Tag Archives: W Network

Tale of a Christmas Ho

I think it’s politically okay to celebrate Christmas in public again.  Remember when we couldn’t even say the word and the kids had “Holiday” pageants and had to sing “Woot Woot Kwanzaa” sung to the tune of he Fifth Dimension’s “Stoned Soul Picnic?”  In class, they made dreidels out of polymer clay with wire hooks so we could hang them on the tree as an ornament, killing the J-bird and the C-bird with one stone. Smart hockey, teacher, keep everyone happy. Just make no mention of the sweet baby Jesus, Virgin Mary, mangers, wise men (they don’t really exist anyway), and from now on Santa has no denomination. But sitting on his lap and giving him your list of wants and desires while he drunkenly calls you a “ho ho ho” has never really gone out of style, thank Gods (plural).

I love Christmas and I will say it loud and proud.  It’s all about the build up:  The lights, the decorations, the shortbread, the Brie wheels, the booze, and best of all the bombardment of made-for-tv movies on the W Network.  There’s a bunch of them, all filmed in Toronto, all starring Hollywood D-list “ageing” actresses with Can-con leading men, that they replay over and over again.  A typical plot:  A woman, once married to an evil rat bastard who leaves her for his sex-atary, becomes homeless.  She gets a job at a diner and starts baking cookies that sell like hotcakes. The man (whose name is always Nick) that runs the diner is a nice but seemingly hapless hunk that she is sexually attracted to but she has no time for because she has to get back on her feet for the sake of her hipster daughter who is away at college and doesn’t yet know she is broke. The story-line arcs when there is a misunderstanding involving false pride (hers) and blue balls (his) and she falls into the depth of despair. But! It turns out he is actually super wealthy. Her cookies become a multi-million dollar industry and she and Nick fall in love just in time for Christmas and her daughter comes home to her happy mom and new daddy and a house full of prezzies. The end.

And speaking of baking cookies, I gave that chore up for Lent 4 years ago and never really got back to it.  I used to get invited to various “cookie exchange” parties…I know, right?  Bake a dozen million cookies, put them in a trunkload of cookie tins and take them to covenant of estrogen-based ho-bags and sit around and drink wine and talk.  That’s not really party *per se,*  Not without bone and mistletoe! Bitch, please. What is with all these grown women wanting to go out on “girls’ night?”  A couple of weeks ago, one of my friends e-mailed me: “We’re going out on a girls’ night, want to come?”  I e-mailed:  “Can I bring my nephew?”  To which the reply:  “Ladies only!”  Ugh, to that!  Seriously, I can’t handle being in a mass of women, or a “snatch of beavers,” plural form. I need man energy to drive me to take the next breath. This is why I don’t mind when my teenage son has a room full of boys sleep over in the tv room.  The sweat and Axe Body Spray all condense in one spot over night so that when you open the door in the early afternoon to see if they are still alive, you are bombarded with a pheromone bomb so potent, you have to wear panty liners for a week.

But I’m looking forward to this cookie party. My friend who invited me has called this the “rebel cookie exchange where anything goes!”  I asked:  “Do you mean there will be man-whores and bourbon?”  “Oh, goodness, no,” she laughed, “You can actually bring squares, before they were sticky about that rule and it was cookies only.  Lindsay is making fudge!”  Fudge!  I love fudge.  And cookies. Nothing says Christmas more than a chunk of extra ass-flab made out of butter.  Ho ho ho!

And with that I leave you with some Can-con, my mother’s favourite Christmas carol, Little Drummer Boy, done by Sean Quigley of Winnipeg. This is cool and love his teenage ‘stache:

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Merry Eggs-Mas

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, kind of

Is it just me or has Christmas lost its mojo?  It’s not the weather because it’s cold and snowy and no one more than me loves an excuse to stay at home on a Saturday night and wear fabric birth control (otherwise known as fleece) and watch Love, Actually for the billionth time on the W Network.  But it was on last weekend and I fell asleep before the climax where all the characters converge, collapse, and copulate.  And Mariah Carey sings on the soundtrack which would make watching this is a guilty pleasure except there is gratuitous frontal nudity and an orgy scene in it so it’s not a complete chick flick.  British people are good for that sort of thing.  But I fell asleep because Christmas is tired and I’m blaming LED Lights, the Economy, and the Internet.  LED lights:  People are forced to decorate with this barbaric technology these days and it makes everything look the basement toilet facilities at any given Legion Hall.  The Economy:  What’s the point of wanting gifts when you’ve bought everything all year round and are skint (British for broke) so you are forced to hibernate?   And the Internet because it is like the den that you hibernate in and as long as it is there, you don’t have to make an appearance at some lame LED lit party where your pupils dilate, craving actual natural light source, which make you eat more and therefore bloat and fill you with more self-loathing than you would have had if you spent the night in fleece watching Love Actually.

