Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Dear Santa...

Dear Santa,
I would like a chainsaw and a toy truck for Christmas. I will leave you a snack. I will leave you green peppers and apple juice. Your reindeer are nice but my dad shot them all. He told me he did. Thank you. Love, Adam (names have been changed to protect the innocent). Age: 4.

I wish I had written this.

Here goes nothing...

Dear Santa,
I wish Don Johnson hadn't ruined my acting career, although, writing is way cool. I get to be a hipster doofus as a playwright and not a crazy, neurotic bitch, which is what would have happened had I succeeded as an actress, and Don Johnson, circa 1986 Miami Vice, was totally hot. He is forgiven.

I wish my most important relationship wasn't with my iPhone. I mean, let's face it. I can't go anywhere without it. It's the first thing I touch in the morning and the last thing I touch at night. I suffer separation anxiety when we're apart and absolute bliss when we're together. That is sad.

I saw something on TV recently that reminded me of a Fiona Apple song I really liked. Thank you for that early Christmas gift. Fiona, whatever happened to you, you bad, bad girl?

I learned watching Californication that I should probably never snort cocaine. It's quite dangerous if you have a deviated septum. It's never been medically confirmed that I have a deviated septum but my nose is kinda big and crooked so thank you Santa for saving me from a life of cocaine-induced whoredom. I would, however, like to find my Jewish relatives.

I would like a skin-tight black latex body suit, like the one in the first season of American Horror Story. Just 'cause.

Walmart is a sad place. I can't go there anymore. Every time I do, I feel dirty, like my first cousin violated me in the back room of the family trailer while watching momma admit on Jerry Springer that she's pregnant with my boyfriend's kid.

I would like a unicorn, 'cause they are way cool. A comfy sweatshirt with a unicorn on it would also be ok.

I would like people to not interact with me until about noon, every day. Why are afternoon/evening people so misunderstood?

I love my cat.

That is all.


Thursday, December 6, 2012

A tale for the anal, I mean, annals of veterinary medicine

So I've been busy lately. My 6-month old kitten had to be taken to the vet clinic last week to get spayed. It was going to be a simple procedure. However, my kitty has a frankenpaw, a weirdly deformed thing with a crazy huge nail growing out of it. I thought we'd be able to manage it on our own, but alas, I was wrong.

When I brought her in for surgery, the frankenpaw had worsened. The nail was growing into the pad of her paw and bleeding. I knew something had to be done. So, with a very heavy heart, I left her in the care of the vet clinic.

I got a call a few hours later. They had taken x-rays of kitty's paw. Our vet had never seen anything like it and suspected he never would again. Three digits were fused together. So, he put her surgery on hold and called in a couple colleagues to assess the situation and decide what to do. This was truly a unique case.

By evening, my boyfriend and I made our way to the vet's office to discuss the plan the veterinary team had come up with to fix kitty's frankenpaw. They showed us the x-ray:

I know. How crazy is that shit. She's truly one in a million. You see, we found her abandoned in a provincial park at four weeks old. I figure her previous caretaker(s) took a look at her paws and decided she was the expendable one. Oh ye of little faith. My little trooper prevailed and found herself a loving home and an excellent medical team.

So, the next day the surgery went ahead. They spayed her (which involved taking out all her lady bits - who knew?) and they fixed her paw:

We picked up kitty the day after surgery. The ordeal was not quite over yet. Kitty had to wear the cone of shame. You see, she has to keep it on until her stitches come out. I suspect it's more traumatic for me than it is for her. For the first few days after surgery she wouldn't put any weight on her former frankenpaw. I called her McLimpy. She recently started walking on it again. Here she is, resting comfortably:

How can you not love that face?
Kitty is progressing well. She's emerged from her stoned post-op phase and has regained all her former energy and verve. The cone comes off in two and a half days. Mommy can't wait. In the meantime, mommy needs a drink.

Monday, November 19, 2012

I loves that scary shit

What turned a good weekend into a great one? We started watching Season 1 of American Horror Story. I'm trying to remember the last time I was so frightened and riveted for such a sustained period of time. My boyfriend had to mute the intro because he found it so creepy. Extra points for scary awesomeness.

