Full frontal...

... wardrobe malfunction. Last Friday night was my office Christmas party. It's usually a fabulous, rip-roarin' good time, and this year was no exception. 

I was especially proud of my $40 dress purchase this year which was within my budget. How responsible of me, I thought. It was a sleek, dark purple number with a plunging neckline which could be casual or fancy, depending on how it was accessorized. 

The evening started out well, with me sportin' my new threads and having somehow avoided the "night bloats" that sometimes afflict me. I think it was this yoga pose I tried, prior to the party, that kind of "stretches out" your digestive system. It was that or starve myself for at least 24 hours before the party, and I love food too much to do that. 

Anyhoo, there we were at the Christmas party, enjoying a fine meal, wine and good company. Everything was going according to plan, and the top of my dress, firmly in place, looked like this:

Nothing wrong here; perfectly normal... 

Yes, I've now sunk to posting photos of my breasts on my blog. I'm that kind of girl. 

Once dinner and speeches were over, the "dancing like crazed banshees on acid" portion of the evening kicked off, always a crowd favorite. Fueled by alcohol and the sheer joy of  Christmas, I shook my bootie like nobody's business, probably for at least an hour, until I went to the washroom, looked in the mirror and saw this:

But Sassy, you say, what's the problem? Look a little closer my dear readers, something is definitely amiss...

After some serious dance floor exertion, my dress was basically trying to escape from my body by ever so stealthily crawling up my torso to, I can only assume, jump up over my head and run away. I suspect I made a tactical error in my choice of undergarments. 

You see, the top of this dress was designed for the presence of boobs only - no bras. The shape and weight of said breasts would keep the dress firmly in place. But, in my infinite wisdom, I chose to wear a strapless bra as well, lest the girls decide to bounce enthusiastically around during my musical gyrations and accidentally blind me. It could happen. 

My mistake. The dress could now easily slide over the bra and the ensuing wardrobe disaster is depicted in the above photo. To get the full effect, here's a side shot. (This photo, although strikingly similar to that of a very pregnant lady, which, evidently, I am not, aptly depicts the situation I found myself in.)

Boob padding riding up my chest.




My actual boob, or a giant fetus preparing to burst from my vagina (perhaps in a parallel universe).
 
Needless to say, when I first laid eyes on this situation, I was horrified. How long had this been going on? And why hadn't anyone said anything? I told my boyfriend about it, and he hadn't even noticed it. This was a good sign, since he's got quite a keen eye when it comes to my wardrobe. 

I can only deduce that none of my co-workers noticed either; that, or they were wrestling between feeling sorry for me and being mildly entertained by my dress anarchy. 

I'm somewhat grateful that I only noticed this heinous fashion accident later in the evening since I was much more self-conscious afterwards, and had to keep pulling down my dress on the dance floor. The lesson here kids? Don't wear bras in dresses with built-in support - trust the dress. That, or get too drunk to care.  

Ever wonder why Sarah Palin has her own TV show?

Whenever I wonder why Kim Kardashian is a fixation in our collective consciousness; why anyone in their right mind would give the Hasselhoffs their own reality show (mercifully, it was canceled after only two episodes); why the Twilight saga is so successful; why Arrested Development was canceled after only three seasons; why the cast of Jersey Shore was interviewed by Barbara Walters; why teen moms are glorified on MTV; why George W. Bush and his cronies were allowed to plunder the US for EIGHT YEARS without a day of reckoning; why, after only two short years in office, and having inherited the White House from the worst administration in US history, Barack Obama is heavily criticized for not getting things done fast enough, and why Republicans have regained control of the House of Representatives... I watch this short video, and all is explained.

I love me, with conditions

My boyfriend reminded me this morning to send my grandmother a Christmas card and he suggested we send a family photo we had taken a few years back. "But it's three years old" I replied. "What's the most recent one we have?" he innocently asked. "Last year's photo, but we're not using that one."

I want to ERASE ALL TRACES of that photo. I hate everything about me in that picture. I hate my haircut and the way my shirt is riding up my torso and it looks like I have a huge gut, and my washed out face that says: "I haven't slept in three days". No, that photo will never see the light of day again. This got me thinking...

... of other photos I kinda hate myself in, where some weird special effect, bad clothing or positioning makes me look, well, like this:

I suspect you're now thinking to yourself: "Does this girl take any good pictures?" or that I'm much less attractive than you thought I might be, given my writing genius. Of course, not all brilliant writers are attractive, or is it sheer charisma that makes people appear pretty? 

Maybe I'm slipping down the rabbit hole of looks = self worth and no good can come of that. Suffice it to say that commenting on my pretty pictures would be really boring. Hmm. Does that mean that pretty is merely boring? Nice to look at but not all that interesting? Rabbit hole! Aaaahhhhh!!!! Must. Stop. Now.

