Tag Archives: Sex and the City

A Hooker’s Guide to Self Actualization

American Gothic Barbie and KenThe other day, my friend sent me a link to an article in the Globe and Mail by Margaret Wente.  I never read the “Mop and Pail” anymore because they systematically dump their good writers and keep the shitty ones like this dumb bitch who writes this sophomoric article titled “the awful truth about being single.”  I put a link to it but I wouldn’t bother clicking on it if I were you because this is it in a nutshell:

Mary Tyler Moore was a trail blazer who paved the way for modern single ladies to live groovy lives in Liberty Village with their little dogs and social media outlets.  But when these young hos hit 35 and are still single ladies, TIC TOC ROARS THE CLOCK!  Lonely days, lonely nights!  Time to get some cats!  Single life is over-rated and pathetic, not glamourous like “Sex and the City,” it is more like “Girls” where people are ugly and love is a battleground.  Carrie Bradshaw from SATC says:  “The most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”  But Margaret Wente’s epiphany is that the road to self actualization isn’t through independence but from a relationship that requires sorting someone else’s socks and squeezing the zits on another person’s back. There is nothing more rewarding!

And she finishes it all off with this Stepfordesque quote:  “You will be astonished by the person you become. And you wouldn’t exchange the richness of your married life for anything.”

It looks like somebody has been talking her meds!

This enraged all my single friends. She has set women back 50 years! I have to say, I do like all her tv references but clearly she doesn’t really know her “Sex and the City” or she would have known about all the trial and tribulations the characters go through like the sexual droughts, loneliness, poor choices, depressed vaginas, break ups, and dating men with these problems:  the politician who wanted to be peed on, the dude with the funky tasting spunk, the premature ejaculator, teeny tiny dick, horse-sized dick, Mr. Pussy,verbally abuse man, straight gay man, public sex guy, and the list goes on.  So how about analyzing this SATC case study, Margaret Wente:  When Charlotte gets MARRIED for the first time, her husband can’t even get a proper boner!  That is just SO RICH, you would never want to trade that for a golden shower with that silver fox who plays Roger Sterling on Madmen!  Fuck no, let’s just stay home and sort Trey’s socks and iron his plaid boxer shorts while he masturbates in the bathroom to Juggs.  How fulfilling.

Fictional tv characters aside, there is probably not a great deal of difference between the loneliness of a single person than of a married person. You can feel lonely when you are part of a couple and that is probably even worse type of lonely than if you are single and don’t want to be. Which do you think is more pathetic:  That couple who sit and eat by the window of a restaurant and have nothing to say to each other all evening or the single guy who sits at the bar alone on a Monday night because he can’t stand being alone in his apartment?  You can decide for yourself, but I’d rather be the single dude or his female counterpart who is home with her cats watching Mike and Molly.  You just know that the couple who have nothing to say to each other are secretly hoping that the other one chokes on a fat scallop and drops dead:  “I tried the Heimlich, I really did!  It must have really stuck!”

If loneliness is something you see as a foreboding disabling force that will send you into the depths of despair then maybe you really do need some quality alone time for self actualization.  Just saying.

I’m so self-actualized, by the way, I’m inside out.  Fuck Margaret Wente, I’m a single lady and I love it!

single lady gif

Don’t think just cuz I’m single, I’m an embittered dried up old hooker that I don’t believe love or romance. If I ever met the real-life version of Luke Danes from the “Gilmore Girls,” I would shoot that unicorn with a stun gun and if I had to, I would keep him smothered in my cavernous cleavage in a half-conscious twilight state so he wouldn’t bolt. I do think good couples exist. They are just not most couples.  I think we live too long for relationships that are supposed to last until you death do you part. Those unions were designed for farm folk where the women died in childbirth and the men remarried their line up of teenage sisters.

For most people, marriage is not very realistic. If you insist on making a legal union out of your love/lust confusion, it should be like a driver’s license and up for renewal every 4 years.  Then if it doesn’t work out, you wouldn’t feel like such a failure and you wouldn’t have to say DIVORCE, you’d just say you didn’t renew and then move on. Set yourselves free so you can even out the playing field for the rest of us.

