure he said 9

He’s forgotten all about me which means everything will be fine

Wow, it’s almost 11

Maybe I should come back later, nothing rhymes with 11, yo I’m just going to go downstairs

Oh, there he is

Manager boss turning the corner with his Tim Hortons coffee cup in tow

His omnipresent rueful smile

Says he means business

He looks nothing like George Clooney

But a little Tom Hanks, kind of, but with lighter hair

Would not hit it, just saying

I stopped rhyming fyi because things are getting real

My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking

For some reason I am carrying a blank piece of paper

What for again?

Oh yes! So I could write a note

Saying I was here at 9

And you weren’t and it’s 11 and I’m going to go home but will come later like everything is N*O*R*M*A*L

He says (get this):


And now that I am writing this poem, I think:


Except my fate is in his hands and at the time I’m thinking:


Five minutes later, I have somehow accumulated some saliva

And grown some phantom testicles

That carry me up the stairs

To his office

Where he states my fate


I wish I was a better poet, maybe something to work on during my down time. Anyway, being fired is not a great feeling and being fired for a bullshit vague reason is even more perplexing but in the end, I don’t really care all that much because as I said, it was a job with a shelf life and a launching pad for other endeavours. Yes, that is how I roll with the punches, don’t look back, ho! I hate the expression “everything happens for a reason,” in this case, it’s probably true that I created my own fate. So there’s that to suck on. I’m really gonna miss my job, I cannot lie. I cried in his office and if it wasn’t for the graciousness of another manager, I may have left bitter and angry. I’m going to miss my co-workers and the little games we played to make the day more amusing. This was the good clean one called Word of the Day: Pick an odd random word like “horse” and the challenge is that by the end of your shift, you had to use that word to a customer in conversation. You need to bring it up with gracefully like; “Oh, this mahogany coloured stain you chose is the exact shade like of hide of the HORSE I had when I was an adolescent girl. Oh how I love to ride him, his name was Tyrell.” Hilarity will ensue, I promise, if you are five minutes shy of your shift ending and you haven’t said the WOD yet, literally, you will just look at a customer and say “horse,” “lizard,” or “snowflake” for no reason whatsoever and they will look at you like you are a crazy mofo. GOOD TIMES!

“You made the department fun and everyone loved working with you,” is what she said, “whatever you do, you will be great.” Which were kind and comforting words that made me feel a little less afraid when I walked out the door …She is my George Clooney…I need a find new space station…

As I left the dust and the smell of lumber behind me, I realized fuck yeah, I got my mojo back and no one can take that away. So there’s that.

A Portrait of a Young Lady (Age 20)

img037That’s me at age twenty, what’s going on in my head, who the fuck knows. I seem kind of happy but I was probably worried about when some stupid French Canadian dude would call me on a rotary phone without an answering machine. Also it looks like was most likely trying to grow out a haircut which is the Groundhog story of my life and obviously had no issues with ironing clothes which remains the same a billion years years later. And if I do say so myself, I did rock the best eyebrows EVAR and too bad I didn’t have the technology back then to Instagram #demcaterpillars. They would have had twenty billion likes in the context of 1980s, #amirite #BrookeShields.

My daughter, Evangeline, is twenty and my new BFF from the Deep, Jessica, is the same age, both born in that industrious worker bee year of 1993.  Evangeline and Jessica are both off-the-charts smart in that way that modern children are: The wave of humanity that was born before 1980’ish have brains made of made with the consistency of moist popcorn and crusty cheese but the babies that came after that are intellectually embedded with industrial strength hard wire and that amazing expanding foam sealant, hence their ability to fix your remote control out of “closed caption” mode with their left hand whilst sexting their boyfriends with their right. I can’t even figure out which channel “Two Broke Girls” is on and if I did have a boyfriend, he would probably not want my calloused, gnarly hands near him. Those young hos sure know their way around the Shoppers Drugmart and Sephora in order to be all shiny and new, I am too goddamn lazy for all that, most of the time. However, both my 20-year-old mentors have convinced me to buy body butter in order to have soft skin, get bangs trimmed regularly, and actually brush the hair so it doesn’t shed every where. I have so much to learn from the youth, it’s just a matter of applying myself.

When I was twenty, I worried about boys, clothes, makeup, hair, my university education, in that order. There was no internet to educate or placate, and we, as a band of youth, didn’t really care about environmental issues and we didn’t have LOLCats or communicate in memes. We were a product of the plastic generation, we didn’t invent shit, that was the job of the Baby Boomer trail blazers, we tail-enders just went along with it and bought all the crap and then blithely rode the wave, until this happened:

Evangeline recently said to me straight up and in angst after reading all that Monsanto propaganda on the internet for the last couple of years:  “You ate all the GMOs that gave me asthma, eczema, and anxiety disorders.”

Me (always on the defensive): “But I only ate one Pop Tart ever in my life.”  I also ate a bazillion Cheetos and drank a milliton of Diet Coke when Aspartame first burst out of the rodeo, I am that old and that dumb. Ugh, who knew back then? She is absolutely right, I am arguably part of the worst, most feckless and mindless generation in the history of the human race, The Slackers suck balls.

