Tag Archives: Netflix

Mastering the Art of Netflix and Reverse Cowgirl

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Winter’s coming, you can tell by the cicadas’ gradual silence, that horny-ass insect whose call of the wild is that long piercing rattle that turns into a solid screech then wanes abruptly before starting up again. Its song is the sound track of lazy summer days. It’s always alarming the first time you hear it in June while you’re having an afternoon siesta with the windows open.  Suddenly drowning out the Magic Wand’s soothing vibrato is that lil inch sized mofo sitting on a branch somewhere blowing out his vocal chords to get an in with some sweet lady bug who seems to be ignoring his ass and yet he keeps it on repeat, getting louder and louder. In-fucking-cessantly. Jesus Christ, Lloyd Dobbler, relax, she hears you, she’s probably just on another branch getting ready, flaying some shit off her wings, making you a cocktail out of tree sap. His relentless shrill becomes white noise as the weeks go on and has a subliminal effect on us all which is why we park our asses on bar patios. We can drink anywhere we want and anywhere inside would be better than outside with all the bugs, not just the cicadas but the other entomological riff raff. And there’s the noise of the traffic and the sun beating down, warming up our drinks and giving us décolleté sunburn that we will regret in the future, but never mind all that. We hoes want to sit outside to see and be seen and smell the pheromones like the animals that we are.

And here I am, the last day of summer, sitting in my room, having just enjoyed a siesta auto-crapuleuse, and I just realized that the cicadas aren’t broadcasting anymore, it’s like they deleted their Tinder accounts! They’ve hooked up, spawned, and moved on because of the intelligence of nature. It’s awe inspiring really.

So yeah. There’s melancholia for the official end of summer and 2016’s special title of the Summer of Perpetual Swamp Ass. I’m not going to miss having to change my underwear 3 times a day and have ditch into a public washroom specifically to swipe a wet nap through my crack but I will miss the cicada’s sexy mojo song. If you follow this blog, and I suggest you scroll back, I’ve been on a fruitful Tinder roll for the past couple of months and what it really means this bad bitch’s Summer of Bone is over but! A new game plan must be implemented. At first I thought I would be happy for a break and to fall into a Netflix coma over the winter with just me and Betty and excessive carbs to replace all the peen but now that I’ve had the pipe administered on a steady basis, I don’t think I can go full-on hermit again. I get antsy if 5 days pass and no gentleman callers grace my doorstep. Be still my quivering quim, I will find you food. for the winter.

People have noticed! My locker buddy at the gym, who has been away at a cottage all summer, saw me last week and said, “My god, you look good! You’re glowing! What are you doing?”

Y’all know me, I’m never on a diet cleanse and I’m drinking to win at some drinking game in my own mind, so I said, “It’s Vitamin D I guess,” and LOL’d in my head.

“Are you taking supplements?” she asked.

“I guess you can say that,” I answered, adjusting my jacked up swollen camel toe in my lycra capris which has been an issue lately. Vitamin D’s downside. Or upside, depending on your point of view.

“How many milligrams?” she asked. Do people actually measure vitamins? This kind of supplement is measured by inches, I wanted to tell her but I didn’t want to make her feel bad because she looked all sunburnt and haggard from her family vacation of oooh look at the sun setting on the lake, how grand, #blessed (read:#boredaf).  I’ll look at it all your lovely photos on Instagram after I absorb my Vitamin D injection and side tossed salad in the comfort of my boudoir. No mosquitos here! Ha, I win for once.

But! I won’t lie. The Tinder game is hard work. Swiping is just the beginning. Boys barely look at profiles and swipe right til they run out of swipes or simply cave in and buy the unlimited swipe option. Girls read all 3 words in the profile, interpret them like a poem, go through all the pictures, and if slightly interested before swiping right, takes the following steps:

Go on Facebook. Take a breath.

Find the common friend and scroll through their friend list and search for the first name, find the dude, click on his profile, nibble on it, then devour it, squeal at how cute he looks with his Movember, save his hottest picture, text it to best friend,  google his ass, see if he has a Linkedin, don’t click on it because he can see who looks at his profile, check out his Instagram, look at pictures with females in them, assess the situation, did he carve that pumpkin with his ex-girlfriened? Peruse who is is following on Instagram, THEN maybe make the emotional judgment based on the data just seen to swipe right.