There is no shame in being single.  Take some time, hold your own hand and get to know yourself, and fear not the loneliness because once you master that, you can probably handle the boredom of a marriage.  Here are some pro tips to help you on your way to self actualization:

1. Don’t read too many self-help books. You will suffocate in bullshit. If you are going to read one book, read The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz, it’s super short and you can read it in an afternoon and it’s really all you need to help you navigate through your inner journey.  Dude keeps adding new agreements, ie. The Fifth Agreement!  What is that? Four was a perfect amount: Be impeccable, don’t take anything personally, don’t make assumptions, and do your best.  Master those and stay gold, Pony Boy!

Again, keep your self-help literature to a minimum otherwise you will become one of those people who keep posting daily affirmations on Facebook because they have become overly cleansed by power thinking.  In reality, they have become powerless unless there is a mantra to chant or a platitude to post on the fridge.

shut the fuck up needlepoint

2.  Don’t forget your friends.  Not just the single ones, even the ones with spouses need friends to talk to about their shit, too, and they are secretly jealous of you. Make sure you have your phone plan set up for unlimited talk time with these hos because you’ll be yapping for hours and if you are using a cellphone, use earbuds because you might get a tumour before you get self actualized.

3. Don’t cyberstalk an ex-lover!  You need to dump them from Facebook and stop following them on Twitter and Instagram.  Not knowing is better than knowing in this case, ignorance is power.  When you do find out something that you didn’t want to know, you might be tempted to drink a bottle of vodka, eat a tub of ice cream, and have sex with the nearest person to which I believe are all valid responses.  A little bit of shame goes a long way to help pave your path to enlightenment, everyone is entitled to a fat, drunk slut phase.  Or as I prefer to call myself, a bloated bon vivant.  Don’t worry, that phase will end and you will replace it with something healthier like yoga or cutting your own hair.

4.  Take yourself on a date.  You know what is so great about going to a movie by yourself?  You can sit where you want and eat all the popcorn and use all the arm rests and no one will distract you with their incessant leg crossing, nose blowing, coughing, stupid questions,etc.  Going out alone will become really easy to get used to but don’t get carried away with yourself, it’s not considered “PDA” when you masturbate in public, it’s a misdemeanor even though most of us can agree it’s way less offensive than watching two people play tonsil hockey.

I’m not really sure when it is that you actually know when you have become truly “self actualized” and who really knows what it means, but when you can handle being by yourself for extended periods of time, you are doing some fine work, keep on truckin’.

This is my favourite poem of all time since Grade 8 for your inspiration. This dude has it all going on (including a grammar error on the first line):

Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

What Would Helen Gurley Brown Do?

A couple of weeks ago, when Helen Gurley Brown died, bitches everywhere were left without proper guidance to the art of modern living! Sad day for all the single ladies! One of my favourite websites, Regretsy (check it here) had nice tribute and April actually had an audio of HGB reading a chapter called “Plain Girl Power” from her 1962 bestseller, Sex and the Single Girl…how to bag a man even if you’re not that pretty! Her wisdom lives on 50 years later.

As it turned out, over the summer, I have been receiving some e-mails from you readers actually asking for my advice! I’m going to channel Helen Gurley Brown and share these with y’all and I’m sure you’ll want to keep the letters coming.

I enjoyed your last post of your trip to Italy. My husband and I are planning a trip there in the fall for 10 days and I’m wondering what to pack! I’ve heard the Italians are very fashionable and we don’t want to look like tourists!

First of all, don’t kid yourselves, you are going to look like tourists even if you are in Prada head-to-toe. They know you are not one of them. And they will be dismissive of you no matter what. Somebody told me that the reason they are rude is because they assumed I was an American. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think Italians have colony-envy and actually embrace American culture, hence their penchant for bandanas and cowboy hats. Remember, they are one of the only European countries that didn’t do such a good job raping and pillaging other countries in other continents.