My delusions of kickboxing grandeur

Back in the day, I was an avid kickboxer. I know, this is surprising for someone who sits on her ass as much as I do, watching TV, but it started out as a way to vent my lack of creative expression. 

There was a dojo (that's what martial arts schools are called, not sure why but it sounds cool) just down the street from where I used to live. I passed by it on numerous occasions and for the longest time didn't think twice about actually going in. I didn't "do" martial arts. 

Until one day, the frustrated artist in me needed to punch something. So I walked in, and signed up for kickboxing, having absolutely no prior martial arts experience. Before I could join a group class, I had to take two private lessons to learn the moves and the lingo to avoid that "deer in the headlights" look in a group class. 

During my second private lesson, as I recall it, I had a brush with death. I couldn't breathe, and I was certain I was going to toss my cookies right then and there. The instructor was very patient and told me to sit for a few moments to catch my breath. I also didn't like that my extremities "jiggled" when punching or kicking. What WAS that? Jello? Was there Jello IN my body?

After my first group class, I could barely get up the stairs to my apartment. I was convinced my legs had turned to stone, or was it two pillars of salt as I looked back on my former slovenly lifestyle? Anyway...

I fell in love with kickboxing, especially since it felt perfectly tailored to someone with a triple "A" personality like mine. There were tests, higher and higher levels to attain and medals,  MEDALS, Olympic style,  and dammit, I was going to get all of them.

After about four years of dedicated practice, I was one of a small handful of students to graduate from the advanced kickboxing program. I was now in the "elite" group. Then, I guess life happened, I moved to another neighbourhood, and didn't step foot in a dojo for about three years. 

Recently, I decided to dust off my kickboxing gear, and get back in the game. I found a dojo in my new 'hood and signed up as a member. 

While commuting to work, listening to my iPod, I had visions of me, bleeding nose, bruised body, with one arm up, traipsing around the ring, à la Rocky Balboa, victorious in my first competitive match. Oh yes, I would attain my former dojo glory, and much, much more.

It's funny how reality can creep in and bitch slap you. On paper, I'm one of the most advanced students, even at the new dojo. On the mat, however, it's another story, one of a truly humbling nature. I had to start out in the beginner classes, to get my cardio fitness level back to where it used to be. My body remembered the techniques but was in no mood to get that heart pumpin'.

Within the first 30 seconds of that first class, after a three year hiatus, I thought I was going to die, again. Chest heaving, dizzy, and discombobulated, I wondered how I had let it come to this. Then, I pulled up my britches (metaphorically speaking) and vowed that I would work my way back to my former "elite" status. 

The irony is that this time around, there are no tests, since I passed them all. The only real examiner of my progress is me. Three years ago, when I graduated, this distressed me. I liked having the structure of goals, but now I'm savoring the fluidity of no particular goal in sight, except maybe to one day step into the ring... and survive.

Yeah.... that's right..... you..... heard me........ 

when I..... catch..... my breath........ you're.......

going down..... bitch.

Yes, Angie's a homewrecking slunt, but what about Brad?

There I was, minding my own business, scrolling through Popeater.com when I came across this article about Jen Aniston's new BFF Chelsea Handler calling Angelina Jolie a homewrecker. 

I adore Chelsea. She's f*cking funny and says what everyone else is thinking, and I love her for it. I also agree that Angelina is a homewrecking slunt not to be trusted.

However, what's missing here is the rant against Brad Pitt and his cheatin' ass. Why did he chuck what seemed like a perfectly good marriage to go play house with a chick who French kissed her brother at the Oscars? Granted, Angelina has a history of stealing unavailable men from their wives/partners. Case in point: she lured Billy Bob Thornton away from Laura Dern. 

But should the women whose men cheated on them be directing all their anger at the seductress? Maybe some, since yes, hitting on someone else's partner is selfish and mean. But the brunt of that anger should be directed toward the trusted husband/boyfriend who betrayed his partner. Why would they so readily leave a committed relationship to take up with another woman? 

Yeah, Angie's a big 'ol ho, luring men with her sensual rebel allure which naturally implies kinky, wild sex, but a man with a modicum of integrity would not simply drop everything to start a new life with Angelina. 

Sure, he can fantasize about her, he's not dead, but between fantasy and ending a marriage, I would argue, is a fairly large gap, and on which end of that gap your partner finds himself is indicative of the type of person you're dealing with.

Sure, I think Brad's done some good work and he seems like a cool guy but I won't forget that he left Jennifer for Angie. That has left a permanent mark on his character. So Chelsea, where's your rant about Brad, the homewrecker f*cking asshole?