With a cover like this, you know that shit is gonna be f*cked up.

I'd heard the show was great but really had no idea what it was about. Six Feet Under actually sold me on this show since Frances Conroy (a.k.a. Ruth Fisher) is in American Horror Story. Since SFU is probably my all-time favorite show ever, I figured if Frances was in this new show, it had to be good.

Jessica Lange also headlines in AHS and rocks that shit like nobody's business. She still looks amazing too, and naturally so, I might add. She looks like a woman who's aged incredibly well, not like some circus freak trying to turn back the hands of time but like someone who takes care of herself and has embraced the aging process. In other words, she's still hot.

What I like about the whole concept of this show is that it feels like a prolonged horror film. Over 12 episodes, there's time to develop a complicated plot and multi-faceted characters, as well as scare the shit out of you over and over using various plot twists and shooting techniques.

The cast is superb, the writing solid. I'm more and more convinced that television is rendering movies obsolete with its sheer excellence. Shows like Dexter, Californication, American Horror Story, Breaking Bad, just to name a few, are eclipsing film as a story-telling medium since they have the luxury of multiple episodes, story arcs and seasons. But most importantly, they make me feel less bad about my TV addiction, and that's what really matters - contributing in a positive way to my rationalizations of questionable behaviour.

Speaking of questionable behaviour, I got nearly homicidal over a squeaky bike brake this past weekend. My boyfriend and I headed up to a provincial park near our place on a beautiful, sunny November afternoon for a ride in the woods. What should have been a mildly challenging, Zen-inducing ride in nature turned out to be a constant inner struggle against my growing rage.

You see, I got brand-new fancy brakes put on my mountain bike and this was only the second time I was using them. I had just figured out what was causing another rattle on my bike and fixed it, and for a brief 10-15 minutes was enjoying the quiet and beauty of the woods when, lo and behold, another incredibly annoying sound started emanating from my front wheel brake. And it didn't stop. It was my own version of American Horror Story. Stuck in the woods on a squeaky bike, the sound magnified tenfold by the sheer silence of nature.

When I pay what I paid for new brakes, they had better work and be whisper quiet. Those mo fos at the bike shop f*cked my shit up and I was pissed. I tried to be all like: "Well, there's nothing I can do now, so I should just surrender to the situation, and try and enjoy the ride despite this loud, irritating noise." That did not work.

So I went with this instead: "I should just surrender to my anger and resentment over this noise that has effectively ruined what might have been akin to a religious experience." Yeah, that felt right. Just be bitter. Don't try to fight it. It's not like it was the last ride of the season. Oh, except it WAS the last ride of the season and I'll carry that with me until next spring when the bike shop will have fixed the problem and I will erase the memory of this debacle with a wonderful ride on my quiet mountain bike.

I have issues. I am aware.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Don't say "chip-resistant" unless you mean it

Know what I hate? False advertising. Like when a top coat nail polish calls itself "chip-resistant" and then, about a nanosecond after it's dried, it chips. Or press on nail polish that claims to last "up to ten days" and cracks only moments after it's been applied.

Know what's chip-resistant? My willpower. That's right. I walk straight on past those potato chips, bitches. Know what lasts up to ten days? My bad mood. No cracks, no premature damage in that shit.

I'm beginning to think manicured, well-polished nails were conceived for women who didn't actually do anything, you know, like aristocrats. I mean, what did they have to do all day? Get up, have someone dress them, feed them, entertain them, bathe them, then put them back to bed.

I love having manicured, well-polished nails, therefore, I must have been an aristocrat in a former life. I suspect I was called "Mademoiselle de Bonne-Foie" (Lady of Good Faith) because my nail polish, which was applied by young, bare-chested servant boys of the Court, did not chip due to my doing nothing, and I was convinced of its efficacy and quality. This would explain my sheer contempt for products that make false claims and make me look like a two dollar fluzie from the trailer park with my f*cking chipped nails.

You know who has chipped nails? Rita, the emaciated, sore-covered, disheveled crack whore workin' the No-Tell Motel off Exit 69, that's who.