Men in Italy all look the same so if you want your husband to blend in, make sure he packs collared shirts and does not wear shorts! I think a man always looks sleek in a Lacoste polo shirt and dark washed Levis 501’s. The colour of the polo shirt will determine whether or not he is gay or straight but it’s okay to be both so I’m not going to tell you what is what. Italy is full of men who seem gay but aren’t or they are but no one cares…it doesn’t seem to be an important label. So let your husband wander, it’s his vacation too.

As for you, you will probably over-pack and pay no heed to this formula: Take the number of days of vacation (10) and divide by 3, which rounds down to 3…and that is the number of outfits you should pack. Yes 3! You will only wear your favourites anyway and you can wash out the pits and crotches at the end of the day. You need 1 fancy outfit and 2 casual. I trust that you know that casual does not include yoga pants but you can wear those as pyjamas and on the plane if you are taking a night flight. Also for plane and trains, you need one of those voluminous sweaters that every woman has in their wardrobe so that you can wear it backwards as a Snuggie. I did this and people looked at me with envious glares. Also pack a swim suit and don’t fret about what you look like. Very old ladies in Italy wear string bikinis and all men wear Speedos so if you worry about if your tits are falling out or your ass is slung low, don’t, they only care about what you packed in the lunch box. And pro-tip: Always have a sandwich with you, it’s the accessory of choice all over Italy.

As for shoes: Pack 3 pairs. I wish I could say snowshoes because navigating your way through cobblestone roads is madness. Italian women are typically bow-legged so their centre of gravity allows for high heels but as for you, tourista, fuck it and wear Birkenstocks. Glue gun some Swarovski crystals on a pair of white ones and you are a fancy bitch, Italian style.

If you forget something, you can buy it there. I forgot to pack a hairbrush and used my fingers until I finally bought a comb on Day 8. I had a couple of dreadlocks in the back of my head. Hilarious. Just remember to bring sunscreen because they only have it for babies which is thick and goopy and I do not recommend it (especially if it gets in your dreadlocks.) Italian adults use brown tanning oil as though it was 1972. Good times. Have fun and always do as the Romans do!

I am in my first serious relationship and my boyfriend is sleeping over. I have a hard time falling asleep because I am nervous of what will happen in the middle of the night! What if I fart?

This is an ageless question that women both young and old fret about. Sex and the City addressed this issue when Carrie let one slip in bed with Mr. Big and then she died of embarrassment….they did an entire episode based on a fart. If I could bank all the farts that have exploded in front of me by men, I would be able to power a city block during prime time. I have to tell you a cautionary tale about this one dude who would casually fart away on my couch during pre-coital warm up, then go to the bathroom with the door open and blast some more farts, and then seep out yet even more farts in the bedroom during sexy times. He would fart the way normal people breathe. And he wouldn’t acknowledge it. I never knew how to react so I ignored it. After awhile I could understand his farts, like they had their own language. Tiny little farts meant he was frisky (which was most of the time), the giant ones meant he was bored and needed a joint, and the sharp, tight ones expressed displeasure which would happen when he watched tennis on tv. To this day when I see Roger Federer, a Pavlovian fart reaction will fill noxious fumes in my olfactory organs. Poor Roger Farterer, which is how I forever will think of him.

Then he went on some stupid colon cleanse, which of course made him even gassier if that was at all possible, and one day he farted out my name, beckoning me into the bathroom while he was curled up naked in the tub. He wanted me to hold the hose while he gave himself an enema. And that was when I realized that farting can lead to heavier bodily functions. And I was out the door.

Seriously, they should ban farting. It’s no joke. But if it happens to you, it’s best to just giggle and excuse yourself. I’m sure your boyfriend won’t even care, he will even find it endearing. And remember no little toot that you emit from your tiny little rosebud can ever be as bad as the image of a naked man in a tub with a hose up his hairy ass.

I’m seeing a married man and he says he is leaving his wife in the future but he is staying for the kids’ sake, they are still in school. I’m not sure what I should do.

There’s actually a mathematical formula for this conundrum:

Time (number months of your relationship)

Multiply number of Brazilian bikini waxes he has asked you to get

Divide by number of mysterious hang up phone calls you have received by a blocked caller

When you get that number, then add a million years….and that is when he is going to leave his wife!

In the meantime, why can’t you just enjoy being a mistress? You don’t have to wash his underwear or watch him chew on his whole grained cereal in the morning.

This is how they roll in Rome, no judgement!

Hope I have been helpful and I leave you with Carrie farting in front of Mr.Big, if she can do it, so can you:






The Bailiff, The Banker, and The Breakdown

After last week, I feel like the long-lost fifth cast member of Sex and the City, the dysfunctional one whose sexcapades end in extreme embarrassment. I will let you know what happened but just promise to not get all “too much information” squeamish. If it can happen to me, it could happen to anyone. And if I had to live it, then you can hear about it. That’s my motto.

As you know from the previous post I had, in internet dating-speak, “a casual encounter” with a young buck, aka the mocha pheromone bomb. I was trying to find a cure for insomnia. Anyway, Boss had a super freaky tongue that could reach down to his Adam’s apple. And he wasn’t afraid to use it and! he was super talented…just like that guy on Sex and the City who eats the fig that they nickname Mr. Pussy. Now I don’t want to make you jealous, but you should be because it was mind-blowing. He could teach a course at the Learning Annex. It was a combination of tongue action, finger placement, and pressure. Forget what you read about how to pleasure a woman in Men’s Health, the master was not spelling out the alphabet on my lady parts. He was working magic, we can call him the Pussy Wizard or Whisperer since mine is so inconsistent and unruly.

At one point though, he asked: “Do you have a piercing up there?”

“Oh my God, no! Who would pierce up there? That must be the G-Spot. it is supposed to be hard and ridgey!” According to Cosmo.

“Wow, then it’s super hard and super ridgey, Cougar!”

“Carry on then!”

Two days later I went on my own finger patrol and was like, what the hell is this? And I pulled out my Diva Cup that I had completely forgot I put in earlier that day of the date! A Diva Cup is that awesome thing that modern-day ladies are using instead of tampons. It is a shot glass made of medical grade silicone that is inserted up the vagina and has this tail-like thing so you can pull it out. It’s not completely easy but once you get used to it, trust me, you will never go back. I slipped it in that morning to see if I still had residual flow and neglected to take it out.

Anyway, I realized with complete horror that dude was feeling the Diva Cup and he must have thought my G-Spot felt like a petrified lizard carcass. I cannot let him go through life thinking I had a dinosaur fossil embedded in my canal. So I called him.

“Do you know what a Diva Cup is?”

“Yes! Those are peanut free, I eat them all the time,” He says. He is one of those young ‘uns who is deathly allergic to peanuts. And he is confused.

I explain what happened and that I’m not a freak and not to worry, it’s sanitary, blah blah blah. Oh how we laughed. He took it pretty well but disappeared into the ether nonetheless. Not that we didn’t expect that. But the cougar is on the prowl now.

On Canada Day, I took Betty for a walk on the boardwalk and followed a big black dude around like the Pied Piper. He had a massive snake (a real one!) strung over his shoulders. The snake kept flicking its tongue at me and at one point, it slithered down they guy’s back and hung its head down and yawned right at Betty, who was completely oblivious. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I tore myself away and went home and tossed and turned that night, as per usual.

And then as quickly as the mojo was resurrected, it was shot down again. The next day in the mailbox was a letter from “The Bailiff.” It seems I had owed some property tax from last year in spite of all my attempts to have it come out of the mortgage, it didn’t happen. It was one of those snafus that is my mostly my fault but means a trip to the bank to cry a river of tears in front of my favourite mortgage specialist, Adrian. He is a super handsome Goan man with nicest smile. He knows how to coddle the hot mess that is me.

But Adrian wasn’t there! He was on vacay with his family! Instead I got whisked away into another man’s office. He had a commanding way about him, like he could be a motivational speaker or a professional magician. I showed him the Bailiff’s letter and told him that I might cry because that’s what I do with Adrian.

“Don’t worry, these things happen, we’ll fix it,” he pulling up my file on the computer. He starts scrolling through, which is the worst feeling in the world, a financial colonoscopy, I’d rather have him probe my butt at this point.

He checks out a few things, we have some diversionary banter and laugh at the font that the bailiff uses as a letter head: Ye olde tymey Shakespeare type that might have seemed important and threatening 400 years ago but looks really dumb in 2012. After we go through some payment options too depressing to talk about, he turns to me and with the most earnest facial expression and says: “Kristin, what can I do for you that will make your life better?”

And that’s when I try and swallow the lump in my throat and fight back the tears. I can’t speak of course, but I really want to say, “‘How good are you with your tongue?” But I start to cry instead. And it was good. And after what seemed an eternity, he gave me his card and I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling fan.

And here’s the original Mr.Pussy on Sex and the City:




Portrait of a Lady Badass

Last week, Pam Grier was in Toronto for Black History Month to talk about her experiences in film and the current state of African American actors’ movie roles.  She’s 62 now and she knows how to age, gracefully and fiercely.  She’s still a goddess.  This is retro 1970s Pam Grier, probably the baddest ass action lady in all of cinematic history.  When you look at a picture like that, you just want to take your bra off and hang yourself with it knowing that no amount of  makeup, Photoshop, Spanx, sweet talk, or self-delusion will make you look half as hot. Even her armpit crack is suggestive, check it out. In the 1970s women didn’t have to apologize for nip-slips, they were part and parcel of the bra-burning era. Pam Grier was a reigning star in those “blaxploitation” and campy Roger Corman women-in-prison films from the 70s. To paraphrase Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard:  They had faces back then…and tits, and they were not afraid to show them.

Pam Grier, who was influenced by Gloria Steinem, was all about woman-power without compromising her femininity.  As Foxy Brown, she was considered a trail blazer, not just for black women but women in general. Nobody was as sexy and strong as her, Jane Fonda looked like Gidget in comparison. Since the 1970s, thanks to the women’s liberation movement, women have come a long way in some aspects like having choices and job opportunities.  But not in film, something seems to have gotten lost in the translation.  Aesthetically, women have to look like a man with boobs.  It’s all about sucking it out and strategically placing parts of it back in: carve out a P90X body, create Pilates abs, stretch out a yoga ass, and insert two Tupperware shaped bowls for breasts.  If anything is out of place, the sloppiness will get you fired. No wonder as she pushes 50, Demi Moore is having a nervous breakdown like Norma Desmond.  Instead of becoming a hermit, poor thing is chasing the dragon posting bikini self-portraits on Twitter. At the same age, Pam Grier, on the other hand, was rockin’ it like a lady in Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown.

There are very few Pam Griers in film today.  Women over 40 are usually just in supporting roles as the long-suffering wives of dynamic heroes, hysterical mothers of boxers/ballet dancers, bat shit crazy neighbours/co-workers, or stern lady judges.  Meryl Streep doing an impression of a historical female character does not count.  There’s really no one for the sex pot LOCA (lady of a certain age) to identify with. Maybe every two or three years, to placate us, they will dust off the cast members of Sex and the City and slap some on lipstick and make a movie that is actually a 90 minute commercial for Heritage Halston.

Speaking of LOCAs, I watched the Superbowl on Sunday, this is basically how it went:

Of course I watched it for the half-time show and ended watching the entire thing, as I have a secret crush on Tom Brady.  I’m only admitting that to you for limited time only.  He’s not really my type, he is too pretty.  Anyway, the half-time show was good, in my opinion, you cannot fault Madonna for showmanship.  A lot of you think she is the ultimate lady bad ass and I respect that. She is not my kind of LOCA though, her sense of style is contrived by imitating other stye icons and she looks like a veiny penis. Her records, at best, are commercial jingles with lyrics that a prepubescent girl would write in her diary and then burn in Grade 8 out of embarrassment.  Her new song is tuneless and the lyrics are just stupid, talk about chasing the dragon…you are not a “girl,” Madge, and methinks the boy toys are just a beards to validate your mojo.  Sorry, sister, he doesn’t count as a boyfriend if he has to sign a confidentiality clause.

Gisele Bundchen, on the other hand, is a lady bad ass.  Oh horrors, Gisele has a potty mouth…grow up, people.  If I was Tom Brady’s wife, I’d be yelling out expletives at the press, too. Because she is a supermodel, she should just look pretty and keep quiet. Here’s the link to the clip here, it’s not so shocking.

I’d rather leave you with some Pam Grier in action, watch it and learn:



Murdoch Mysteries: Bachelor Sharks That I Would Hoard

I know my way around a television set.  I know that you put it on a table or a dresser or hang it up in your bathroom, and then you plug it in.   I am aware that cable comes from heavens above, and that through a special tube when inserted in the back of the tv itself binds you to a contractual agreement with Satan and his minions who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with “Shmogers`).   I hate the way they sell their juice, the life blood, and they know they have you by the short and curlies when you are too old to understand that how to put your laptop on top of your tv and magically stream in a world of entertainment far beyond your imagination.  Young people seem to know how to do this and they are so entertained by the mind-numbing stream of reality shows including Shark Week, Bachelors, Snake Charmers, Tree Men, Hoarders, Shut-Ins, Makeovers, and Real Estate Transactions (don’t get me started on this one).    I am slightly bitter that I pay for cable especially considering the fact that I watch the same tv over and over and over again. 

I put in DVD’s of my 2 favourite shows and I watch them in order and in a rotation like a round of antibiotics.

“What’s up, Peterson?”  Neighbour might ask, nonchalantly, on the front lawn of our homes.

“Oh, not much, just kind of wondering about that notice the city sent out that we have to redirect the downspouts from the eavethroughs so that our roof water doesn’t end up in the sewer?”  Real life details like this totally stress me out and make me want to run inside and TURN ON THE TELLY and watch Dick Van Dyke!  And eat crackers while I watch my mother iron tea towels.

So yeah, now I am old and tv is my teat. And I have two favourite tv shows that I over and over again in rotation: “Gilmore Girls”and “Sex and the City.” I get it, Freud.  Don`t judge me.

But I have discovered a third nipple from the TV Tit and it`s Murdoch Mysteries.  It is an awesome show and established so I can get the DVD`s and include them in my round.  It`s kind of like CSI: Turn-of-the-Last -Century Toronto.  There`s murder, mystery, intrigue, sexual tension galore.  The men all have crazy handlebar moustaches and toast-wedge size sideburns which probably made them the douchebags of their tyme.  However, in order to give us a modern-day panty-creamer, Murdoch himself is clean- shaven and impossibly handsome.  He has palpable chemistry with the woman doctor from the morgue which is so fantastic because it is CHASTE.  And let`s not kid ourselves, the sex in your head is always better than the sex in your bed, but the sex under a bunch of petticoats is probably mind-blowing.  Just saying.  Take that, Shark Week.  Sigh.

Searching For Mr. Tenant

If somebody in Toronto spots this man, tweet me pronto.  Not for me, perv, for my daughter.  I might be in my cougar years but I’m not on the prowl for young prey.  Please.  But daughter is a big fan of his work.  Although we would both love to get a real-life glimpse of the enigmatic (and by enigmatic, I mean: What’s the story, morning-glory? Is he gay or straight?) Robert Pattinson, the sparkly star of that heinous Twilight franchise.  He’s in town RIGHT NOW filming “Cosmopolis.”  He wasn’t at the Pride Parade on Sunday, but then again all those oily young bucks looked alike in blazing sun.  He doesn’t seem to sleep or eat anywhere, so he could possibly really be a vampire.   So yeah, if you spot a Cosmopolis film truck, call me, and we will put our slap on, change our shoes, and Scionate on over to the locale and pretend we are part of the makeup crew.  Hilarity would ensue, it would be like a hybrid episode of Gilmore Girls meets I Love Lucy. It would make our whole summer.