You a very, very bad man.

Best quote ever...

A dear friend of mine came up for a visit this past weekend. We were all sitting in the kitchen having breakfast when my stepdaughter asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I said I wanted world domination. My friend replied: "They sell that in gift packs at Wal-Mart."

F*cking brilliant.

Some Palin porn to kick off the weekend

Who can resist an opportunity to dump on Sarah Palin and Elizabeth Hasselbeck? According to Popeater.com, Sarah dumped Elizabeth as a friend since she's no longer needed. Back in 2008, Elizabeth went on the campaign trail with her new gal pal and introduced her at rallies in Florida, I guess to give Sarah some star power.

But now that the Palins have their own (disturbing) TV show, Sarah no longer needs Lizzie to pump up her image. She won't even return Lizzie's phone calls. How sad. And if it were anyone else, I might feel bad. But it's Elizabeth Hasselbeck, vacuous blond, Republican supporter. Only Lizzie H. would think that she and Sarah would remain besties following the 2008 election. How naïve.

Frankly, how can anyone take a Palin supporter seriously? All Ms. Palin needs to do is open her mouth, utter about two words and it's apparent she is most definitely NOT White House material. 

If, for some unfathomable reason, Sarah gets the nomination and runs in 2012, I will officially give up on my American neighbours. As Michael Moore once suggested following Baby Bush's first "win" in 2000, I will call the UN and tell them the US can no longer govern themselves and that the UN should intervene.

I never thought anyone could be worse than Dubbya but the prospect of this gun-totin', "Real America" pushin', bossy mom as leader of the US is truly frightening. I mean, if you're gonna sink to this level, why not put the cast of Jersey Shore in charge? Aren't they the "Real America" too?

On top of being a ruthless user of celebrities, Sarah is also apparently a cunning PR specialist. There's a rumour going around that she forced her daughter Bristol to compete on Dancing With the Stars, so "America would fall in love with her again". Allegedly, Sarah blames Bristol for losing in 2008 what with the whole teenage pregnancy thing, and her daughter "owed" her. Harsh.

I can only hope the American electorate will think twice before even considering giving this woman an opportunity to run for the White House. If Sarah Palin happens to become the first female US President, it will be the biggest, baddest cosmic joke ever, and I will move to Europe so as not to be in geographical proximity to "Sarah Palin's America".

The musical: the Wal-Mart of theatre

Before I launch into today's rant, Jennifer E. over at Newsy.com sent me a link to this video, outlining some media reactions to Barbara Walter's picks for her Most Fascinating People of the Year list. I especially like the quote about Elizabeth Hasselbeck - it really does explain a lot. Thanks Jennifer!

Multisource political news, world news, and entertainment news analysis by Newsy.com

And now, today's topic: why does every goddam movie need to be turned into a f*cking musical? News that the new $65 million Spiderman musical previewed on Broadway this past week, with the production coming to a grinding halt numerous times due to technical difficulties  really, as Family Guy's Peter Griffin would put it, "grinds my gears". 

Now, I know there are many fans of the musical out there, and I respect your love of this particular type of entertainment.  However, when movies like Shrek and Legally Blond are translated from film to musical, I start to wonder about the total lack of original ideas out there. 

A line must be drawn somewhere, I mean, come on. Spiderman, the musical, costs $1 million a week just to operate. Really, this is where our priorities are in a time of high unemployment and recession? And this is coming from a playwright! I'm certainly not against the masses being entertained and given a reprieve from their worldly troubles since some of that entertainment will one day consist of scripts written by yours truly.

However, a theatre production that relies so heavily on technical stunts seems to strip the art form of its content, of its very soul. Gripping, entertaining theatre is about compelling stories, characters and relationships, not about harnessing actors in high-wires to fly above crowds. Leave that to Cirque du Soleil - they do it best.

Whose genius idea was it to turn a superhero comic strip into a musical? (That was a rhetorical question - I know the answer but used it merely for dramatic effect.) Is nothing sacred? Can't certain art forms simply remain in their original format without being converted into some flashy, dumbed down version of their former selves destined for mass consumption?

The musical is becoming the Wal-Mart of theatre. It's grotesquely large and forces its suppliers to make an inferior version of their original product.

I suspect Barbara Walters may be senile

As always, I am simultaneously delighted and dismayed by Barbara Walters' picks for her Most Fascinating People of the Year list. 

She recently revealed 8 of the 10 names she's chosen. I will only comment on 7 because I don't know much about LeBron James, and frankly, I don't care much for professional sports players. My heart is still breaking for Elin... but I digress.

Delighting, understandable choices:

Sandra Bullock: Sandy weathered quite the storm this year what with her douchebag of a cheatin' ex-husband coming clean, and Sandy adopting the cutest child that ever lived. She handled all this with grace and poise, keeping her head high and moving on.

Kate Middleton: The future wife of the future King of England has indeed earned her spot on this list. There's always been a morbid fascination with the British royal family, as dysfunctional as they may sometimes seem. I think, however, that William and Kate are a couple rooted in reality - they've been together for practically a decade and are both almost 30. Kate knows what she's getting into. She's also very stylish - definitely a prerequisite for any bride-to-be to one of Princess Diana's offspring. 

Betty White: This spunky 88-year-old woman rocks my world. She's made a phenomenal comeback at an age when females are basically considered non-existent and simply waiting for death to arrive. Betty has knocked that stereotype out of the park and proven to us all that you can kick ass at any age. She's the real deal folks.

Dismaying, "what the f*ck were you thinking?" choices:

Justin Bieber: I'm sorry but... huh? A banal teenager with an overinflated ego who resembles and sings like a prepubescent girl is fascinating? Dear Barbara: worldwide fame does not a fascinating person make. Take, for example, Paris Hilton. Who, you ask? Exactly. She was so three years ago, and even then, was not remotely fascinating.

Sarah Palin: She kills things, on TV, with her family. Need I say more?

Jennifer Lopez: Last I heard, Jennifer was pimping out her kids to Gucci. She does not get to make this list.

The cast of Jersey Shore: Sweet mother of God, what is WRONG with our society? I've watched about three minutes of this show and it was enough for me to come to the conclusion that it is intellectually and creatively equivalent to a sac of rusty nails. No, wait, you could actually make art with rusty nails. My mistake. It's WORSE than a sac of rusty nails. I can only deduce that Barbara is slowly slipping into senility. It's the only explanation for this choice.

Of course, Barbara did not reveal her top pick for 2010 but as you can see from this list, it could go either way. She could take the high road or the one frequently traveled. I'm hoping for the former.

A tale of two shits: gassy lady on her cellphone and Hollywood movie executives

Certain displays of human behaviour make me wonder if we're not generally regressing to a realm of deeply inferior intelligence. Take for instance what I witnessed yesterday in the ladies' bathroom. 

I was at work and had to go for a "number 2" so I went up one floor to the deserted bathroom since the one on our floor is too busy. You see, the bathroom must be empty for me to do my business. I cannot poop in the presence of other people. I do not want to submit them to the sounds and smells that sometimes emanate from my body, 'cause I'm nice like that.

So there I was, sittin' on the throne ready for action when in walks in some lady and settles herself in the stall right next to me. She then proceeded to take a big 'ol crap, sound effects and all while I patiently waited until she finished. Now, up to this point, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Until....

In the middle of her defecation, she MAKES A CALL ON HER CELLPHONE to her husband, boyfriend, whatever. It went something like this: "Hi honey (rrrhhhhh - sound of her physical exertion while pooping), how are you? How's your day (rrrhhhhh) going? (Pause as he responds.) That's good. We're still in (rrhhhh) meetings. We'll barely have time to get to the airport (rrrhhh)." Etc... 

I was sitting in the neighbouring stall, trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. I was MORTIFIED. This is taking cellphone usage too far. There must be rules of etiquette people! Unless it's a matter of life and death, no one should be calling anyone while taking a shit.

She wrapped up her convo, then proceeded to shit and fart some more, and finally exited said bathroom. I was left wondering: "What is this world coming to?" 

Then, this morning, another display of colossal stupidity. In my half-asleep morning haze, my boyfriend, who was reading the morning paper, tells me that Warner Bros. announced that they will be remaking a Buffy the Vampire Slayer film, WITHOUT its creator Joss Whedon or the original cast from the TV series.

WTF? You evil, soulless marketing rep weasels! You take something sacred and defile it to make a buck! You try to cash in on the current vampire craze by ruining a cherished cult establishment? I say: Shame on you! I will boycott this movie. 

I will call Warner Bros. on my cellphone and shit all over this crappy idea.

Fun with current events - today's topic: Confusing pronouncements by the Pope

Well wouldn't ya know it, the Pope has finally said condom use is OK. Of course, it's only sanctioned for gay prostitutes, as a "step toward acting responsibly" to prevent the spread of HIV and AIDS. 

Why do only gay prostitutes receive the Church's "get out of jail free" card? Because there's no chance of procreation therefore the condom, in this case, cannot be viewed as preventing the will of God to make more babies on an already overcrowded planet.

Of course, Catholic officials are jumping all over this stating that it's not official Church teachings, as it was said "colloquially" in an interview. I see. The Pope finally takes a step in the right direction, and his closeted gay lackies take two steps back.