The real work comes when you make a match (it’s a miracle! It’s totally meant to be!) and he messages you, and then you have to be clever and witty really quickly otherwise the conversation consists of single word back and forths punctuated by emojis. Some people have actually met, gotten married and had babies based on this communication mating ritual. It’s amazing actually but it can be tedious when you’re an old bitch like moi and in your heyday you hooked up in the back of a sugar shack drunk on 2 Molsons and you didn’t even have to say a single word at all, much less have to conjure up the appropriate smiley face. By the way, I always go for the one the tongue hanging out, I think it cuts to the chase, saves them from asking the question : “What are you looking for on here?”

Even if things heat up to witty banter and the exchange of phone numbers, there’s no guarantee of anything at all. A day will pass and you’ll forget who Adam Tinder is even if you were super hot on him the day before. If aliens came down from space and went through my contact list on my phone they would ask who this prolific Tinder clan is, gather them up all for anal probes as they must be out to populate the universe. Adam Tinder may have been cute but along comes Joe Tinder and his beard is bigger but then he turns out slightly crazy by sending you snap chats with that stupid dog filter (are we twelve?) so Frank Tinder comes along to save the day and he seems sane, and hot as fuck literally, so you spend an evening messaging, getting all antsy pants. But here’s the thing:  EVEN IF YOU MAKE AN ACTUAL SOLID JACKSON DATE WITH SOMEONE, THEY STILL MAY GHOST YOU COMPLETELY. One has to have a thick skin in the dating world. We’re all like a bunch eels slithering around a crowded fish tank, trying bang into something but mostly just trying to get away and be alone.

So anyway, the summer has been pretty good for moi. I’ve had some eel slither in. I’ve lost the body count after all the fingers so it’s somewhere in the toes on the first foot. It’s not slutty, it’s that I’ve been condensing what I should have done over the years into as much as I can because I can. Who knew all these 20something guys want to bang old broads? And yes, as a 53 year old woman I am aware I have a  shelf life of an avocado, but at this point I’d rather be some young dude’s quirk/item on a bucket list than some old dude’s sock-sorting, boring-ass “soul mate.” Please.

But! Having said that and being #blessed with young and diverse bone all summer, I know when winter comes, this game has to go into off season. Yes, you can play Tinder on your phone inside but the follow through is going to be a big drag. You know how it is in the depths of January and February, you have to get dressed with coats and hats and go out in the dark in the cold, nothing seems worth it, except for booze. Summer bone is so free and easy, flutter in like a butterfly and do your squirting due diligence and then take off like a sparked firefly in the middle of the night, where you go home and sleep in your own bed. The next day there will be another flower to land on. I’ve adopted the male mentality of casual hookups with aplomb and I’ve never been happier, empowered, or more liberated. And I’m serious, I’m still processing this revelation which I will blather on about in posts to come unless I choke to death on a dick. Could actually happen. Keep reading.

So far, they’ve all been one timers with the exception of one dude who has made me think I need to have a roster of “friends with benefits.” But I so hate that term. That and “no strings attached.” There is nothing worse than going on some dude’s dating profile and they actually state they are looking for an ‘FWB with NSA.” They are living in Delusionville if they think women are going to find that charming and honest. Every woman who reads that thinks: Oh! A challenge! And tragically believes she is going to be a game changer. He hooks up with said cool chick, or so he thinks at first. Then the dumb ass dude actually believes she is on the same page and he whistles and ploughs along, but then by the beginning of the third full moon that they’ve been “casually” banging, she asks where things are going. WHERE THINGS ARE GOING. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, here’s what happens next to the confused bro. He has been Wasting Her Time, tic tock.  Stuff gets said, things go awry, and then he puts his profile back up: “FWB NSA, no drama or game playing tolerated.”  Fucking swamp-ass-wipe dude does not deserve to ever get laid again. Sorry but! It’s ALL a game, motherfucker, grow up and play it with the finesse of a lying bastard. Drama is part and parcel of the fun and getting trapped is the end game. Get used to it, fella, until you find your unicorn who, by the way, is probably a blow up doll. Tool.

But, guess what, the “drama and game playing” (eye roll)  is not for me anymore, that’s a young woman’s objective (babies!) and I am the FWB slash NSA catch IF you have a Stifler’s mom fetish. Most men my age, if they’re out in the dating world, are punch drunk from some crazy pussy for sure, I don’t want to slam the menfolk completely, but they just don’t learn. I actually saw a 48 year old man’s profile state this: “Looking for a FWB for an exclusive relationship. I don’t sleep with other people and I expect you not to either.” What. This guy is just looking for a garden variety monogamous relationship but he’s probably just too cheap to buy drinks or something. I almost felt really bad for him as I swiped left.

My repeat dude holds promise as a potential FWB he checks in with me every day. He’s very athletic, takes charge, and intuitively knows his way around the land that is my battered body and reads my responses like a pro. Getting blood, sweat, and tears out of me requires both talent and experience and for a young dude, he’s going to go far in this world. At one point he made me faint! He’s a genius. Also he’s cool with Betty, my small dog, who trotted in the room, panting  frantically, got all weird and wiggly and jumped on the bed and sat on his face. He didn’t even flinch or seem to care and that is what possibly charmed me the most. I actually can’t tell if he even likes me or not though, but I think he appreciates that I let him watch his stuff on the lap top while I practise deep throating, oy vey, I have a lot to learn. Which by the way, I refuse to believe is an actual thing that can be done for longer than a nano second and a half. It’s all smoke and mirrors of the porn industry! Please tell me I’m right or I’m going to die trying.

So yeah, the plan for the winter is take it a little easier. If repeat dude comes back, if he’s not a flighty summer insect, I’ll try and feed him some carbs maybe and he can slow down and hoist up in that reverse cowgirl position, easy does it, and we can both watch tv and kind of chill(ish) before practise. Fair trade, methinks. In the meantime I’m swiping right on those hairy extra-weight bear type dudes who claim they can cook and cuddle, that would be a nice winter hibernation, #goals, and #hairsinmyteethdontcare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Winged Eye Liner

 

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June is my favourite month. It has its laundry list of problems though and here are some:

Mystery air fluff that makes you sneeze, mystery tree goo that turns your car into a caramelized apple, glaring white cellulite splattered with teeny weeny blue spider veins on your upper thighs, the compulsive need to go and sit on a patio and drink $80 cocktails, maggots in the kitchen compost, the conundrum of what to wear underneath a skirt if it isn’t long johns, having to go buy new Birkenstocks because you stepped in dog shit last October and your old ones are still underneath the rotting wicker love seat on your front porch, buying your first watermelon because ’tis the season and it is heartbreakingly and disappointingly flavourless (probably because it came from a truck along with those gross white GMO strawberries), sweaty bra smegma, that plantar wart you got in the winter from not wearing flip flops in the steam room is no longer a cute little friend and needs to be lanced otherwise you can’t get a pedicure OR YOU WILL BE TREATED LIKE A LEPER AT 5 STAR NAILS and you absolutely one hundred percent need one if you insist upon wearing those fug-ass Birkenstocks all summer… AND the list goes on.

I’ve been having some health issues recently which I will not burden you with except for the fact that I am quite possibly DYING OF BOREDOM on top of it all.

“Only boring people get bored,” says Dr. Phil when he is yelling at an insolent teenager on one of his shows.

It’s fucking true. I am so boring, it’s like a disease. I am a human Birkenstock. Today, Freddy, my parents, and I went to a mall to actually buy “Baby’s First Birkenstocks” as is our Spring tradition. Baby is 18 now and going off to be a counsellor at camp for the summer as is his destiny and needs to wear giant ass cork paddles on his feet because that is what they all the kids wear. I realize I am in my glory in sensible shoe shops. Yo, I picked up a Croc in “Soft Mocs” and said out loud to no one in particular, “I need this shoe in a size 10.” IT HAPPENED TO ME. I didn’t get them as a sense of shame took over but! These Crocs had a jute wedge, a leather strap upper body with a faux-Burberry underlining. They were genius.

Don’t put my on the ice floe just yet as I am still enjoying my food.

Used to be that June brought on the promise of summer flings, that patio promise of becoming social again, wearing a summer dress and upskirting accidentally on purpose a pair of  neon pink lacy underwear underneath (that is what you wear in the summer FYI) especially after a winter of eating melted parmesan cheese biscuits with your boyfriend, Netflix. But then of course, “Orange is the New Black” came out in the beginning of June, stalling us all.

Anatomy of a Binge Watch, an ode to #OITNB, no spoilers ahead:

Day One: Watch the first episode…huh…what happened to Lori Petty and why does she look 100 years old? IMDB her and she is the same age as me, holy shit. Watch 4 more episodes that day. Order pizza, drink wine, fall asleep during episode 5.

Day Two: Wake up early to move car because tenants are having a yard sale and maybe I can put out some stuff, too, make a few bucks. BUT! First rewatch episode 4 (too drunk to remember) and definitely episode 5, watch also 6, 7, and 8, drinking coffee. Holy shit, it’s noon…too late to yard sale. Feeling a bit of ants in the pants, like no wonder I am suffering from Boredom-itis, I have just watched 4 straight hours of TV. I watch two more episodes. Eat a crumpet with jam and smear it all over the laptop keyboard and sneeze a bit of it all over the screen, it’s a sign. I decide to go to Shoppers Drug Mart and get BB cream because a) I can’t get Lori Petty’s wretched face off my mind  b) I need a raison d’être to get out of the house. The tenants are still having their yard sale. They made much money and sold a giant ass tv to the local crazy and I missed the whole transaction. I buy a pair of red converse because they are in my size and I feel like Cinderella whenever I find random shoes that fit, is that just me? I wear the Converse and go the Shoppers, buy a BB cream and yet another liquid eyeliner because I still hold on to hope. Have we talked about winged eyeliner yet or have I just been thinking about it obsessively all this time?

This:

It’s still Day Two: Go home, I HAVE 3 EPISODES OF “ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK” LEFT. Evangeline is 4 episodes behind me and she is watching it on the main tv. I hunker down with her, re-running half heartedly, and practise my liquid eyeliner skills. Why is it so goddamn hard? I am an artist-type and I cannot master this. Do you notice Red from OITNB wears her eyeliner kind of in the crease in a strange way? I look this up on “reddit r/makeupaddiction” and there is an entire forum discussing the entire cast’s hair and makeup. It’s all Dolce & Gabbana and not actual windowsill soot and Kool-Aid which goes to show you. I hope they made Lori Petty look haggard on purpose because help me, I really hope my BB cream works. Also I need to wear lipstick, my mother keeps telling me. I WATCH THE LAST 3 EPISODES ON MY LAPTOP CLUTCHING MY EYELINER.

I need to watch the whole thing again but more slowly this time.

A scrolling of scrotum. What?

One of my closest friends is newly single and has been looking on dating websites to see what it’s about and is laughing her head off so at least there’s someone who is amused.  Every morning I wake up to a daily email of match dot com eligible bachelors for me, Smiles Pattycake (don’t ask) to choose from. I am not actually registered on this site because they want money and just kill me if I start paying for this, they just send me a scroll full of teasers so that I will join because these dudes are so hot. The other day, my ex-neighbour showed up, the Lillipution divorced sad sack who hired hookers on Friday nights and then moved to a condo with his dog that he was truly in love with, so much so that he fucking wrote about him in his profile. He also had his list of criteria for the perfect woman, including her height and hair colour and AGE. He and all the other middle-aged lumpen moobacious (self-described as “athletic and toned”) men in his age range are looking for women 10 years younger or more, ie. BREEDERS. I have been monitoring my match dot com dick list for over a year and the same inventory of losers show up in different formations so they don’t think I won’t notice I am getting the dregs of mankind. Here’s a tip, DingleDouche69, YOU WILL NEVER FIND LOVE WITH YOUR LIST OF CRITERIA, GO GET SOME SUSHI AND STIFF YOUR FINGERS AND CALL IT A DAY.

I thought I would die of boredom but instead I think I am going to die of despair. I need to unsubscribe from such things.

It’s World Cup Fever. There are lots of men to be found and yet no men who are interested even if you are wearing no underwear, never mind neon pink ones.

Seriously, if you want to find a bunch of dumb men, go to any sports bar right this moment. They are all huddled around talking about World Cup Soccer like they know what the fuck is happening. The other day I heard two men talking for what seemed to be the entire season 2 of OITNB about how the ball rolled off one guy’s shoulder and landed in the net like it was some strategic-inspired miracle of the holy Gods instead of dumb luck based on the wind and the goal tender having fluff in his eyes.  Ugh. So. Boring.

Although fun fact I learned today: The team from Netherlands wears orange jerseys because it’s the royal colour. That is all. Okay, I’m going to practise my winged eye liner now, and wait for this boredom to blow over and maybe see what else is on Netflix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More Meth, Please

One week into Juiceless January and I’ve turned into a meth addict by proxy. I have been catching up on the first 3 seasons of “Breaking Bad” on Netflix. I started watching it on Friday, just to shut everyone up and say it’s no big deal, stop harping about it, it’s just a tv show. I hate hour-long shows, too much commitment, and I hate crime dramas, I can never follow the plot lines. But everyone around the campfire on New Years Eve was talking all “yo, bitch, Breaking Bad, yo…blahblahblah..”and I just hate being out of the loop, no matter what the loop is, which is why I pretended to watch “Glee” for so long. I would turn on the tv at 8:00 on Tuesday, put the dog on the couch, film the dog on the iPhone sitting with “Glee” in the background, upload the video on with the caption: “We Are Watching Glee’ and put it on my Facebook wall. I never actually let it pass through my retinas or permeate my consciousness. I can admit it now because the show has jumped the proverbial shark, which I am only assuming because I have not seen that fug fish-faced Lea Michele on the cover of any tabloids recently.

Anyway, I started watching Breaking Bad on Friday afternoon, and powered through all 3 seasons in 48 hours. I could not tear myself away. I didn’t shower. I barely slept. I didn’t even want to make toast because the toaster popping would make too much noise and make me jump out of my skin. Gunshot! In real life, my mom was in the hospital and I drove my sister up to visit her, all the while blathering on about “Walt” and his meth making ways.

“What are you talking about?” She is out of the loop because she PVR’s Young and the Restless which means there is no time for superfluous tv watching.

“Walter White in Breaking Bad. He’s the dad from Malcolm in the Middle. He’s a chemistry teacher and he finds out he has lung cancer so he starts making meth to support his family.”

And on and on I went, to and from the hospital, on both days. Sister’s eyes glazed over.

“Jessie is in rehab after getting hooked on heroin. That Jane was a ho, I’m glad she choked on her vomit. Ladies should not be junkies.”

“Walt’s wife is a bitch. If I had a husband that I supposedly loved, I would totally support him making meth. What the hell, he’s doing it for the sake of the family. See what happens in America when you have to rely on HMO’s. I wish a man would make meth for me.”

“If I was part of this meth operation, I think I’d be a good cook. I did really well in chemistry, I got a 92 on the final exam.”

And so of course out of curiosity, I have looked up meth recipes on the internet and came up with one boneheaded site written with more typos than I put out: METH IS IN THE BIBLE WHICH IS THE MAIN REASON IT IS ALL OVER AMERICA. I’d put up the link but I’m too paranoid I’d get on the DEA’s radar. That’s the Drug Enforcement Administration, for those of you who are out of the loop…but I knew that from watching “Weeds.”

As I wait for Season 4, which is coming in the mail thanks to the benevolence of a Facebook benefactor, I will leave you with a taste of the chard, a montage of Saul Goodman…just in case you are out of the loop:

Non-Sequitur of the Week: I Heart Scotch Eggs, Blockbuster Closes

You learn something new every day.  For a few weeks now I have been palpitating with excitement to go and visit Table 17, one of the new bistro wine bars on Queen Street East in Riverside.  Sometimes I wake up on Saturday or Sunday and I feel I am missing Noah’s boat because I don’t “brunch.”  I don’t do this because I have no one to go with and I can’t do this kind of activity alone because it only takes me two seconds to read a newspaper courtesy of my Grade 6 teacher who decided to teach a select few *gifted* students how to “speed read” which was all the rage in the 1970s.  Stupid idea, and the precursor to all the information overload, overstimulation of the modern world.  Yes, Mrs. Drury, I am so gifted, I always have ants in my pants, fidgety fingers, and I confuse right from left.   If I read slow, I would eat slow.  If I ate slow, I would poop slow.  If I pooped slow, I would read more.  So yeah, reading fast has not done me any favours, thank you very much, Mrs. Drury.   Anyway, brunch in a trendy Toronto bistro/wine bar is for the elite few who have people props or are able contain themselves with reading material for 45 minutes or longer.   Somehow on Sunday, I managed to wrangle a slow moving posse together and by the time we arrived, we were so starving (and cranky) we would have eaten each other (except one of us was on her lady time).  I got a free Mimosa for checking into Foursquare for the first time in weeks. I am weening myself off social media because I think it is causing my insomnia;  Facebook, you are still my wife, and Twitter, you are my mistress 4evah, #loveyoubaby.

I ordered something called a “Scotch Egg,” not knowing what it was, nor caring at that point.  It had to be good because cheese and charcuterie came with it.  And I was right!  It turns out a Scotch Egg is a hardboiled egg, peeled, then coated with sausage meat SOMEHOW!  It is magical!  Then another coating of breadcrumbs and deep fried.  Holy Oprah:  I have found my new food obsession.  I will try this at home and report back.  In the meantime, I will bring a really thick book to Table 17 and go again soon.

And finally, my local Blockbuster is closing its doors.  Super sad!  I still don’t get “watching the computer FOR FREE” with these all these tease sites that bung the computer up then make me you pause for 20 minutes.  I AM TRAINED FOR SPEED!  I CANNOT POSSIBLY WAIT AROUND FOR THINGS TO RE-LOAD!   And that Netflix is probably owned by the Taliban, don’t kid yourself.  I loved my Blockbuster and the funny dudes that worked there and their extreme knowledge in all things Will Farrell.  I will miss it terribly.  Right now they are selling off all their stock and I got “Inglourious Basterds” which I watched last night.  Even during those cringing head-scalping scenes, all I could think of was that Scotch Egg, and I probably need a better kitchen knife.  And a deep fryer.