The portrait of Evangeline at age 20 is that of a post-modern Rosie the Riveter out to change the world. I am just so relieved that somebody has a plan because I am way too lazy to even google what a GMO is…that wikipedia page? TL;DR.

And then there is the portrait of Jessica last Sunday night at work, her arse propped up on the Paint Dept drive thru fence, hovering over the tint machine, wearing plastic gloves and wielding a scraper, and whilst she gouges up the dried-up globs of colorant, you could totally see her mighty triceps at work. She is cleaning around the guts of the dispenser like a boss and then there is me, on the other side, spritzing a water bottle and just swirling magenta and yellow around with my bare fingers, creating “art” and then pretending it is makeup and smearing it on my face, wiping the rest orange bib. She yells at me: “FUCK KRISTIN! THIS IS NOT A JOB FOR YOU!”

They are the generation that will clean the mess and forge ahead. I do have some niblets wisdom to share but they are smarter than me as I am now and most definitely waaaaaay ahead of me when I was their age.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and guide myself with my old lady smarts and then maybe I would have saved myself some grief. But whatever, everyone needs to learn from experience. It was a rocky road but it’s all good now, sort of. Or maybe I’m just used to the peril. But just for fun and blog fodder, if I had any wisdom for my younger self, I would send these pro-tips through the time machine:

1. About those boys that you waste so much time fretting over: Don’t worry so much if they call or not, you will forget most of their names anyway, I’m not even kidding. Remember that dude you dated at twenty? He was French and 3 inches shorter than you but that’s all you will even remember about him aside from his Jack Rabbit banging style. They will come and go, get used to it and for fucksake don’t get too attached.  You will have some good times and some wicked dry spells. Become more ambidextrous because that swirl and twirl thing you do with your right hand will get boring soon. Hey! Just had a million dollar idea: The Dildo of the Month Club! Stay stimulated by having a new vibrator in the mail every month. Genius. But like a true Slacker, I will do nothing about it.

2. Stay away from tequila. Every physical injury you will sustain is a direct result from tequila or shots or Jaegermeister. You will break your wrist, sprain your ankles tenfold, crack your tailbone, shave off your eyebrows (why did you do that?) and stub countless toes. You are so stupid and I can’t believe I still have to remind you to this day.

3. You know how babies and small children make you nervous? Guess what? Your maternal instincts will kick in and you will give birth to a girl and a boy. A million dollar family for you! You are actually going to be a kickass awesome mom because they will grow up to be smart, kind, and thoughtful young people who you actually like to have around. And it’s not because you got lucky, you cracked the code of effective parenting which is talking to them like they are smarter than you and not giving them a reason to rebel. So kudos to you. Your future self will be a great mom but! you will be a shit wife. Sorry about that.

4. You will have maybe 12 good hair days in your entire life. Maybe 14, tops. Sorry about that, too.

5. Thong underwear. Never even once. I’m begging you, do not pick up that Victoria Secret catalogue from the dentist office and start ordering lacy lingerie that you will never wear and will clutter your drawers and taunt you for years to come. LACY BRAS ARE ITCHY AND THONGS ARE NOT COMFORTABLE!

6. Brace yourself for Age 37. Your mojo goes on steroids. I can’t even tell you what to do because you are clearly out of your mind and you won’t listen anyway. Just a heads up is all and for godsake, wear at least some underwear when you are wearing a skirt. Oh my God.

7. You will maintain the brain of a 12 year-old pubescent boy which is awesome but you need to remember to stay out of the sun and take of your skin because you are going to become very vain about maintaining your youthful appearance. Fucking Botox is expensive! I know you don’t even know what that is yet but trust me, you better start a fund for that now because it’s 12 dollars a unit and you need at least 25 on your elevens. You will know what sort of math fuckery I am talking about in due time. Too bad Dr. Singh is married because he would have been a good catch. STOP SQUINTING, BITCH!

8. You know how in high school you got in trouble for drawing dirty cartoons in math class? This sort of subversive behaviour will be a constant in your life. You will find your voice and say things out loud that maybe you shouldn’t. This will lead to much embarrassment and cringe memories that will keep you up at night. But you can’t stop or shut up, it’s like some giddy force is compelling you to write a blog that reveals all your secret thoughts and share them over the internet for all to read. I do not know what is wrong with you but keep up the good work.

In the end, little ho, you don’t need to fret so much. You have a good family and you will make very good friends and keep some of them you have already have. Yes, you will be misunderstood by some people but don’t worry about them. They are the ones who when they read “Animal Farm” in high school thought it was a story of talking barnyard pigs, not a satyrical allegory of the Russian Revolution. Haters gonna hate and fuck ’em if they can’t take joke. But for the most part, you will find love and support from your close peeps and even some strangers from far way places in the deep, dark internet. Remember this always: You is kind, you is smart, you is important.