Last Saturday, my 15-year-old son Freddy and I were driving along King Street after he had just finished raking up some leaves at a friend’s home in Parkdale. A good honest afternoon of manual labour had put the apples on his cheeks, and strangely a Movember ‘stache on his upper lip appeared that turned out to be smeared dirt caught on his peach fuzz. I didn’t say anything because for a couple of hours because I honestly thought he miraculously grew an actual moustache. My friend and I had a lovely visit in her kitchen, watching him rake through window, and even her dog was impressed by the boy in our midst. Freddy with his plaid jacket and dirt moustache was the kind of boy we would have crushed on in high school. Fine young men are our precious commodities, as we were just reminded by Remembrance Day, when we honoured our fallen soldiers. Crazy hormones and hyped up adrenaline makes them want to fight in a war. It’s so very admirable to me because all my hormones ever want to make me do is shop and eat. And fantasize about a certain mancrush who shall remain nameless but has a dark Movember moustache that makes him look like an outlaw during the Prohibition era. And I have bathtub full of gin, baby, if you have the beef jerky. God help me and make December come quick.
When we drove by the Occupy Toronto camp headquarters at St.James Park, I was struck by two things: THERE’S A BRIDAL PARTY HAVING THEIR PICTURES TAKEN WITH THE HOBOS IN THE BACKGROUND! THAT IS SO AWESOME! And secondly, what is the point of this again? All these unwashed people in tents are protesting Corporate Greed? Do they actually think camping out in a public space for two months will make Gordon Gekko have an Aha! moment? Now don’t get me wrong, nobody hates a suit more than me. Nothing worse than a man faking it in those shoulder pads and pretending to have friends by wearing a blue tooth in his ear. But you cannot stop the nature of the beast. In fact by staging these “Occupy” events, you are only giving the one percent a big old corporate boner. They don’t feel the guilt. They are the honey badgers of the jungle. Y’all might want to go home and take a shower, come back later in a clean ironed shirt and some trouser pants and then get Medieval because really, hippies became extinct for a reason. Stinky B.O.
Turn the clocks back, November is in full swing. Some of you fellas are growing moustaches for prostate cancer awareness and I want to thank you for that. Me likey. Manly hair is the best. I hate when men shave their chest hairs or get all insecure about back fur. Some deluded dudes shave their legs thinking it will make them run or bike faster. Stupid. Men usually have spindly skinny legs and the hair provides some volume. No one wants to see smooth twigs in Spandex shorts. And as for the male torso, stop waxing it! Have you ever heard of a treasure trail? No woman wants to put their hands on an ice rink with pimply ingrown bumps and flail around, like we are trying to read Braille tattoos. The fuzzy path provides guidance. Preserve the forest alive, men, and stay hirsute. And keep your moustaches for winter. Makes y’all look debonair and let’s face it, most of you are dumb asses and need all the help you can get.
November, aside from moustache growing, is also a self-imposed frugality month. Christmas is coming and money is tight! Food prices! Hydro! Gas! Everything is going through the roof! I haven’t had a haircut since January, I’m on a hair strike anyway, I’m going to grow it until I can swallow it whole, digest it, and then the bikini waxing lady can take care of it. Kill two birds with one stone! Ha! I am also doing my own mani and pedis. Lately I have been taking the streetcar if I can’t have free parking downtown. Yesterday I went downtown to meet a friend for a movie and then a drink afterwards. I took the Queen car there, without incident, enjoying the scenic sea of humanity and all its diversity. A veritable salad of dander and germs!
After the movie, and having consumed a barrel of Diet Coke and 2 pints of Stella, I broke the seal before taking the streetcar home. You know how once you take the first pee, the bladder becomes Boss. “I have to go,” it says. “Yes, I know, just wait a minute. We are on the streetcar, we have 6 stops until we cross the bridge and you can go at Prohibition. We love that gastro-pub and maybe we can stay and have bison burger and duck frites!” You realize you are talking to your own bladder so try and diffuse the crazy by pacing up and down the aisle.
No way is the Boss letting you get away with that trick. It releases 1/8 of an ounce of hostage urine. “GET OFF THIS STREETCAR NOW BECAUSE THERE IS MORE COMING!” Bladder screams. “I can’t!” you hiss back, “We are at Church and Queen, any washroom we need to go to from here to the bridge will be under lock and key. This is vagrant territory. HOLD YOUR HORSES!”
“I CAN’T! I HAVE TO PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE!” Boss is trying hard. It’s bursting and lazy, flaccid old Captain Kegel is trying to support this mess. But it’s like a tarp in the storm, something is going to give. Make a decision. Quick.
