Tag Archives: Twitter

Gretzky Twitter Family Photos

I can’t get enough of this!  The Gretzky Family Christmas card! It’s my screen saver.  It’s like Vanity Fair meets  Awkward Family Photos all riddled with the sub-text of dysfunctional family issues. No one is actually smiling, the mama is really just showing her teeth, the way mamas do when they are about to bark out an order. The glum little one in the middle is the star of the show, a world-weary 8 year-old whose expression seems to say:  “Beautiful people have problems, too.”  Lol.

Like most Canadians, I have an affinity to Wayne Gretzky.  I think of him as an older brother because he reminds me of my own. The Golden Child archetype who has to carry the all the hopes and dreams of the rest family in his shoulders. I could never have sibling rivalry with my brother, The Other Great One, as I am completely content living in a shadow. In fact, because I was born way behind the rest of the lot, I always felt like a pet which was awesome. More Milkbones for me!

Anyway, this photo was on the cover of the Toronto Star today with an actual article that went along with it. Paulina Gretzky, the oldest daughter, tweeted it out and then it got REMOVED FROM TWITTER!  Media brouhaha ensued! They are like the Khardashians!  A family of pimps and hos, exploiting themselves for fame and…more fame. And now that it is removed from The Twitter and the bottom-feeding bloggers are posting it, it is a news story. They accuse Paulina of being a Twitter slut. And I am in love with her. She has the untrammeled mojo of  a woman twice her age.  Imagine what she’ll be like when she’s in her cougar years. I bow to her to Greatness. I am following her Twitter and maybe I’ll learn a thing or two.  Buzzkill Wayne made her to close her account in November for a nano second so in case it happens again, luckily there is a gallery of her best Instagrams that you can click on here.

And aside from that, we are on Day Four of Orgy Week and I am hell-bent by this time next year, “#orgyweek” will be a hashtag on Twitter and part of the popular vernacular in general.  In case you are new to this blog, Orgy Week is the week between Christmas and New Years where you do what you want, not what you think you should do.  You would be surprised how much you learn about yourself when you let yourself “be.”  My revelations so far: I am a hermit!  I actually like cole slaw!

And speaking of dysfunction families, Evangeline and I went to see “The Descendants” which made me cry. I like crying, I’m always on the verge anyway.  All is not what it seems from the outside, as George Clooney says in the beginning:

“My friends think just because we live in Hawaii, we live in paradise.  We’re all just out here sipping Mai Tai’s, shaking our hips, and catching waves.  They say we are immune to life.  How could they possibly think our families are less screwed up…our heartaches less painful?”

Maybe it’s the same with the Gretzkys.  Maybe Paulina’s Twitter account is just a cry for help, that kind of hunger for attention is destined for doom. The need for validation is a bottomless pit when you are seeking it from outside yourself.  All that having to suck your stomach in to take a headless shot of yourself in a bikini in a mirror from a hotel room is really kind of pathetic….no, it’s awesome, who am I kidding? That’s just the Orgy Week Cheetos talking.

3 more sleeps and Orgy Week is over, thank God.  I think too much the rest of year and now I am over-thinking everything.  Also I need to put on some lipstick. Soon things will be normal, N*O*R*M*A*L!  Until then, here’s the trailer to ‘The Descendants,” go see it:


Boston Bruins 4-Evah!

When I was in Grade Two at Mountainview Primary School in Otterburn Park, Quebec, I began my lifelong mission as one of those annoying contrarians that you run into every so often when making small talk.  It’s sunny out and you say, “Oh what a beautiful day” and I say, “I hate the sun, I can see all the dirt in my house. I only like it when it rains.”  Lady Gaga comes on the radio and you say, “Oh I love Lady Gaga, she is so innovative, everything she does is magical genius,” and I will respond, “She is a twat.”  When really, obviously I love the sun when I sprawl out on Hanlan’s Point with nothing but a bucket and a blanket and of course I appreciate Lady Gaga’s theatrics, particularly the one where she claims to be 24 when obviously she is 45.  Good times!

