Tag Archives: yoga

Bring It On


It’s May, as if you didn’t already know that, but it’s also my birthday month. Yes, I get a month this year because it is one of those b-days that end in a ZERO. I am not going to lie, I AM FREAKING OUT. I can’t even say the number, it comes out like “fuh-” and then stops. Help me. I need to work through this crippling dread so I can own that number when it actually happens on May 11. So I’m going to write out a pro and con list of what it’s like to turn fuh and feel free to add some of your own in the comments, I need you’ll more than ever.  FUHHHHHHH!!!!!! Please don’t put me out on the ice floe just yet!!!

1. Con: I do not enjoy people conversing about menopause. Yes, surprise, I am the person who will talk bodily functions from head to toe, diarrhea sandwiched by dandruff and toe jam, in all the grossest detail, but I can’t handle the hot flash jokes. For the record, I am not sure if had one yet or just have middle-of-the-night drunk sweats since they seem to happen on mostly weekends. “You would know if you had a hot flash,” I am assured by a locker room buddy, Deb, who by the way, is rocking her mid-fuh’s without trying too hard unlike another woman of similar age I know, a real estate agent, who gets puffy hair extensions and sports the second coming of acid wash(!)  jean suits(!!) that even a twenty year old shouldn’t be wearing…barf, just barf, it depresses me to look at her, hanging on to her fugly heyday that was 1985. But Deb makes me happy to join the fuh club. Menopause happens, you can’t stop the train. But I have a big beef with the term “perimenopausal,” that fancy word used to describe the onset of menopause. Your mama simply called it “going through the change” when she drew the curtains shut on a sunny summer day and laid down on the couch with a wet washcloth over her head. My friend, Flanders,who loves to remind me that she is 6 whole months younger than me, has told me for literally 15 years that every physical thing that is happening is because I am “perimenopausal.” See, I’ve typed it twice and you can’t see it but my spell check cries bullshit and is underlining it in red, so appropriate. You either have a tampon stash or you don’t, it’s that simple. What is this “peri” crap? It’s a made up term for women to feel even more badly about themselves and buy more pharmaceuticals. Fuck that perimenopausal shit, by that logic we are all peri-dead then. Ugh, fuh.

2. Pro: Age is wisdom. Why am I so afraid to say the number when my forties was the most painful, tumultuous decade of my life? Why would I want to hang on to that number? Going through my forties was like going through a second adolescence only with financial worries. It was a learning curve on a very dark highway. Everything I thought I knew to be true and right was tested by my own misguided self sabotage. Seriously, what a dumb ho I was at 40, walking around like I knew it all. Maybe the next decade will be filled with the wisdom of self acceptance. Bring it on, fuh-fiffffff…. I still don’t want to say it.

3. Con: Getting old sucks a big scaly dick that needs moisturizing. For women though, not so much for the menfolk. Those silver shards of hair that peek out around the temple are cute on a dude but not so much on a lady. Also jowly things forming. Also a beard. Also going blind and slighty deaf. Also attack of the middle pudge. Also what is that new flesh fold in the back there underneath the ass cheek? Fucking fuh.

4. Pro: I am at the tail end of the Baby Boomers, cusping on that lazy, bottom feeding Generation X crowd. The Baby Boomers, because they are so vain and ambitious, are trailblazing the way to eternal youth blasting their Botox needles through the forest of free radicals. God bless them and their  prolific nip/tucks and injections. Yes, some of them are over-done which is a good thing, their weird puffy faces make a little neck waddle look charmingly human. We can learn from their mistakes and apply the rest in moderation: A little squirt o’ Botox to soften the eyebrow scowl (and helps with the migraines, I am not kidding), a little Juvederm to caulk in the those puppet mouth lines that when left to deepen, turn into gutters filled with drool when walking towards the wind. Just a tiny bit here and there and that’s how your face can rock the aging process. Not so bad, fuh!

5. Con: I read a head-line on a tabloid at the grocery store saying “60 is the new 40” with Kris Jenner on the cover…I know, foul…but still, I love when people make proclamations like this and put it up in a bold font. You can almost believe it’s true and continue to surmise that if 60 is the new 40, then fuh must be the new 30. The thirties were my mojo years. By the time I hit 38, I was in my prime. It was good until it got bad. So if 60 is the new 40, then I’ve got another rollercoaster ride ahead of me and I don’t think I can take another decade-long chapter of crippling existential angst fuckery. 60 is 60 and fuh is fuh, and that’s all there is to it…why must we get all caught up in journalistic subterfuge? Just stop.