Personally, I think the Catholic Church is so full of shit I'm surprised it hasn't choked on it yet. I can't think of a more cruel, hypocritical, antiquated institution that stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the basic tenets of biology and science. Not that empirical experience rules all. I'm a firm believer in spirituality but organized religion seems to be the root of all evil. 

So the fact that the Pope has finally admitted, however narrowly, that condoms are OK, is a farce. We've known this for how long now? Here's what I think:

Fun with current events - today's topic: US airport security

Have you ever noticed how the lyrics to Beyoncé's Single Ladies would be awesome as a song about current US airport security procedures? With just a bit of tweaking...

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers

Now put your hands up

Up in the airport, we just met, I’m doing my own little thing
Decided to dip but now you wanna trip
'Cause another scanner noticed me

I’m up on it, it up on me
Don't pay it any attention
'Cause I cried my tears, gave three good minutes
Ya can’t be mad at me

'Cause if you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it

Oh, oh, oh

If you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it

I got gloss on my lips, a scanner on my hips
Got me tighter in my Dereon jeans
Acting up, boarding pass in my pocket
I can care less what you think

I need no permission, did I mention
Don't pay it any attention
'Cause you had your turn, and now you gonna learn
What it really feels like to violate me

'Cause if you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it

Oh, oh, oh

If you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it

Don’t treat me to the things of this government
I’m not that kind of girl
Your respect is what I prefer, what I deserve

Here's a scanner that invades me, then takes me
And delivers me to a flight, to a departing gate and beyond
Pull me into your arms
Say I’m the one you own
If you don’t, you won't make your quota, and like a terrorist I’ll be gone

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers, all the travelers

All the travelers

Now put your hands up

Oh, oh, oh

'Cause if you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it 

If you liked it then you should have put a hand on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it
Don’t be mad once you see that it want me
If you liked it then you shoulda put a hand on it

Oh, oh, oh

Sexiest Man Alive my ass!

I am sorely disappointed in People Magazine's most recent Sexiest Man Alive selection: Ryan Reynolds. You'd think I would be ecstatic, seeing as I'm a fellow Canadian. 

But alas, I do not revel in this. I mean, empirically speaking, yes, Ryan Reynolds is attractive but not in a Sexiest Man Alive kind of way. I'm sorry people at People, but eight-pack abs does not sexy make.

 

There's a certain dorkishness he'll never be able to shake, and not a charming kind of dorkishness, à la Justin Kirk, a.k.a. Andy on Weeds. No, his is a kind of irritating dorkitude that sits in the back of your mind, like that nightmare you have about being naked in public, like a persistent tickle in your throat that never fully develops into a cold, like a... well, you get the idea.

Here is a selection of charming dorks that you just want to bring home and take a bite out of. No, not in a cannibalistic kind of way (God, you people - put away that nice Chianti). I mean in a dirty, sexual kind of way:

Anthony Michael Hall - Sixteen Candles

Jon Cryer - Pretty in Pink

Matthew Broderick - Ferris Bueller's Day Off

I'm sensing a theme here. Maybe John Hughes should have been named Sexiest Man Alive... when he was alive that is. Although he did get a tribute at the Oscars which is probably better, in the end. 

I've always had a crush on this man:

British Actor Ralph Fiennes, currently best known as Voldemort, of Harry Potter fame

Wow, he kind of looks like Bradley Cooper.

See what I mean?

Even Bradley Cooper would have been a better choice than Ryan dorky Reynolds! Oh people at People, next time ask for the good drugs, not Lupe's weekend special. This is a travesty, I say, a travesty! 

I can't stop looking at Ralph Fiennes. HAWWWWT. Gotta go.

From hamburgers to cavemen

A conversation my boyfriend and I had in the car the other night:

Boyfriend: I didn't like those Costco burgers as much as the President's Choice ones.

Me: How come? I thought they were good.

Boyfriend: I don't know. I think there was too much filler or something. There wasn't enough meat, you know, something to rip at.

Me: You mean, sink your teeth into?

Boyfriend: Yeah.

Me: Does that bring you back to your caveman days?

Boyfriend: You brought me back to my caveman days last night, except you were conscious.

Because I know you've been wondering what I did this weekend

So my weekend went something like this...

Finished work on Friday and went to teach my weekly yoga class. Much fun was had. Got a ride home from my wonderful boyfriend. He ordered pizza; I opened the wine. Got slightly drunk watching Dateline true crime stories since my boyfriend fell asleep on the couch and I drank the rest of the wine. You snooze, you lose.

Saturday: woke up after sleeping in until 10 am. Took a moment to relish this. Had morning coffee and breakfast, then headed out for some cross-country cycling during which I usually become very aware of my thoughts. 

Sample of my stream of consciousness while cycling: "Huh. With all the leaves on the ground, it would be really hard to pee in the woods without being seen. You'd have to hike, like, a mile in. Oh God, another hill. Mother f*cker. Do I even LIKE doing this? I was cold, but now I'm hot but I don't want to take off my jacket 'cause then I'll have to tie it around my waist and it'll hang off my hips and might get caught in a wheel and then I'll crash head first and that would suck. But I'm hot. Man, coffee really dehydrates. My throat is like the f*cking Sahara desert. I should drink less coffee before exercising." And so on...

Got home, had some leftover pizza and the boyfriend and I cracked open another bottle of wine (a warm-up for the evening's birthday party) and started watching the first season of Modern Family. Yeah, we're a little behind on the trendy shows, and yeah, we drink alcohol after exercising 'cause we're cool like that. 

Modern Family deserves its own paragraph. There is no sweeter moment for a TV addict than when she stumbles upon a fecking AWESOME new show. I admit, I was expecting less from a major network's program but this little gem is the SHIT. Pitch-perfect casting, brilliant writing, great directing. I know, I'm just now catching up to the general consensus and this is in no way late-breaking news. So, if you live under a rock and still don't know about Modern Family, check it out yo. Of course, if you live under a rock, you probably won't be reading this blog anyway... but I digress.

Following an afternoon of TV bliss, I had to get ready for a friend's birthday party at a swanky new restaurant. I wanted to curl my hair for the occasion so I tried using my hair straightener and "twirling" my hair with it. FAIL. Then, I fished out an old curling iron and tried that. The thing heated up about as much as the Grinch's heart, prior to his Yuletide spiritual awakening. FAIL. Tried another curling iron / brush. This was a mistake. When I attempted to remove it from my head, it tried to eat my hair. FAIL. So I straightened my already straight hair with the straightener. 

Then, just as we're about to leave, I discovered the cat had peed on the bed. AGAIN. Now, my cat is in the early stages of kidney disease and would be considered a "senior" cat. But we've made a lot of adjustments so she doesn't have to go very far to eat or pee or shit or sleep and she had been so good for the past few weeks. I deduced that she has now sunk to the level of pure malice and is f*cking with me just for kicks. Bitch.

So, naturally, I was driven to drink at my friend's birthday party to deal with my feline's supposed incontinence. We now have lovely plaid, waterproof picnic blankets on all the beds. Me: 1. Phoebe: 0. And that was Sunday's adventure.

The Evil one...

Errant ramblings of a morose mind - part deux

A deep-seated apathy of celebrity culture is settling into my consciousness these days. Is it because network TV, apart from a few scarce exceptions, is total crap? There's only so much I can watch involving cops, lawyers or doctors. I mean, really. No new ideas? We don't need a fecking new cop or legal or medical drama people. 

Is it because celebrity gossip has become so utterly banal and repetitive? Husband cheats on wife; actress starves herself to attain new heights of glory; actress goes to rehab; actress gets plastic surgery; oooh, look at the cute celebrity babies in overpriced designer crap; Andy Dick exposes himself while drunk; normal size actress on "baby bump" watch, etc...

Perhaps it's because I'm starved for quality programming these days. I feel like a lost puppy. I got my dose of Dexter last night but apart from Family Guy reruns, I have no TV to look forward to until NEXT SUNDAY. This is not good. Oh wait, America's Next Top Model is on Wednesday night. I stand corrected.

I haven't even seen any good movies lately, except for The Visitor, which I saw a few weeks ago. Richard Jenkins is DA BOMB. If you're wondering who that is, he played the deceased, senior Nathaniel Fisher on Six Feet Under. If you still don't know what I'm talking about, get a life already.

I suppose every writer goes through a "walking through the desert" period where ideas seem to elude us, and any trace of enthusiasm has been sucked dry by tawdry entertainment (ok, maybe that last part only applies to me). 

To add insult to injury, the Republicans have won back the balance of power in the House of Representatives in mid-term elections. To my American readers, I ask you: what the f*ck! Obama inherited a devastated US government following the eight-year tenure of the worst President EVER. Give the guy a chance! 

Add to all this an early mid-life crisis and you have a recipe for disaster. If I have to read another word about Lindsay Lohan in rehab, I'll... I'll... oh, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe binge on donuts. The world doesn't need another disillusioned, forlorn person on a sugar high. No good can come of that. Well, maybe that temporary feeling of euphoria as the sugar pulses through my veins would be OK. But after that, only madness and mayhem will ensue, a travesty indeed. 

The Tyranny of Tyra Banks

Jennifer L. Pozner, a leading feminist media critic, has a new book coming out this month entitled Reality Bites Back: The Troubling Truth About Guilty Pleasure TV. Its looming release has ignited, or should I say re-ignited the discussion on female body image due to the prominence in said book of Tyra Banks' infamous reality series America's Next Top Model.  

I admit, I watch Tyra's crappy-ass modeling competition, and this is what I had to say about it. Yes, in some sense, she's evil incarnate when it comes to making girls feel critical of their bodies. I witness it every time I watch an episode. Maybe I shouldn't be watching at all but hey, I never said I was morally upright. But I digress.

Click here for an excellent article by Globe and Mail writer Leah McLaren on the above-mentioned book, the ever-shrinking size of the Hollywood actress, and how it affects us regular folk. Oh, and there's a picture of Keira Knighley lookin' all circus freak skinny, Lollipop Syndrome on full display. 

I myself am not immune to the onslaught of negative media messaging basically drilling into my brain that skinny is better, that my self-worth is predicated on how thin I am, and shrinks or increases depending on the size of my body. 

When I was buying a new, more "form fitting" wardrobe, I was aghast when I did the "sitting test" - which is basically sitting down in a new pair of pants to see how they feel, and to make sure my ass crack isn't hanging out. (I don't care how fashionable that may get, I ain't displayin' it, EVER.)

I was mortified that I had a bit of a muffin top when I sat down in these snugger pants. My abdomen kind of hung over the waist a bit, not a lot, but just enough for me to hate myself.

I shared this concern with my stepdaughter, who was my stylist on this particular shopping excursion. When I asked her about this, she didn't even blink. Her response? "Everyone has that. It's normal". This, from a wise 14-year-old. 

So now, I proudly wear my snug clothes, much to my boyfriend's delight. And there's the zinger. I'm so utterly critical of myself despite the fact that I have a partner who tells me how beautiful I am every single day. 

So all this messaging that we need to be ultra-thin to be OK and get the guy is total bullshit. Self-acceptance and self-esteem are not OUT THERE. It's up to us to cultivate it within ourselves. Beauty is whatever we perceive it to be.

I don't know if you've ever hung out with people who are completely obsessed with their bodies but they are the lamest people. They are not fun, spontaneous or remotely interesting, and usually suck in the sack because they're worried about messing their hair and shit. 

On the other hand, being around people who like themselves, are fully engaged in life and aren't afraid to occasionally look like goofs is a completely different experience. They're warm, open, often funny and make everyone else feel good without even trying, and yes, they're usually great in bed.

You know you've hit rock bottom when Jersey Shore is your best option

** Some language may have been edited for dramatic effect.  

I uttered a sentence the other day that is indicative of how desperate I am for some good TV. We were scrolling through our TV Guide and I said: "Hey! Let's watch Jersey Shore!" Both my boyfriend and stepdaughter looked at me in dismay. 

Sure, this may sound pretty mundane, except that we already have very low standards. We watch The Bachelor franchise, Total Wipeout, America's Next Top Model, etc... You get the drift. So, to be shamed in this way in our household is a red flag I should not ignore. 

The situation is so critical that I've resorted to reading. READING. INSTEAD OF WATCHING TV. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm an avid reader and always have a book on the go but to choose literature over mindless entertainment is not like me. No, something is very, very wrong. 

I'm quite excited about my newest book selection, Jonathan Franzen's Freedom but I've lost my nightly anchor of TV shows: no more Mad Men, no more True Blood, Nurse Jackie, United States of Tara, Hung. WTF? Why are they all on break AT THE SAME TIME?

I can already hear you saying: "But Sassy, Weeds and 30 Rock are currently airing." To which I would reply: "I know but I started watching these series on DVD and cannot bring myself to watch them with commercials." It's a question of principle. Ok, maybe not, but it sounded like the right thing to say at that moment.

Another "Halloween" post? Not bloody likely!

Yep, it's that time of year again when everywhere I look there are articles about where to get the best Halloween costumes and which ones are "in vogue" this year. Well, I for one, do not like Halloween. Sure, as a kid, I enjoyed it immensely but as an adult, I loathe the day. 

I don't know why, I really can't recall when I became so dispassionate about this celebration but I don't like it. It rubs me the wrong way, unlike my vibrator. But I digress.

What excites me about Halloween is that when it's over, it's November 1st. Less than two months until Christmas. Only one month until I officially start playing my holiday music non-stop in the weeks leading up to Christmas. I only allow myself to start that on December 1st. Because I'm normal, if only marginally.

I'm a Christmas ho, yes I am. I think I actually enjoy the weeks leading up to Christmas more than the actual day. December 25 is kind of a let down. Anticipation eclipses the actual event. But the month of December for me is equal to smoking crack every day (not that I would know, but I'm guessing). I can't get enough of it.

