Tag Archives: birthdays

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?





The Plight of the Remainder Man



So yeah, my birthday came and went and I didn’t dry up as expected. On the eve of the big day, the gods delivered an exploding magnum of sweet menses nectar that I welcomed with a fist pump: “Yesssss!!! Still full of fossil fuel!” Only to be shot down by my friend, Ask Yahoo: “Your period is like a geyser? That’s a sign of menopause, ho!”  Whatevs.

As you may know, if you are on my tail of tales, I turned 50 on May 11.  I was all freaked and couldn’t even say the number, it came out like “fuh” then graduated to “Fuhfff-tuh” but now I am saying it every where I go like I have Tourettes.  On my actual birthday I began to own the whole ragged mess.

“I’m 50!” I blurted out to no one in particular as I sat in the ladies’ washroom stall at The Only Cafe.

“Fuck yeah,” the feet waiting outside in front of me said, “My mother is 50. She looks fab and she can still ride a bike.”

“That’s awesome! And I can still wipe my own bum!” I said, walking out of the stall.  It turned out that the feet in front of me was one of my daughter’s friends, age 19, who was at the bar to see her play a solo show.

“Oh my God,” she gasped (not really, but it’s my blog) and she really, honestly, truly did say: “You don’t look 50, I thought you were about 35.” What a dear, sweet, stupid girl. I thanked her and gave her a hug, smothering her with my expired mom tits and went back to the bar. It was a good birthday, once I started pronouncing “fifty” properly, my friends and family spoiled me rotten, buying me lunch, dinner, beers, a golden skull, good old money, and my beloved Elizabeth Arden’s PREVAGE, holy cow. But I don’t like to milk a birthday. There’s nothing worse than a grown-ass adult who makes a big production of their birthday like they are the second coming of a newfangled Narcissist Jesus. Hear’s the rule, people: Over the age of 10, NO MORE LASER QUEST FOR YOU!

Anyway, this is just a segue to what I really want to hash out, analyze, make pro con list, confer, deliberate, and bore you to the point where you yell at me: JUST MARRY HIM ALREADY, like I have a choice. As I have blathered on about before, I have a “Remainder Man.”  He is that platonic-ish male friend I have mentioned who parks his trailer in my driveway and buys me beer and wings AND who I have known for many, many, many years, who I may or may not be actually in love with, but let’s discuss. Thankfully he doesn’t read this blog so we can yap about him freely, but I’m going to refer to him as R-Man to protect his identity just in case because he has a wide circle.  This is going to be messy and disjointed so I’m just going to do this in list form and you just follow along or close your eyes and think of England or check out Perez or whatever:

1. R-Man did not call me on my birthday, which is fine, he is a man and birthdays are filed in their brains right behind bullshit and boring chore lists. But he did call me the next day which was Mother’s Day which was by far and away a more thoughtful and sweeter gesture, no? He took me out that afternoon as a Hangover Helper and we drank copious sums of cleansing ale.  He told me about how he was at another dude’s 40th birthday party (I know, right? It’s the men that need all the birthday cuddles). At the party, R-Man was talking it up to all the ladies as that is the R-Man’s modus operandi, he flirts like a fucker on fire, and his girlfriend ended up punching him in the mouth. Of course, that is what a crazy jealous bitch will do and I completely get it, been there and used my acrylic finger nails to swat at some dude’s face once, but you cannot change the stripes of a tiger. Just saying. Also she really needs to go. I hate her with a venomous passion.

2. R-Man’s tiger stripes amuse me. Over the years I have learned his checking out other women is like his Tourettes and sometimes he will mutter “vagina” in public when there is a lull in the conversation. This makes me laugh and laugh because I am actually a 12 year-old boy trapped inside a 50 year-old lady meat costume. But maybe this means we are just like bros and we should go huntin’ and fishin’ and pee standing up together.

3. Whenever R-Man walks into a room, I feel so happy that if I had a tail, it would wag vigorously. Now hold on, is this just platonic like dog love or is it romantic? My heart does NOT do that beat skipping thing which might be over-rated. Now that I am old and know better, is that fluttery feeling just a flight or fight reaction to some sociopath that you really need to stay away from? And if my tail wags, is my pussy far behind? I’m just asking, I don’t know.