So when every little kid in that tiny Quebec town was cheering for The Habs, I did not.  From my brother’s hockey card collection, I discovered a Boston Bruins player named Phil Esposito and I was in love at first sight.  Don’t ask me why, in retropect, I don’t get it either.  Back then I thought he was the hottest thing since Dick Van Dyke (again, not sure what was going on in that tiny mind).  I remember the classroom was set up with four desks pushed together, bistro-style and I was the only girl in mine.  I made an announcement to the quadrant that I was a Bruins fan and they are the best team and Phil Esposito is best hockey player in the world.  The three boys scoffed and told me I was a “dumb girl.”  One of the boys lunged over the desks and grabbed my arm and gave me an “Indian sunburn,” that’s what we called it, don’t get on my case.  He kept squeezing my wrist one way and the fat bit below the elbow the other way so hard that snot bubbles popped out of his nose.  But I let him do it and sat there stoically, I didn’t wince or cry.  That is where I learned to stand by my principals and not to let some stupid little dude tell me who or what to like.

It is also where I learned that hockey is a passionate sport, and picking your team isn’t always the most rational choice.  So this particular Stanley Cup was more exciting for me than any other because normally don’t care so much.  I watched all 7 games and tweeted on my Twitter because that is what you do these days when the tv is on.  Last night during Game 7, I twattered out something quite rude about the Canucks that I thought for sure I would lose some followers.  One tweeter was pissed and chirped my head off but by then I had fallen asleep and when I woke up to the news, I was elated:  Bruins won 4-0!  The city of Vancouver was in a riotous uproar!  Rage was in the air!  Suddenly my tweet didn’t seem so harsh!  And I am validated!  I don’t even remember who that boy was in Grade Two but all I have to say to you is :  HA!  I might be “just a girl” but my team won the Stanley Cup! 

 Karma is a slow moving bitch.

Royal Love: Don’t Try This At Home, Folks

By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this —
One of you is lying.”
— Dorothy Parker

I don’t mean to put a damper on this whole royal brouhaha, William and Kate taking the plunge next week, but chances are this is doomed.  I think they are both lying!!!!!   Before you dismiss me as some jaded old cougar, I will tell you why:  I may not be an expert on love, per se, but I know about marriage.  It’s simple science.  For one thing, we live too long to expect a union between two people to last a lifetime, less their age at the time of their wedding.  In olden days, the woman often died in childbirth and Farmer Dickhead would marry her 12-year-old sister.  He`d die when she was 20 and she`d be referred to as the Old Widow Dickhead.  Her ovaries would rot quicker than a dingleberry off a donkey`s ass and by the time she was 30 she would be a spent, useless commodity.   Now we live longer, thanks to better health care.  But it doesn’t help that modern times are not conducive to life long relationships.  The internet has turned us all into ADHD, twittering, porn loving rat people, clicking and scrolling the days and nights away.  It turns out there is a whole sub-culture, more common than you think, whose lives are based in cyber space and not actual human interaction.  I think this is stunting our emotional growth and I will discuss all this further in my upcoming book, The Art of Modern Living.  By upcoming, I mean I haven’t written it yet.  But I will.  Tweet.  Oh look, a YouTube video of a kitten stuck in a box!

Back to William and Kate plus Fate.  The subject of the monarch and royal anything normally gets the glaze over my eyes  but I have to admit I’m getting excited over this one.  The girlie girl in me wonders what she will wear, what her bridemaids will look like, et cetera but the jaded old cougar is in a tizzy about having a Royal Wedding party at 4 o’clock in the morning, complete with Mimosas and live twittering!  And maybe a banger or two!  Last night, I watched a Barbara Walters special, click here for bits,  about the story of William and Kate, and how they met and courted.  Let me tell you, the red flags went off!  For one thing, they broke up not once but twice.  Kate was known as Katey Waity basically because she was a “rules” girl.  She lured him in by wearing some see-through garbage bag in a fashion show but then played the good girl card, that whole Madonna-Whore thing.  They dated.  He got bored at some point and dumped her, they got back together, and he dumped her again.  An American tacky mall skank factored into the play.  For some reason, British people see Americans as representative of `what could be`if only they had better dentists.  She lured him back by dressing like a ho again and having the paparazzi get her picture in a sequined garbage bag looking insanely, maniacally happy. “She played the game and got her man,” said British commentator.  That`s the key thing:  Wearing dresses that barely cover your mash will always bring in the banger.  Red flag:  this will soon get tiresome.  Madonna, whore, madonna, whore, madonna, whore…get me a drink.