So this year I’m going to do like they did in the olden days.  Forget baking, why bother when the Hudson’s Bay Company has the best shortbread premium cookies in all their stores?  And I can use my Bay card to stimulate the economy and collect Reward Points!   Instead I’m going to light candles and make eggnog from scratch and you are all invited.  I’ve done it once before back in the day, and I’ll do it again.   Homemade eggnog is the bomb and stop with your raw egg salmonella fantasy, I’ve been slurping them down in milkshakes since I was a child playing with the mercury from the broken thermometer my mother put in my mouth when I only pretended to be sick.  There’s an eggnog website which you can click on here that will give you recipes, including the low-fat version.  I’m going to go full fat as that is what Jesus would do, and any excuse I have to visit Rowe Farms in Leslieville, the better.  They have the eggs from the joyous free range chickens and the butcher there is a hot ginger who could probably bring the X back in the Xmas if you know what I mean, which you probably do.  I bet your tree is up already.

Real Eggnog from cracking the eggs yourself

The Good Fight

Age, it can happen to the best of us

Last winter, I was chosen to be on a reality show about real estate agents.  We did a lot of shooting from January until March and then I heard nothing.  It was a lot of fun and would have been good advertising for my real estate services, I need all the fame or infamy I can get in that area since the town is overrun by giant powerhouses on buses and billboards (and special message to a certain spray-tanned real estate agent with a snaggle tooth: use Photoshoppe, the sisters do it and so should you).  The other day, I got a call from the producer of The Agents and they have formatted all the footage into half hour show for the W Network.  She wanted me to come down and see the pilot and then for my particular segment, we will do some reshoots to fit the formula.  I have to say, it’s a pretty good show, it’s based on rivalry and catty behind the scenes comments.  I loved it.  But what I didn’t love was the footage of myself.  Never mind that it was shot two weeks after Christmas and the only thing I had to drink besides Champagne was melted Brie. I can take bloated, the ability to bloat is on my resume.  I looked really old!  You know how when you look in a mirror, you have your repetoire of poses that you take so you don’t have to see the stuff you hate?  Well you can’t do when you see yourself on tv.  It is what it is:  U*G*L*Y.  “I thought you looked cute,” the producer said.  Cute!  I’m in my cougar years, I want to look fierce.  I still have some mojo and I’m not trying to compete with twenty year olds.  I have learned for every flaw, big or small, that a woman might have, there is a freak with a fetish ready to worship her.  But the problem is that while he is admiring her exquisite beauty, he is creating a mountain Kleenex wads underneath his webcam somewhere in Germany.  So if you want to get a real life date with a North American male, LOCA’s, you better get with the program.  So here I go:

me with a rubber collagen mask on at Salon Spa College

My friend Connie is learning to be an esthetician at Salon Spa College, which is at Don Mills and York Mills.  She`s had me in for a couple of procedures, this one was the basic facial with galvanic energy.  She sealed in the serum with a wand full of positive current while I held another wand of negative current.  It must work because electricity is involved.  The pore holes shrink so skin looks firmer.  Sometimes my pores like to gape open too much, that`s probably when everything looks all saggy.  Must remember this for when they do reshoots in a couple of weeks.  Anyway, at the Salon Spa College, they do all kinds of treatments from laser hair removal, facials, manicures, pedicures and with state of the art equipment, and they take appointments for the public,  The prices are really good, check out their website here.  I`m excited for something that I saw on Dr. Oz the other day about a new treatment called Ultherapy, where they use ultrasound to repair the collagen deep in the skin so that the turkey waddle is diminished.  It`s probably something that a doctor operated which means more money but it will be worth it.  It might be a drag getting old, but you`ll never get bored fighting it.

What Mother Wants

 

This is why we love mamas so much….would the man-bird go out and find worms for his chickies?  No, he is probably sitting on some telephone wire puffing out his chest, chirping about nothing to nobody and then he’ll fly away, squirting white poop on your windshield without even giving it a thought.  Well, here’s a thought (and a reminder) tomorrow is Mother’s Day….it’s not Mother-specific as in Yo Mama, it is all Mother’s Day, and it`s not just morning either….the whole day is included, so don’t think you can just toss her a card and some toast at 9 a.m and you’re done.  No, you must honour all mothers, all day long.  Sometimes my birthday falls before or on Mother’s Day, which somehow cancels out this holiday in the minds of my spawn.  One year, it was late afternoon, when one of them pried his eyes off the tv and said, flatly:  “Oh, yeah, Happy Mother’s Day.”  Really, it’s 4 pm, the day is done, it’s too late for happiness but not too early for a cocktail.  This year, B-day is after M-day so I’m expecting the whole bucket of chicken, so to speak.  Mothers love buckets of chicken, by the way, at least this one does….you know which kind, and I don’t want to hear anything about how this particular franchise manages to breed Frankenchickens with 4 breasts and no heads.  Keep your urban myths to yourself and let mama lick her fingers.

Mothers also love flowers, so go get ’em:

Beachwood Flower Shop at 1916 Queen St East, east of Woodbine Ave is the place to go.  They make the bouquets upon specification and they don’t skimp on the superfluous foliage that makes a bunch of flowers go from humdrum to spectacular:

Mothers also like to stay in bed on Sunday morning to watch the back-to-back episodes of “New Adventures of Old Christine” on The W Network.  Feel free to TAKE THE DOG OUT and pick up some croissants at Zane’s bakery (the ones with chocolate inside) and whilst you’re at it, order her a chocolate birthday cake for Tuesday.  Everything at Zane`s (Queen Street East, just east of Brookmount)  is delicious, you really can`t go wrong:

So don`t forget Mother`s Day tomorrow….be nice to all the mamas out there!