The twinkly lights, the Christmas trees and garlands, the special Starbucks holiday lattés, the music. For a few weeks, it feels like I'm on a Disney acid trip. And who couldn't use THAT once a year? 

For me, Halloween is a rite of passage, to the rabid consumption, overeating and general drunkenness of the holiday season.

Errant ramblings of a morose mind

Today, I am decidedly uninspired. I really have nothing to say about the fact that Charlie Sheen was found drunk, naked and angry in an NYC hotel room. What's new? And they're paying this guy 2 million f*cking dollars an episode... whatever. I cannot dwell on this. I will get bitter. So, I thought I'd ramble aimlessly about a couple highlights of an otherwise uneventful week.

I have tasted the nectar, now there's no turning back...

My boyfriend and I were in a Future Shop or a Best Buy, or, you know, one of those big box electronics stores this past weekend to get a new router for our wireless internet at home. As soon as I walked in, I turned to him and said: "Um, I'll be over there." "Over there" was the iPod section. 

Before I had an iPod, which I only very recently acquired, I could not have cared less about the newest "i" products. But I dipped my toe in the pool, I drank the Kool Aid. There's no turning back. I picked up a demo iPod Touch and reverted to an infant discovering its own toes, reeling from overwhelming wonderment. 

"I want an iPod Touch for Christmas" were the first words out of my mouth when I found my boyfriend in the computer section. That deep, dark abyss of "I WANT" opened its gaping jaws and I gladly jumped in. I doubt there's any hope of escape.

When feeling stressed and generally antagonistic, go to Nordic baths 

There's this wonderful Nordic bath spa just outside Ottawa that we go to about once a year, although we always tell ourselves we should go more often. What are Nordic baths, you ask? Well, it's a succession of very hot, very cold, then temperate. 

For example, first you go sit in a steam room or dry sauna, then you run through a freakin' cold waterfall, take a dip in a cold pool and shock the shit out of your system; then you go rest in a normal temperature room or outside by a cozy fire. You then repeat the whole cycle about three or four times.

It was something we wanted to do for our anniversary and it was well timed. I've been feeling generally bitter these last few days. Not sure why, it comes in waves. I'll be fine for a few weeks, all gung ho on my The Secret positivity. Then, I'll crash and burn and get annoyed by anyone who crosses my path. Me: "Hey you! Over there, smiling, lookin' all happy and shit. Yeah, you! F*ck off!" You get the idea.

Well, going to this place is like a sucker punch from a Zen master. You WILL relax. This combination of hot/cold/temperate miraculously forces your tense body into relaxation and you get your groove back, for a while anyway. 

After only an initial 10 minutes in the steam room, I was all like "F*ckin' A, man. Oh, look at you, pretty little leaf, gently falling from a tree. You and me, we are One, man, we are One." Did I mention this spa is outdoors?

Anyway, my hostility has subsided somewhat, for today. Doin' some yoga after work tonight. That should buy me a couple of hours before I sink into another "menace to society" state.

Anniversary gifts - remixed

My boyfriend and I recently celebrated our third anniversary which got us thinking... You know that list of official anniversary gifts, like for one year it's paper, etc... Well, we thought we'd toy with it a little... 

1 year  = toilet paper - because real paper is dangerous. Ever get a paper cut? Those mo fo's HURT.

2 years = eraser - in case you're in a miserable situation and wanted to erase the past two years.

3 years = vaccum - 'cause, by this time, you're looking for new tricks in the bedroom.

4 years = body hair removal system - after 4 years, conditional love sets in, as in, conditional on getting that gross body hair removed.

5 years = an animal - to distract you from the fact that you've been with a hairy ape for five years.

6 years = cigarettes - you've lost the will to live a long life and are looking to shorten it any way you can.

7 years = anti-itch ointment. Must I state the obvious? 

8 years = knives - why should you have to slowly kill yourself with cigarettes when you can take out your partner in an "unfortunate accident involving a butcher knife".

9 years = she gets tickets to a UFC fight to remember what a mostly naked man looks like. He gets tickets to a Victoria's Secret fashion show to remember what a mostly naked woman looks like.

10 years  = domestic help. For her, this means a clean house. For him, this means someone else to fantasize about while making love to his partner.

15 years = hearing test to prove your theory that your partner suffers from "selective hearing", as in he/she selects not to hear you.

25 years = illegal drugs. 'Cause booze just ain't cuttin' it anymore.

30 years = lube. Let's face it, by this time you won't be able to have sex without it.

40 years = trial separation, in case you may have "missed out" on better things in life.

50 years = tombstone - 'cause you'll each have one foot in the grave, if you're lucky.