And then Barbara Walters showed some photos of Kate wearing those demure outfits with wacky hats, looking `strikingly similar` to Princess Diana, William`s mama.  Another red flag:  William is marrying his mother.   If I`ve said once, I`ve said it a million times:  When a man is actually eager to marry you, it`s only because you remind him of his madonna, not his whore.  So if Kate wants to continue to play this tedious `game of love,` she better hone her bulimia (check!  The  British press never lies: she`s lost a stone since the engagement announcement) and keep her seatbelt on at all times.  But I bet she she won`t.  The monarchy is just too oppressive and she will soon find out that it`s not her game anymore. She is just a pawn, a lady dressed in white in a revolving a door.  All they need is a good pre-nup, and after, a really good song to sing to:


You Can’t Hurry Lube

I usually ignore the door unless I am expecting a pizza.  It’s almost always some trickster trying to sell you a new furnace so he can get in your basement and check out how big your tv is.  But the other day, the doorbuzz made it’s obscene sound and Betty started barking like an actual working dog (her day job is bed warmer) and I couldn’t ignore it.  Ironically, it was The Dog Catcher.  It turns out they randomly check and see if people have licensed their pets.  This is just me fear mongering, it’s not really true but the back story is too long to tell and ends with bad neighbour relations.  Anyway, the man at the door was there to remind me that I owe the city of Toronto $25 for a dog license.  After he informed of this, here is how the conversation went:

Dog Catcher:  I like your skulls! (pointing to the two skulls on my front porch chaise lounger)

Me:  Oh, they are still there from Halloween…

Dog Catcher:  Well I really like them.  A lot.

(awkward silence as he pulls out his registration form)

Dog Catcher:  What’s your first name?

Me:  Kristin, with a K

Dog Catcher:  Kristin!  I love that name!  Kristin!  I’ve always loved that name, Kristin, Kristin, Kristin!

Me:  Stop saying it!  It sounds so….crispy!

And it went on like that until he got all my information.  You should have heard him stall when he got to putting down my postal code.  He pretended to be the Amazing Kreskin and tried to guess every number and letter.  I gave him twenty-five dollars in cash and he apologized profusely, “I’m so sorry to take your beer money.”  And I shut the door.  A couple of days later, it dawned on me:  Was he flirting?  Am I so out of the game that I don’t recognize the signs?  And then I thought, am I going to die alone, a single skull on my front porch? 

5 years ago, I tried on-line dating.  I went on that one site that colour codes what you are looking for:  relationship, dating, or intimate encounters which was orange.  I went straight for the chase (orange)  because knowing what I know about menfolk, they like to cast a wide net so they have their profiles on all three playgrounds.  I think my first handle (you have to pick a name) was “Girl Afraid” and much to my delight “Mr. Shankly” gave me a poke or a wink.  It turned out he was gay and just liked my Smiths reference so I changed my handle to “Drive, She Said” and got the straight men’s attention.  I went out on 3 different dates and they were all quite nice and funny but that summer I turned into one of those ‘rules” girls and decided to lock up the vagina until I was good and ready.

Yes, that was years ago and I’m still a single lady.  All the men “have moved on” which is what they do.  Once in a while I get a fleeting crush that amounts to nothing because he has a personality disorder(you know who you are) or lives in my tv (Dr. Drew).  And is it wrong to actually like being alone?  The other day, on Twitter, #change love to lube songs was “trending”  I like how grown people participate in these things.  My twitter crush, whose handle is “arseburgers” went crazy on it.  ” Silly Lube Songs” “Lube Hurts” et cetera.  And I thought, you know:  love is like lube, it’s good at first but then it gets sticky and messy and you just can’t wait to wash it off. 

Oh, and Dog Catcher:  If you’re reading this, call me!

A Prelude to Valentine’s Day

A message to Barbie:  Just be done with it. 

I was blissfully unaware that Valentine’s Day was coming up until this morning when I went on my Facebook that I have kind of neglecting recently because Twitter is where it’s at these days.  People on Twitter are self absorbed, narcissistic whiners and braggarts with very little to say because they only have 140 characters in which to tweet.  I love them so.  Don’t get me wrong, I still *like* my Facebook, and all my “friends”  but sometimes people’s status updates are truly horrific.  Today, for example, one of my friends had this to say:

“Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep… who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky he is to have YOU…“

Seriously, a man posted this.  Furthermore he got 6 thumbs up for it and one woman commented:  `Where do I find this man?  I`ve been looking all my life…LOL!` So I counter-commented something like: `He`s the new talking Ken doll from Mattel, he retails for $39.95.`  She ignored me and wrote another comment:  “ Oh, (Facebook User), I wish I had a man like you, your wife is so lucky!  LOL!”  Yes “LOL” is right!  Is it just me or can you see the subtext in this guy’s status?  I think Dr.Phil would have a field day on the hot seat with this dude.  Let’s analyze it sentence by sentence:

“He calls you beautiful instead of hot”:  This means he is probably having sex somewhere else.   A sunset, a BLT, a covered bridge in Madison County are beautiful, too, and he is not boning either of these things.

“…who calls you back when you hang up on him, ”  : Why did you hang up on him in the first place?  Go with your instincts.  Oprah will tell you that.

“…who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat.”  Creepy.

“…who will stay awake just to watch you sleep”:  Yeah, so he can sneak downstairs and make a phone call.

“…wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats”:  Red flag!  Red flag!  This is the most dangerous of them all!  You realize, you, in sweats, are not hot.  He doesn’t think so either and nor does he want anyone else to.  Control freak.

“…holds hands in front of his friends.”:  That one is sort of cute but caution to all PDA, it is often just for show or like marking territory.

“…Constantly reminding you how much he care for you and how lucky he is to have YOU.”   Constantly?  Who is he really trying to remind? 

I’m not tying to be a big Valentine’s Scrooge but let’s just say I have your back.  If he seems to good to be true, you probably made him up in your head.  I’m not too worried my “friend” is going to read my post, he’s probably too busy rubbing petroleum jelly on his wife’s feet so she slips in the shower later on.  Here is the new talking Ken Doll, by the way:

My Filthy iPhone Habit

Rosedale School of the Arts, the scene of the crime

Last week, when Egypt went into upheaval and government blocked the internet including Facebook and Twitter, Charlie Sheen got sent to rehab.  At the same time, somewhere in the middle of these two events (closer to Charlie Sheen), my son Freddy had his iPhone stolen from his pants pocket while he was in gym class.  I know what you’re thinking, what’s a grade niner doing with an iPhone?   When I was in high school, we used to communicate with Morse Code and looseleaf.  While I was in English class, I used to tap on the wall to my buddy Paul, who was on the other side of the partition snoring his way through Physics, we’d pass notes, play hangman and gossip and draw pictures of our teachers in their underwear…now that I think about, I must have been in love with him, and if I could remember his last name, I’ll look him up on Facebook.  Which brings me to my point, we are a society addicted to social media, our cellphones are our lifeline.  Stealing a little dude’s cellphone is the equivalent of stealing another man’s horse in the wild west.  Freddy’s iPhone was my old 3G when I upgraded to the 4 last summer.  Oh how we love(d) our phones, Freddy would play Angry Birds and I would just be stroking and scrolling through all my apps.  Righteous Teenage Daughter would bust us:  “Look at the two of you!  You’re not even watching that!”  She would be pointing to the t.v. and we would look up at her in defiance.  She had a point for sure.  There is something uncontrollably addictive about the iPhone and I know I’m in trouble because not only do I Facebook, I tweet also.  And I have the app called Foursquare, the one where you check into every place you go in order to unlock badges and obtain mayorships.  I’m not joking, adults are doing this.  The worst part is that there is an app called HootSuite that tweets, updates your Facebook status, and reports  your Foursquare location all at the same time!!  It is like a social media speedball and although I have it, I have yet to do it, I`m scared I will unleash a monster that tweets and poops at the same time.  I might not be the Charlie Sheen of iPhone addicts yet  but I confess I have an app that pops pimples and paints cats.  It`s a federation of craziness.  And I have been trying to curb my iPhone fondling while at home with Freddy, who now has a Nokia something or other, out of respect and sympathy.  The other day on Twitter, my beloved Dr. Drew (Celebrity Rehab) tweeted out something about people who think they beat their addictions, `your disease is always in the next room doing push ups.`  Mine is in its charger, I`m calling it rehab and I`m putting it on silent but keeping it on vibrate, a LOCA`s got to be in touch somehow.