6. Pro: This woman, no comment necessary:

susan sarandon over 50

7. I don’t know if this is a Pro or a Con but my mojo has come back. I don’t what happened, but I attribute it to this restorative yoga class I take on Tuesdays. Flashback ten years, summer of 2003, when I was FORTY, I fell on the sidewalk trying to get on my bike after consuming shots of tequila. There was a loud crack as I hit the pavement landing on my ass, I had the wherewithal to break the fall with my right hand but I ended up cracking my tailbone and breaking my wrist. I didn’t know it though, and walked around broken for two weeks trying to learn how to drive my new manual transmission Mini Cooper, why does it hurt so much to shift gears? I told you I was a dumb ho when I was 40. I finally went to the hospital and they told me that while I was most certainly a dumb ho for not coming in right away, they could have just set it in a cast then instead of having to operate and reset it with a pin, it was a good thing I was drunk when it happened because drunk people fall better than sober people as they are more “relaxed.” Oh how I laughed but I was too embarrassed to tell them about my tailbone because that was what made the loud cracking sound. ALSO, I had heard the only way to fix a tailbone is for an osteopath to shove a hand up the ass and manoeuvre it from there. Not happening.

After the fall when the cast came off, I started taking yoga which is a Pro, as yoga is so much better for you than running on a treadmill like a ridiculous gerbil going nowhere. I have done Hatha, Ashtanga, and Bikram, but a couple of months ago I tried one called “Restorative” where you hold a pose for 10 minutes. And they are all done on the mat with props and booster pillows. It is like an awesome nap where you don’t feel like much is happening but lots is happening, the chakras are in full flow mode. There is one pose where you sit with your knees splayed out and the soles of your feet hold a block. You fall forward and your forehead rests on the block. After a minute, your lower spine starts to burn and get somewhat uncomfortable and then you imagine it is blocked energy getting released and as you breathe into it, things start to loosen up. I’m serious, my broken tailbone loves this activity, it’s like I sprayed a whole can of WD40 up my ass, and it’s ready to bust some moves! An awakening of mojo has occurred since I started this class and I guess it’s a Pro until it becomes a Con. And it will. If I learned anything from the Journey of the Forties is that nothing ever stays the same. Everything is in constant change. Rolling, rolling, rolling.

In the meantime, this came on my laptop screen:



So I love my butcher because meat, but also because he tells me what tv shows to watch. A couple of weeks ago it was “Hung” which made me want to be a lady pimp (jokes…not really, still holding auditions). This week’s viewing suggestion was “Luther” a BBC series about a crime detective…ugh, barf, I hate crime shows, I can never follow the plot, even “Charlie’s Angels” was too complicated. But what the hell, that particular butcher has that sort of power over me so I downloaded it even though I thought bleccchh, “the new James Bond’ my eye. I am now Queen of Torrents which I probably should keep to myself, and I love to watch stuff on my laptop…it is so intimate. My screen is all dotted in sneeze spittle but I don’t care, it’s my portal into the wild world of interwebz and how I communicate with you.

So yeah…LUTHER IS AWESOME AND IDRIS ELBA IS TO DIE FOR! And this is the funny thing, I have seen Idris Elba in “The Office” and “The C Word” (no, I have never seen “The Wire”), and I didn’t bat an eye or put my hands down my pants even just to scratch. But watching ‘Luther?” I took to the bed after watching the first episode on the now tainted family couch…that’s me in the cover photo with ma boo sitting on my lap…and I watched the rest of them with my wagging tailbone under the covers. Oh my god, those little white beard hairs! I love him so much it hurts. In a good way. PRO!

So yeah. Fifty …Five Zero #YOLO. Bring it on.


A Hooker’s Guide to Flirting

I’ve realized my problem and it’s that I need to become more lady-like.  In this post we are going to research and figure out how to flirt with men and maybe consequently “get some.”  One does not simply stroll into a bar with one’s gay nephew as a wingman, order a pint of Flying Monkeys and a round of Jaegermeister and ask the bartender if he will have sex with you (this is not me, it happened to a friend of a friend’s cousin…please don’t judge).  He will FO SHO say: “No I have a girlfriend.” And send you off in a cab. One needs to have more finesse and learn a technique or two, for godsake, there is no need to be a bull in a china shop.  Men these days have to be coddled before you make a hit, they need to be stroked the right way, like a cat, or else they get spooked.

But first, in the past couple of days when I have checked my site stats for what it is that you google in order to find me, I have had a huge spike in traffic from this term:  Lululemon pussy see-thru yoga pants.  And I just wanted to say thanks for dropping by, but there are no see through yoga pants here :(.  But! in any given hot yoga class, you will inevitably see some in their splayed out glory, so maybe that’s what you should be doing instead of trolling on google looking for rogue camel toe.  Just saying.

Also as an aside, yesterday my male platonic boyfriend without any benefits whatsoever (otherwise known as Remainder Man) came over to my house to check out the hole in my kitchen ceiling where it is snowing plaster chips on my stove top as we speak (he will work for beer) said “Let’s go for lunch.” And I, as usual, thought he meant Gabby’s for chicken wings and the company of really old,  glassy-eyed professional beach drunks.  The beach hood is infamous for this particular pack of old dudes who live for the 11 a.m. opening of the beer taps and then do the stroll along Queen Street, starting at Castro’s in the morning and ending at Captain Jacks at midnight.  They spend the whole day not speaking to one another at the bar and then one of them will finally say something and then a fight will break out and somebody gets their nose broken. Lather, rinse, repeat the next day.  I love it so, these are the men that need to be flirted with and I am fully prepared to hone my newly acquired techniques on them.

But no, Remainder Man wanted to go to my gym, where they serve beer and soup.  “I want to eat lighter,” he said.

“No, you just want to see vaginas in yoga pants,”  I said.


So we had lunch at my gym and he as he ogled some yoga-panted MILF-type who trotted by with her screaming toddler.  Some other sweaty gym-regular menfolk with their squash racquets dropped by our table of crass talk, and I came to the realization that I MAY AS WELL GROW A DICK.  I am just one of the boys. What the hell?  I am not even remotely masculine looking, I wear mascara and I have been dutifully reapplying lipstick throughout the day as per my New Year’s resolution, I have projectile boobs and a bunched bum. I rock the latest nail colours, I always carry a purse full of crap, my voice sounds like a little girl (true story, telemarketers always ask me if my mother is home), and I am afraid of snakes.  Not one of these men are ruffled around me, they carry on talking their talk of boring golf shit, completely ignoring me while their eyes wander around the room at the ladies that AREN’T at their table.  It is virtually impossible to practise flirting with them, they are such assholes. They are all bark and no bite.  Even if you flirted with them, they would look at you like you were a frog on the highway and then resume their infantile ignore game.

I left all frustrated, as usual.  My Remainder Man is always kind to me though and doesn’t let those loathsome squash dudes hang around for too long. As we drove back to my place, we passed a girl in yoga pants(!!!!!!!) walking her dog.

“Woof woof,” said Remainder Man.  She can’t hear us, we are in a car, but he does it to bug me.

“Her fucking dog could carry a pizza box through the gap between her legs!”  I’ve told y’all before, when I am jealous, I am one mean hooker.  Look out.  Also I am not even sure why I was jealous…do I carry a torch for Remainder Man?  I feel like we might be in one of those worm holes and we will hook up when we are in a nursing home.

“I know, she is a little too thin, that one up ahead though…HOT!” And she’s an elderly lady with a walker.  And that will be me one day.

“Seriously, what is it men want?”

“They want it all!” Except for me and my phantom dick, obviously.

I must figure this out before I get too old and settle into this mess and become ONE OF THE BOYS in the retirement community on that remote island off the coast of Venezuela I plan on escaping to (you are all coming with me).

I have been googling how to flirt  and I will practise techniques RIGHT NOW, REAL TIME on Refat, the bartender where I am writing this on my laptop plugged in to the far wall but with a direct view of the bar, I will SMILE and begin:

1. Make eye contact.  He is busy right so I’ll just wait.  Bat eyelashes?  Yes I think that is cute.  Maybe too cute?  I don’t know, help me.

2. Take interest in what he has to say.  After I get his attention with this eye contact that is not happening, I am not kidding, there is a woman in YOGA PANTS at the bar and he can’t take his eyes off her, I will ask him about his childhood in Bangladesh.  Goddamnit, it’s been over ten minutes and he’s still talking to her.

3.  When I am talking to him, I will touch myself. NOT IN THAT WAY, dumbhead.  You are supposed to stroke your collarbone or flip your hair, or tickle your own cheek, or something, I read that in Cosmo or some other lady rag.  I do all this shit already because I have OCD.  I am yanking at my bottom lip, and waving my hand, but he is still talking to the bitch in the yoga pants.  Fuck him.

4. Learn from the masters. Since he’s completely ignoring me, I will watch what the hooker in the yoga pants is doing that is so riveting.  Her hair is in a really high pony tail and when she talks, it wags back and forth, like a tail on a Golden Retriever.  She is laughing and he is laughing, this is KEY!  I never laugh.  I am always in a serious panic about something, you know it’s true, I run into various businesses in tears asking for duct tape because my car key fob as fallen off the ring.  A master in yoga pants would be all like, giggling about duct tape and its many uses, she would be using duct tape as nipple clamps and LAUGHING ABOUT IT.  I must learn how to make light of the folly of the day.

5. Watch body language.  Apparently, and according to Cosmo or some other lady rag, most things are said NOT with words but BODY LANGUAGE.  If you fancy a certain dude and you are sitting down, you need to cross your legs and point your upper foot directly toward him.  I think swinging the leg back and forth will help draw his attention to you, it’s almost like you are pulling him in, and bonus, it will also feel good. I had a friend who actually used to masturbate in class this way, no joke, she grew up to be a squirter obviously.  Anyway, I fucking hate Refat right now so I am sitting splay legged with my feet tightly entwined on the chair legs.  He’s still talking to yoga pants, she’s standing up and moving her hips from side to side like she has to go pee.  I am sure he finds that alluring, he probably is into golden showers, maybe even a little scat. Perv.

6.  Touch his arm or tap his leg when you speak to him.  If he ever comes over, you can be sure I will not touch him, scatman poopy germs.  I am NOT a touchy-feely type person.  Although sometimes when I accidentally touch a certain dude, we graze fingers like when he is handing me something or we pass each other and our arms bang together, I get a little electric thrill, and that’s when you know you will hit it off in the boudoir. At least in my imagination. I do not even want to see if this works with Refat.  And he is still talking to that yoga ho!

7.  Make sure he knows you are available.  If you manage to hook a dude with your foot or gaze or hair twirl or whatever and you actually get to talk to him, this is when the word “ex-husband” coming out of your mouth is all magical sounding, not like a disease:  “My ex-husband is taking the kids to Chicago FOR THE WEEKEND!” Maybe the neanderthal will get the hint and throw a ball in your court, or not.  And here’s a pro tip on the other side of the flirting/flailing woman that is me: if you are married or hooked up, it is nice to chat with someone in a flirty way for a brief amount of time, just to give the other person a mojo boost.  There is no need to say “mywife” like it is one word or “WE love the biryani at Lahore Tikka House” within the first 30 seconds of meeting someone.  Just saying.

8.  Close the deal.  If I knew how to do this, I would not be sitting here writing this with such rage in my heart for Refat and by the way, he never showed up at my table:  “It’s the end of my shift,” he said when I finally went up to him at the bar just now.  Light is off the cab.

And that, is the story of my life.

One does not simply “accidentally” click on a Japanese porn site, I am going to admit it was my own fault.  Last night, during one of my bouts of insomnia, I took a wrong turn in the internet hay maze and saw a thing or two that were probably best left unseen by my delicate lady sensibilities.  Holy Hello Kitty, Japan! The WTF imagination of it all is limitless which I can appreciate but what is so confoundedly weird to me is that some body parts are blurred and others are not. To pixelate or not pixelate?  If that is your question, I would say you have it all ASS BACKWARDS but who am I to judge? Any time anyone says anything remotely negative about another country or culture, out come the Perpetually Offended Righteous Kony2012 Army (PORKA for short, you will need this later on):  “You can’t say anything bad about the Japanese, that is RACIST!”  So carry on, Japan, you crazy kids, with your creative cinematic endeavours that you can proudly share with the rest of world. I am just going to curl up in a ball now and double up on the underwear and clench my sphincter super tight (just in case).

And so I tossed and turned. I’m so boring, I can’t stand it.  And neither will you, here are my triple thought rotations in the middle night. If I had to suffer through it, I’m going take you with me…spoon with me until I fall asleep:

>Why does everyone get up Lena Dunham’s ass all the time?  I love her so much it hurts. All those haters are all just jealous of her success. (Bear with me, I am obsessed with HBO’s hit tv show “Girls”)

>>I wish they didn’t get those new spin bikes, they are calibrated so hard!  My calves are going to turn into tree trunks.

>>>If I have to rub one out, I’m going to make Colin Farrell my muse.

>Why should Lena Dunham publicly respond to a tweet by Lisa Lampanelli?  So dumb.  It’s those PORKAs at work again, leave Lena alone!

>>Next time I spin, I’m going to just have to keep up the RPM’s and turn down the gears. My fucking calves are so sore, that means the muscle fibres have broken down and are rebuilding themselves up in Hulkian proportions.  I’m not turning that resistance up so high,  I don’t care what he says. I’m not a real woman.  I am a monster.  Hold me.

>>>I don’t get Colin Farrell’s bizarre new hair cut but whatever, I won’t be running my fingers through it in this fantasy…(Let me google that for you if you haven’t seen it yet).

>Ugh, I can’t handle all the righteousness on the internet, no wonder I ended up on Japanese porn.  I have to stop reading the comments on Jezebel and most of all, the stupidly written articles on xoJane. PORKAs are offended by the “n-word” no matter the context, be careful saying “vinegar” because they have sharp ears.  Like it or not, the derived term “nigga” has become an indissoluble part of the popular vernacular of hip hop culture.  You can’t put a stop to the evolution of language just because Oprah said so. It’s going to be an uphill battle trying to fight that one.  Best of luck there and enjoy your new Lil Wayne download.

ricky gervais gif

>>I think if I keep spinning, I need to add another yoga class.

>>>I bet Colin Farrell would make an awesome husband.  I don’t care what anyone says.  I love that he befriended Elizabeth Taylor in her last days.  Although I wonder what that was all about?  Is he a Cougar-izer?  Was Elizabeth Taylor even a considered a cougar in a wheelchair?  Is there something beyond cougardom?  I hope so.  Sigh.

>Why can David Duchovny say:  “Nigga, please!” on Californication and no one cares?  He’s a whitey, but! he is a man so that gives him some leeway as per the unwritten law according PORKA. That is my theory. Women have a much shorter leash when it comes to saying outrageous things.  If they are allowed to say anything at all.  Without offending anyone.  Fuck that. Being a woman sucks a big giant pulsating cock. Also is it because Lena Dunham is a young woman that she is considered “misguided by privilege?”  I don’t get it.  Aside from owning a gun, isn’t “privilege” part of the American dream, why begrudge her for it?  Her parents are artists. Again, I don’t get it.  Didn’t they do a lovely job nurturing their daughters in the arts? I wiki’d them and her sister goes to Brown and is a poet. We need artist-type people and great shows on HBO. So what if her life experience inspired her to create a show about a struggling young writer in Brooklyn?  OOOOOH hear the PORKAs cry:  I’m just so blinded by the whiteyness of it all! When Edward Burns came on to the scene with his auteur-style films about his life with his equally blinding whitey bros in New York, no one busts his ass about not being racially diverse.  And oh my God, if the characters aren’t too white, then they are too ugly. That thought just makes me sad which makes even madder and I don’t like it when people say bad things about Lena Dunham. Why do I even care?  Because Lena Dunham a trailblazer. She is my hero and she is only going to get better. LENA DUNHAM IS THE CUTEST GIRL EVER.

>>If I add another yoga class, I should probably go back to Bikram but I’m scared. It’s so hard and I’m going to have to look even more inward than I already am, my head is already stuck so far up my ass that I can hear AND see the ocean and catch some fish while I’m there. I wonder how my blogger friend in Kansas City is doing on the 30 DayYoga Challenge? Maybe still snowed in? CALM DOWN, STAY OFF THE INTERNET, YOU WILL FIND OUT TOMORROW.

>>>I wonder if Colin Farrell is a douchebag modelizer like Leonardo diCaprio? Colin Farrell has a son with Angelman Syndrome and he seems like a great dad, and he also has a son from another mother…you know if a woman has children with different fathers, she is considered to be on the totem pole of ho, how high up she is depends on how may different tree branches are involved.  Dude plants his plethora of seeds in more than one orchard and he is like Farmer Awesome.  Let me bake you a pie out of your fine fruit, sir.  I’d like give Colin Farrell a piece of my pie, that is for sure. Sweet Jesus, pie, forget the euphemism.  Ugh, I wish I could make crust like my mother.  So flaky and tender.  I should do something with all those blueberries rotting in the fridge, I knew i shouldn’t have bought so many.  STOP THINKING ABOUT PIE AND GET ON WITH SEXUAL FANTASY ALREADY, GODDAMMIT, OR GO TO SLEEP. Thanks, Japan, all I can think of now are tentacles.

>>>>I need a cat.

cat and dog gif

The Plight of the Mesomorph and the Oxytocin Haze

Black-Milk-Clothing-Muscle-LeggingsEpiphany of the Week:  Leggings are pants!

I spent faaaaar too long reading some Jezebel article about whether or not leggings are pants and then clicking on the comment section, Holy Christ, you’d think we were talking gun control, but no, gunt control seems to spark the same amount of brouhaha on the internet.

Me personally, I have been on the fence about the whole “leggings as pants” debate for many years.  Leggings were really big in the mid-eighties when I was a cowgirl, riding the range, and wearing them with a black turtleneck, a leather jacket and Doc Martens, actual cowboy boots, or Converse high tops.  They were part of a uniform of an early emo clubster/grunge movement that you could only understand if you were there.  Then in the 90s, I wore them as a pregnant/lactating cow because EXPANSION.

Then in the late 90s some genius at the GAP decided to add lycra into denim and leggings OUT, jeans IN.

So now its 2013 and Lululemon (and its yoga-pants knockoff army) have been around for at least a decade making non-gym going sane people roll their eyes and go: “Can’t people wear real clothes anymore?” I mean, I agree but!  I am a mesomorph body-type with my moon in Gluttonarious and my guiding stars in Slothera and so wearing jeans can be a daily challenge because ZIPPERS.

So this bloated bon vivant mama loves a legging, especially Black Milk ones, but a Lululemon yoga pant, I am SO over. Every woman in every shape, size, age range is wearing head to toe Lulu AND some of so are some of the men.  If I see a dude wearing Lululemon at my gym, I suspect he is gay or his girlfriend/wife bought him an outfit so other women know that he is taken because no straight, single manly man would ever in his right mind would buy himself a “yoga tunic” in a shop in a mall beside Sephora.

Fun anecdote:  Back in 1987 in my nubile years, I moved to the beaches neighbourhood here in Toronto, and I used to visit a store on Queen Street called “Westbeach” where I had a crush on the owner.  His name was Chip and he was a few years older than me which I liked back then because I had big brother issues.  He was like a tall, hunky surfer version of Clark Kent.  I used to flirt wildly with him and he was really kind to me and one day in the summer, he and I rode our bikes downtown to see the movie “Stakeout.”  It was more like a buddy date on his part and he told me that he was probably going to move out west soon because he had a girlfriend there.  Of course he did. He did end up moving and 20 years later founded the company Lululemon, which is hilarious because MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.

Whatevs, if the pheromones had worked out for us and we fell in love the way I had intended, I probably would have told him that yoga pants were for losers and we need to focus on jeans that had drawstrings and side pockets that could hold a six-pack of tall boys. I would have been so wrong and yet so right. The first world would have been a whole different place.  You would probably be out on Tuesday playing bingo instead of practising your sun salutations at your local Downward Dog studio which have become as ubiquitous as nail salons.  I am the worst wife ever.

Anyway, back to the modern time legging debate.  According to the Jezebel article and its commentators, leggings can be considered pants if the fabric is thick enough. Not all leggings are created equal. You do not want the kind of stretchiness that makes the fabric sheer and shiny that you see the ass tattoos, the cottage cheese lumps, or the whale tales.

As for camel toe, these are my thoughts:  I think it is okay AT THE GYM to be wearing leggings/yoga pants where you can see a mound and an EVER SO SLIGHT dolphin lip formation.  However, it is vulgar to be able to count how many slices of cold cuts on each side of the beef curtains.  Although I think men appreciate the display because so many women these days are muscular like dudes that they want to check out if you have a tuck game going on.  Pro tip:  If you are a single lady, you can wear your vacu-seal yoga pants out of the gym and run your errands pretending you didn’t have time to change and probably your local butcher will throw in a dozen free duck eggs to your order.

My gym has a store and on their sale rack, there were a pair of really cool black Puma leggings with a kind of retro 80s constellation print, but I tried them on and my Herculean calves created such a stretch that the entire pattern disappeared and turned white instead.  Ugh!  Less spinning, more yoga for me.  I used to have normal calves and then I became a bike courier, 25 YEARS AGO, and now I have legs like a Scottish rugby player. I once had an argument with a trainer who some sort of convoluted theory based upon Britney Spears, pre-Federline, and according to him, she was the model of female perfection. By his estimation, women could not build bulky muscles like men and Britney was an example of finely tuned ectomorph and she would be a lean machine all her life.  I said:  “Dude, Britney Spears is my mini-me, you just watch that mesomorphic bitch balloon out after she has kids.”  He shook his head like I was crazy.

britney spears before and after

I think we can all agree I was right.



I’ve been dying to slip that gif in somewhere.  Anyway whoa is me and mesomorphic problems, I have to figure out how to iron out muscle while burning fat and so it might be time to consult Gwyneth Paltrow and her goopy friend, Tracy Anderson.  Apparently it is all about working the tiny muscle groups, not the big ones!  Who knew?  I know you are probably an ectomorph and don’t care and I don’t time have time for you either so let’s move on to more pressing matters:

Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together!  I know this is like the worst thing ever and how stupid can a woman be, let’s all go hide under Gloria Steinem’s bed for 72 hours.  But you know what? I am excited, you go pop the corn and I will make the pitcher of Negronis, the official cocktail of relationship disasters, and let’s watch this mess escalate. I don’t care about Rihanna, we have warned her on Twitter and she responded on Instagram holding her blunt up like middle finger, and she is rich unlike some non-famous battered women who are stuck in hell and can’t get out.

Why is Rihanna so stupid?  It’s not her fault!  You can blame it on simple biology, it’s hormones, specifically oxytocin, NOT to be confused with hillbilly heroin, OxyContin. Women make oxytocin when they are pregnant so that they bond with their baby and become nurturing even if she is a cold fish.  It comes in handy because sometimes a baby is a screaming monster and you just want to throw them out the window but you don’t (hopefully!) because some oxytocin-drunk inner voice tells you not to and saves you from going to jail.

Women also make this hormone when they have sex with the same man more than once.  Hence Stupid Rihanna and Chris Brown.  I think we all know personally know a woman who is with some loser dude, who is a drunk or married or both, that we think: “Holy shit, what does she see in that loser?  Doesn’t she see that he is an ugly douche and a liar?”  But no, she is all like, he is so sweet and vulnerable, and I must follow my heart and protect him in my pillowy breasts as the world is such cruel place for such a loving man and together we are beautiful and love is natural and real.  And you just want to slip her the antidote for this oxytocin haze, maybe it’s a few Negronis, and then she will see the light.  An oxytocin-drunk woman never does even with two black eyes.  STELLAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

By the way, men do not produce this hormone, which why they can go righteously planting their seeds left, right, and centre as it is their duty to mankind.  However, a couple of months ago,it was discovered that if you give them oxytocin, like in a nasal spray, you have yourself a loyal human pet.  But you really should ask yourself, do you really want a giant monkey?  Maybe a dog is better.

I’m looking at you, Rihanna.  You know the other day, I saw a picture of Chris Brown and I have come to think that he looks like his family tree might be more like a Mulberry bush, where the branches are entwined and connect at the bottom.  Inbred, is what I’m saying.  He looks like Pepper the Pinhead from American Horror Story Asylum:

chris brown/ pepper pinhead

I can’t wait to see what their babies look like! I am sure she will be an awesome mama exploding with all the oxytocin-induced lactation to feed the entire world!  Love is fucking hilarious.  And leggings are pants, I don’t care what anyone else says.

What Would Patrick Swayze Do?

I have plantar fasciitis which when you tell some people, they back away because it sounds ugly and contagious.  It’s just inflammation of the connective tissues on the sole of the foot. It’s a common ailment amongst runners and fat people which is hilariously poetic because in order to treat it, you either have to stop running or lose weight.  Runners gotta run and eaters gotta eat so plantar fasciitis better heal itself or else you might have to go out and buy $800 orthotics.

My condition came about last month walking the lumpy roads of Rome in flip-flops for over a week and when I got home, I could walk no more.  Now when I get out of bed, a searing pain shoots up my heel and I’d have to tip-toe to the toilet.  I’ve had this before after I pronated my way through a marathon 14 years ago and I know how long it takes to heal…months!  And as they in Game of Thrones, winter is coming.  I’m going to have to wear real shoes soon.  I have ignore it, just shoot me if you see me wearing Uggs this year.

“Mother, you need to go to a doctor!” says my daughter as I hobble around the house.

“No!  Doctors don’t fix anything!  They shuffle you around to “specialists” and you will always end up getting a parking ticket just to find out all you need is an ice pack!”

“Then put on an ice pack!”

“Ugh, I can’t be bothered.”  The Internet says to roll a ball or a bottle under the sole the foot to massage it.  There are half a dozen tennis balls under any given piece of furniture in my house and yet I also can’t be bothered to do that.

What doesn’t kill me only makes me stoic.  Am I a self-imposed martyr?

When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, for some reason I would only get my period once a year in the summer time. When I did get it, it would last two weeks and I would be double over in pain, like there was a burning ball of fire somewhere in my reproductive system. And let’s not even talk about the gushing flow because I know how you hate gruesome bodily fluids.  No doctor could figure it out.  Finally when I was 21, one genius medical practitioner came up with an obvious solution.

“Go on birth control pills, it will fun,” they said.  It would regulate my cycle and I would become a real woman instead of a vessel for some Satanic spawn.  I lasted three months and I became a monster, as though all the estrogen I had been lacking came on at once and you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be there when it did.

Anyway, flash further back to the summer when I was 18 and working at my dad’s company in an office full of menfolk, I got my annual period in the morning.  I ended up stuck in the washroom, doubled over with horrific cramps. My dad had to drive me home.  He thought I was faking it or being a total wimp or something. “This is not normal,” he kept saying, “You don’t go home for something like this.” No this is just really embarrassing, so I ignored the cramps the next day and sucked back the Midol. My dad fought in World War 2 for God sake.