There is no way I am going to pee my pants on a streetcar. I am a lady. I hop off the car and lo and behold is a Popeye’s Fried Chicken at the corner of Queen and Sherbourne. I hightail in the restaurant and pretend to be interested in the menu and not just the toilet. Who am I kidding? Of course, I am interested in the menu. Fried chicken is my fantasy, my last meal on death row. But I have to ask for a key because it is Moss Park after all and heaven forbid if a homeless person should use the washroom, maybe they redecorate in there and claim squatters’ rights, I don’t know, but restrooms are for “customers only.” So with my promise to order and even though I might look slightly homeless with my shaggy hair, chewed up”mani” and a wet spot, Popeye’s employees don’t let on.
I peed, barely making it. Best feeling ever. I think this might how men feel when they jizz. I wish I knew. Men never seem to have the bladder issues we do, maybe because they secretly pee in tubes under their pant legs. They can do it more discreetly in public, standing and aiming, their clothing is designed just for the purpose of urinating and the possibility of impromptu public fornication. Imagine a man in high-waisted trousers with a side zipper! And women, who have to urgently pee all the time, are encumbered by undergarments that don’t swing open like a fly. Fruit of the Loom, you have some inventing to do.
Anyway, I ordered a three pieces of spicy chicken without a drink, duh, I still have to go back on the streetcar for possibly more bladder sass. I do love Popeye’s, I must say. It’s really the first batch of fast food I have eaten since the Righteous Teenage Daughter made our household all about organically grown local farm animal meat. Don’t get me wrong, I am into it but sometimes you need to answer the call of the wild. As much as I love the chicken, though, Popeye’s should not bother with their ridiculous side dishes. Just give me the meat. Weird mash potatoes and strange gravy are not treasure trails. And I have no time for that biscuit as it is just lard filler. Let’s not kid ourselves. Such superfluousness gives fast food a bad name. And that is all I am saying about that.
The rest of the streetcar ride home was pleasant enough. Another Saturday night under the belt, home by 7 pm, turned the clocks back so I wouldn’t be confused in the morning and asleep by 11! Or was I? Stay tuned for Part Two: Driving The Drunk Neighbours To The Emergency Room In The Middle Of The Night!
Freddy’s answer to Movember: If you can’t grow it, then glue one on
I feel sorry for men sometimes. They never know how to get things done. Even from the beginning, their fecklessness is cultivated. For example, last month the Girl Guides were out and about, selling cookies for $4 a box. They were everywhere, especially in front of the liquor and beer stores. And nobody buys just one box. And if you want to buy 2 boxes and give them a 10 dollar bill, they never have change, so you end up getting 5 boxes for 20 bucks. They are sharp and strategic, those little girl guides. The boy scouts, on the other hand, stand in front of the grocery store selling apples. For how much, I don’t know. I grew up in an apple orchard in Quebec, I can’t even bring myself to buy a mercy apple for a good cause. I did have a conversation with a mother of a boy scout who was standing in front of Loblaws with the saddest box of apples I`ve ever seen. I couldn`t even pick one, they were all so battered up:
Me: Why don’t you sell cookies like the girl guides?
Mother of Boy Scout: People like apples!
Me: They like cookies better and they`d sell more.
Mother of boy scout looked at me like I was a monster. How ironic is it that Eve tempted Adam with an apple and the men can`t even give them away? Last month, October was breast cancer awareness month. The ladies kick ass on this project. They have charity galas, runs and walks, they sell stuff from pink Sharpies to pink SUV’s. Everyone wears pink, including professional sports teams. Yes, everybody loves boobs and they are everywhere: They’re in your morning cereal (at least mine are), on your screen saver in the form of Katy Perry (at least Freddy’s is), millions of them are in your computer just a click away, they’re bumping you in the subway if you stand in the right spot, they’re on billboards, they’re at Banana Republic in cashmere, they’re in your thoughts and in your prayers. So being “aware” is not that hard. What is hard is to grasp the concept of “Movember.” Apparently “mo” is an Australian slang term for “moustache.” Please. Put another shrimp on the barbie. Movember’s M.O. is that by growing a “mo”, you are helping raise awareness for prostate cancer. Facial hair to prostate….let’s work with it then. Only some of us can grow a mo but we can glue or sharpie one on. I’m into it, I’m doctoring my Facebook profile picture with a free iPhone app called “HairBeard Lite” but it keeps coming on crooked. Maybe the prostate men should have a moustache iPhone app that you pay 99 cents that goes to awareness. Men have to start thinking like women if they want to raise some money and start selling stuff that people want, especially women because they are the major consumers. Check ot Movember’s official website here and learn about the cause. And I have to say, I do love a man in a moustache!
art of modern living 