And speaking of slippery young men, last week my tenant gave me notice that he was leaving.  And by “notice,’ I mean a text on July 1;  “Just a head’s up, Kristin, I’m looking for a cheaper place.”  Me:  “You mean September 1?”  He: “Well, like, kind of like August 1, I’ll let you know.”  WHAT DO YOU MEAN “LET ME KNOW?”  You’re leaving or you’re not, and you’re only giving me 30 days notice, JESUS MO-FU!   I didn’t say that to him, instead I remained calm and told him I would have to advertise it right away, blah blah, but inside I was seething with the usual fear-based rage I have become so accustomed in the past year.  As much as I love my tenant, and by “love,”  I mean from afar, from very afar, because he spends most of his time in Woodbridge.  And for me, there is no better tenant than the absent kind.  But he was having problems with rent, so, maybe it was really for the best.

So onto to Craigslist I went.  It’s a scary place, that’s for sure.  Last year I put 8 harp-backed dining room chairs for sale.  Those are those ubiquitous chairs that every East York gramma has but I put the clever spin on it in the ad:  “As seen on Sex and the City.”  It is true, when you own these harp-backed chairs, you can spot them a mile away anywhere.  So I noticed in the episode where Charlotte wants to convert to Judaism and she barges in on the Rabbi’s Seder, she is offered a seat on a harp-back when they say their prayer.  Funnily enough, the person that answered the Craigslist ad, was a woman named Esther, who came to see them one evening with her husband.  They were a young Jewish couple from Bathurst and Lawrence and they drove all the way to the beach late at night   She was wearing a long black wig ass-length wig that made her look like pole dancer in a witness protection program.  She was  painfully thin and covered up in a button down shirt and one of those long, ankle length corduroy skirts that Ralph Lauren still puts out for that particular demographic.   He was all conservative, also,  wearing a yarmulke and suit and was non-stop finger fucking his Blackberry the moment he stepped out of the mini-van.  I took them to see the chairs which were in the empty dining room of the apartment that I hadn’t yet rented out to the current dingle-douche. It was way past my bed-time and one of those sweltering hot Tennessee Williams-style July nights that make sensitive souls such as myself want to ruminate in the dark with a wet washcloth and sweating glass of icy vodka-laced lemonade bed-side.  It took these two wretched characters the better part of an hour for them to fight over whether to buy the chairs or not.

He:  These chairs are UGLY!

She:  I like them, I want them.

He:  You just like them because you want to buy them.  You`ll hate them when you bring them home.  You do this all the time.

She:  No I don’t, I haven’t done any decorating in that apartment!   I really like them.

He: You don`t like them,  you just like buying things.

She:  They’ll fit perfectly with the table.

He:  WHY?  They are UGLY and they are too small!  We have fat relatives! (and he turns to me and says) I’m sorry, lady, but I know my wife and she just likes to buy things even if they are ugly.

Me:  But she likes them…..But you are right, she married you and you are ugly (haha, I don’t actually say that part)


And so it went.  I shut up and just watched this post modern, twisted version of “Fiddler on the Roof” play out until she finally complied right around the time his Blackberry ran out of battery.  Off they went, chairless, into the sultry hot night.  When they got home, they probably had negotiated sex:  “I’ll buy you an ottoman,” he said,  After he planted his seed into her bony loins, he rolled over and said, “If you have a baby, it better be a boy,” as he plugged his Blackberry back in the charger.  Stupid Craigslist, creepy people, dumb chairs.  A week later, the good folks at Frontier Sales ended up taking them off my hands.  “These chairs are a dime a dozen,” Frontierman said, ” But I will give 50 bucks.”  Sweet!  Deal!

That was a year ago.  So when I reluctantly put the apartment up on Craigslist this week, I was delighted with 8 responses in one day, and 6 people came.  It turned out I had my choice!   Everyone was so nice!  There were ladies and couples but I ended up choosing the single, mid- 20s male, once again, to replace the old one.  The house is top-heavy with both fresh, ripe, and spayed estrogen (poor 15-year-old Freddy, even the dog is a girl)  that the virile testosterone of a young buck can be the only remedy to make the house feng shui balanced.  That is my story and I’m sticking to it.