Pain:  Deal with it.

Even though I had a wacky menstrual schedule that no doctor could explain, I was able to conceive much to everyone’s shock and my horror. Of course now that I am old and my eggs are rotten, my uterine lining sheds regularly with every waning moon…hilarious joke, troll ovaries.   Anyway, my  pregnancy went smoothly and my lazy-ass lady parts actually got its act together and created a baby without any glitches.  I did go through the birthing process without any pain management because the roving, moronic intern at St. Michael’s Hospital was an asshole.  Long story short:  He assumed because of the dodgy neighbourhood the hospital in that I was a crack whore and my baby would be born severely underweight and needing methadone. I would have rather experience endless hours of fiery ball-of-hell contractions than have that douchebag in the room.  After I told him to fuck off, he craned his head into the room, “Do you want an epidural?” he asked before my actual doctor arrived to catch the 8 pound butterball that took her sweet time sliding out.  NO EPIDURAL!!!  

Pain: Please stop,  I will pay you.

Fast forward 10 years later to 2003, I’m in East General Hospital having my wrist X-rayed.  Two weeks earlier I had fallen off my bike, trying to get on it after having a few tequila shots at a beach party.  I landed on my ass, and used my right hand to break the fall. I heard a loud crack. I hobbled home, bike in tow and I think nothing of it the next day.  I have to learn how to drive standard because I had just leased a Mini Cooper and I am taking my real estate courses and my Phase 2 exam is in 3 weeks.  It hurts my wrist to shift gears and I keep stalling the car, I can’t find the sweet spot and I am a big mess.

“I think I might have broken my wrist,”  I say this out loud in the ladies locker room at my gym.  It’s a week after I fell off my bike.  My wrist is swollen.  And not to mention what happened to my tailbone, I have to hang my ass 6 inches off the back of Spinning bike seat otherwise I feel like I am being sodomized by a bulldozer.

“If you broke your wrist, you would know it,” one woman says.  Another genius….yes, a light goes off when you break a bone and tells you that you need to go to the hospital.  Pro tip: Never listen to advice from a naked bitch with a towel turban on her head.

When things just got worse, I went to the hospital and got an X-ray.

“You know,” said the orthopaedic surgeon to the daft cow,”you could have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble if you had come in right after the accident, we could have set it in a cast then.  Now we have to operate and reset the bone, otherwise you’ll be in for some very painful arthritis in the future.”

Pain:  Sometimes it knows best, let it speak.

And I didn’t even have the guts to say anything about my aching tailbone, that bitch is just going to have to shut up and behave. My wrist injury actually thrills me.  An operation!  How exciting!

After the operation, and then getting the cast off, I started taking Hatha yoga classes and later Bikram yoga to become more mindful about my body and learn how to heal itself.

A couple of years later, I saw Bikram Choudhury speak in one of those hotel convention halls downtown and teach one of his classes.  During Q and A, some woman, maybe it was me, asked him, “How long does it take for the pain to go away?”  He just looked at her like she was a frog on the highway and said, “When you are dead!”  Oh how I laughed, and then cried.

Pain: Seriously?

Today I hobbled to the gym.  Since I got back from Italy, I have missed all my favourite classes and come in at a different times so I don’t have to see anyone.  I haul myself in the whirlpool and put my foot on the jets.  It hurts so much!!!! I hate being a baby about this. One guy I knew used to whimper and moan about every canker sore and hang nail he had, like he was going to die any minute.  Once he had a splinter that he let fester in his foot and he hobbled around for a month before he would let someone pull it out for him. Dude, I have gravel still stuck in my elbow from when I scraped the pavement on my bike (again with the bikes!) in grade 8.  Grow some balls, I said to myself.

So I got dressed in my gym gear and made my way to the battlefield where I ran into Douglas, my very favourite gym buddy.  Douglas is a octogenarian who routinely plays two hours of tennis after a spin class.  Every day.

“Where have you been, Freddy?” (that’s my gym moniker).

“Oh, I have plantar fasciitis,” I explain, “I’m taking it easy.”

“I had that twice, on both feet. I got it playing squash.  There’s nothing you can do about it, you just have to keep going,” he says.

“But it hurts!”  There is not enough wool in the world to pull over his eyes.

“Suck it up, Freddy!”  he laughs maniacally and saunters away.  Pro tip:  Always listen to an 80-something year old man who can Zumba in the front of the class without missing a beat. So I carry on.  It is what Patrick Swayze would do.

Pain:  You are my bitch. Tomorrow, we spin!