4. R-Man is 5 years younger than me but that will even out in old age because he has more afflictions than I do. In reality, if I marry him (shut up!!! just thinking out loud), I will most probably still enjoy a few golden years as a widow, rockin’ the seniors’ home with my bubble gum pink hair and neon green stretch pants, drinking kir royale in the lounge. I’m excited for that.

5. Back to R-Man’s girlfriend just because I think it’s bothering you that he has one and that I am big ho for stealing him away WHICH I HAVEN’T DONE YET. First of all, this is not a Brangelina scandal waiting to happen. No one can “steal” anyone who doesn’t want to quit a bitch. Don’t kid yourself, 99.99% of all couples you see walking around in Canadian Tire purchasing garden hoses are fantasizing about using that thing to somehow escape through the water tank and then run like the wind into the sewer. R-Man and his girlfriend live in separate places, and they break up like it is a casual activity. What are they doing tonight? Oh, just staying in, maybe ordering a pizza, watching Homeland, then breaking up. Or maybe instead of pizza, get takeout from that new Indian place except that butter chicken gives him diarrhea.

6. Lots of things give R-Man diarrhea and while I wouldn’t say he is a picky eater, he is particular. For me, that is somewhat of an all around deal breaker, but we can work it out. He wouldn’t do anything as asinine as going on a “Master Cleanse” but he does obsess about his weight. I swear, I have never had a conversation with him where he doesn’t tell me at some point what he weighs and what he weighed before the current weight. It’s really annoying, I don’t want he wants from me because it’s usually just within a range of four pounds and we have just eaten a pound of wings and washed it down with 3 pints, oh my god, girlfriend, who cares? But everybody has things that exasperate the other person, right? Some things you just need to let go but I swear if he brought a scale into my house, I would smash it down from the roof, just watch.

7. R-Man is the most boisterous person you will ever meet. He will walk into to a bar and yell out HEYYYYYY, everybody in the beach knows him and they are all tickled to see him, he’s got the kind of name you want to shout out. Although I have a special nickname for him that I say in a baby voice, that’s kind of cute right?  He is a classic extrovert but with his moon in hermithood. He has some primitive cabin that he escapes to for his alone me-time which only makes good common sense because otherwise he would just be a buffoon all the time. I like a loud man, but even more I like a loud man who knows when it’s time to shut up. I have noticed that quiet dudes are the controlling, sneaky ones that you need to watch out for. There is never a dull conversation with R-Man but!!! BUT! He has a temper on him. And when you think that age might have mellowed him out, something sets him off, and it’s usually road rage, and then The Fury comes out. Road rage is one of my pet peeves. Why do people get all crazy Jekyll and Hyde when they drive? You wouldn’t yell and honk if you were walking in a mall and had to slow down for a lady with a stroller so why get so enraged when someone in front of them takes their time to make a left turn or merge or whatever. Even if some taxi driver pulls a douche move, just settle down, and guess what?  You’ll get from A to B without having to scream expletives. Calm the fuck down. I like it better when I drive. I guess that’s the solution, just don’t let him drive.

8. R-Man and I took a road trip a few years ago to Sudbury to pick Freddy up from camp.  It was the funnest day ever, there was no road rage at all, just a lot singing along to The Smiths (we love the Smiths!!!) at the top of our lungs and then many stops after drinking Red Bull and urinating in the woods together. We both like to go pee outside even if a proper toilet is available. The first time we bonded was on the same day we met in 1998, we played some random softball game (don’t even ask who what where or why because I have no idea) one afternoon and had some beers, then we both peed in the parking lot in back of my mom van, the Mercury Villager aka The Great White Whale. Maybe we have some kind of primal connection that occurs in the animal kingdom when bodily fluids are excreted and a little bit of oxytocin comes out in the pee-pee, and why wouldn’t it? It’s biology, yo!

This is all the rumination I can handle for now, obsessing about a dude only leads to despair. It’s probably best that he remains Remainder Man as dreams have a knack of just not coming true…sigh…and time is against me now.

In the meantime, let’s just dance, omg, these girls are so funny: