Tag Archives: Orange is the New Black

Mastering the Art of Winged Eye Liner



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?


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.








Habanero Hottie is the New Ebony Mistress


There’s something about working at the Home Depot that reminds me of prison. I’ve been watching that Netflix show “Orange is the New Black” which I love, love, love and if you don’t know what it’s about yet, get on it now. Women in prison, what could possibly go right? It is so good, I’m on the second round of viewing. I don’t get it when people say they “don’t have time to watch tv” and you know who you are. I have a 40ish hour work week where I can’t even cheat on that because I have to punch a timeclock (this goes against my nature) and I have managed effortlessly to watch 13 real hour-long (no commercials on Netflix, yo, this is the new world and me likey) episodes in 3 days, settle down and keep up and stop picking weeds from your garden. Jesus, it’s not that hard to sloth.

Anyway, the Home Depot. like my new favourite show, is also a community of orange-clad motley weirdos who only have each other to bond and form cliques with. Who works at the Home Depot? Everybody and anybody from every walk of life and in spite of the rigorous screening process they take to hire you, there is no typical Home Depot inmate employee. The one thing they have in common is they all shuffle around in their steel toe boots with a kind of quiet disgruntled resignation, and some less quiet than others. Those are the “rude ones” you guys complain about on internet forums. It turns out they are not rude per se, they have just done hard time, probably a half a shift of pack down right before a power hour and a quick Harveys lunch. You try doing that grunt work, bitch, and see if you can smile and gives two shits about some kind of crack you need to seal to keep the ants out of your filthy kitchen. I’m not like that yet, by the way, I am all sunshine and helpfulness even though I don’t know what the fuck I am talking about because I have never even used a caulking gun. Why don’t you hire people to do things anyway? Honestly, I can’t imagine what makes a person wake up on a Saturday morning and say to themselves: “I am going to the Home Depot and pick up a kit of 2-part epoxy acrylic floor covering and paint my garage.YOLO!” Do you even understand how to do this? This is something you need to google, you don’t just ask some Home Depot ho with a training badge on their apron if you need to prime first. It is hard! It is science and artistry combined! Hire someone and go watch Netflix. That is my one piece of advice as a Home Depot associate to you dumbass DIY-ers with too much time your hands.

Back to my analogy, just like in prison at the Home Depot, the weak ones will be exploited. I’m sure every department has a scapegoat, the one where teamwork just doesn’t apply. It’s the one fellow employee you do not help because he/she has been a douche/douchette and you overlook the greater good, like stellar customer service and product waste so you can gleefully watch them make a mistake and then have reason throw them into the fire and toast marshmallows over their corpse like a primal savage. It’s the social behaviour you learn in kindergarten that applies in every group scenarios I am sure. Our misfit is a middle aged Indian man named Anil whose name has become synonymous with blundering asshole. I hated him at first because he 1) laughed his microcephalic head off when I made minor rookie mistakes in training and 2) he once douchefully pushed me aside when I was in the middle of filling an order on the computer. Also I enamoured by Indian people and I especially think their accents are the most charming of all but his voice has a grating quality that needs to be silenced with duck tape.

Last week, now known as Blue Monday, he took an order for two gallons of “Laguna Beach” that contains 3 ounces of cobalt pigment which is a shitton of deep blue FYI..,It could go along way filling up pails of Boothbay Harbour, Alaskan Wildflower, Cerulean Blue, et cetera. As an aside, I really want to be the one who names the colours, I would be much more creative. Blue Balls, I would call a colour just to see if anyone would notice. Well wouldn’t you know it, he forgot to put the second can under the dispenser so we were all covered in blue days because he failed to clean it up and oh, how he laughed that high pitched crazy-assed cackle when the puddle started dripping off the counter onto the floor. This is a typical Anil day.

Behind his back, this how we talk:

“He doesn’t listen to women.”

“He doesn’t listen to men either, don’t kid yourself.”

“He doesn’t listen to customers which is why he makes so many Oopsies.”

“Apparently his family died in the tsumani but when he told me the story, he was laughing though, so he might have been lying.”

“He always laughs, that’s his M.O. and that’s an awful story, now I feel bad for him.”

“Don’t feel bad for him. He keeps throwing my water bottles away.”

“No, I definitely feel bad for him, why would lie about his family?”

“Because he lies about everything, he doesn’t even punch out at lunch.”

“That’s just fucking horrific, I am enraged now.”

“I can’t believe he forgot to put the lid on the can before he put it in the shaker.”

“What a feckless maroon.”

“I still can’t believe he forgot to put the can under the dispenser.”

“Everything is still blue.”

“When I went to the bathroom this morning, there was blue in my poop.”

“Oh my god, TMI!”

I don’t care what the other inmates say, I still feel sorry for him. What if he really did lose his family and he smiles the way primates do to diffuse a threatening situation? That is why I smile at work, I am actually deathly afraid of you customer-types. What if you are like that old lady who seemed so cute and harmless in her motor scooter wearing a fright wig that looked like Golde’s from a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof? How comically sweet was she motoring down the aisle until she started spraying black lacquer Rustoleum all over the place and screaming: ‘I DO NOT HAVE RUST! YOU WHORE! YOU SOLD ME THE WRONG CAN OF PAINT!” Oh, and how I grinned from ear-to-ear my primate smile as I darted down the hall to hide in hardware only to curl up in fetal position behind the WD-40 display. Please shoot me if I become one of those self-entitled old ladies with a temper that could out-do a toddler on a sugar high. What if all of Anil’s weird and socially inept behaviour is because he is lonely and hurt inside? What if he lives alone in a one room basement apartment all the way in Scarborough? It makes me sad to think about him beyond the orange curtain. I mostly took this job as a stress-free distraction that I wouldn’t bring home with me at the end of the day with me and bonus: lifting up all those paint cans is like hours spent at the gym that I don’t have to bother with because all the men at the gym are married and what a waste of time that is. All the men who shop at the Home Depot are married too, by the way, so much for any collateral benefits. As my daughter astutely pointed out: “Single men are too lazy to paint.”

But I am really obsessed with Anil, I try to imagine his life and why he is the way he is. Yesterday, he was setting up a can of paint under the dispenser and it was obviously askew and ready for disaster. One of my fellow in-mates nudged me and pointed it out before yet another accident was about to happen and he whispered “Shhh, don’t tell him.”

The colour was “Raven Feather.”

“ANIIIIIIIIL!” I screamed, “The can isn’t under the dispenser!” And the disaster was diverted. I’m not a hero, I just didn’t want to be pooping out black for the next week. And oh how he laughed at what could been known Black Tuesday. I hope he doesn’t think I like him.