The other day, I found out what heaven smells like. I walked into a gourmet doughnut shop and the air was filled with the intoxicating scent of sugar, chocolate and whatever doughnuts are made of. This shop will be my undoing as it's located directly behind one of the yoga studios I frequent, thus assuring my fitness and dietary goals are never attained.

I think aristocrats ate gourmet doughnuts because I immediately felt at home in this place. The physical building itself is quite literally a shack but inside... inside it's pure decadence, an invitation to temptation. I suspect Rome may have smelled like this just before it fell... utterly full of itself, certain no one could resist its charms. Which reminds me how sad I felt when (SPOILER ALERT) they killed Caesar in the HBO series Rome because I really liked the actor who played him.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

We need to talk about poo

You know, back in the day, when women didn't really talk about "that time of the month" and a girl got her first period, and she thought she was dying, because bleeding from a bodily orifice is usually a bad sign? Well, I experienced something very similar.

Unless you're a new parent, no one is talking about poo. For some reason, poo is taboo. No one likes talking about the plumbing, you know? And until recently, it wasn't at the top of my list, either.

Once upon a time, a girl is going about her morning "business" when she notices a red-coloured ooze emanating from the product of her elimination. It wasn't bright red but more of a diluted blood colour with a pinkish hue. Being the hypochondriac that she is, said girl feels absolute dread settle into every bone in her body as she is now convinced of her imminent death by painful and swift acting gut cancer... or something.

She then starts to rationalize, trying desperately to dig herself out of this black hole of despair. Perhaps it's those new "moist wipes" she started using which frankly, only serve to dry out the tender skin of such a sensitive area. That must be it. Dry skin, friction of substance exiting body through tiny, tiny space. The next day, the girl saw an improvement and was quite relieved. By the following day, the situation seemed to have resolved itself. Those damn wipes! So she stopped using them. Problem solved.

Two weeks later, it happens again. Out of the blue, for no apparent reason, and the girl can no longer blame the wipes. "Sweet Mother of God!" the girl tells herself. "I AM dying!" as she imagines her insides slowly seeping out of her derrière, bit by bit, as the cancer liquefies everything in its path. She decides it's time to call the family physician.

A week later, at the doctor's office, the girl prefaces the discussion with "I apologize for the nature of the conversation we're about to have." Luckily, the doctor puts her at ease right away. Apparently, she talks about poo a lot, par for the course in her line of work. This is good, the girl thinks to herself, and she begins to convey her tale of woe.

The doctor asks her if she's been experiencing any other symptoms to which she replies: "no". Actually, the girl feels very well, even better than usual since switching to a low-gluten diet. Hmm. The doctor checks "the area". No signs of trouble.

Then she asks: "Did you eat beets around the time of these strange occurrences?". The girl ponders the question and traces back her steps. "Yes! Yes, I did!". The doctor then informs the girl that beets can turn your poo the colour of, well, beets which is kind of a dark pink, almost reddish colour, which could, perhaps, be mistaken for oh, I don't know, BLOOD.

Relief washes over the girl as the true source of her abnormal poo is revealed. For good measure, the doctor sends the girl for blood tests, which come back completely normal.

The girl then decides to regale a few lucky friends with her shitty tale to which one of them replies: "Oh yeah, that happens. I eat a lot of beets." WTF? This is why it's important to talk about poo. 

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Tree bark and Spam addiction

What's up with Christians and their trees?

Johnny, he's the bad seed. The one in the black jeans, crossing his ankles, straddling that tree like nobody's business. He was a late bloomer. He's smiling through the bitterness of having a masturbation session interrupted for this photo shoot. 

He wonders if staring at the Jesus poster on his ceiling is wrong when pleasuring himself. He'd take it down if it weren't for the hidden poster of Richard Nixon underneath. He associates the image of Nixon with Deep Throat. This equally pleases and disturbs him. 

Mom's smiling a little too enthusiastically. She's sitting on an unusually protuberant piece of bark that's rubbing her just the right way. It reminds her of her college roommate Mindy, who she still thinks of fondly, even though she was a slutty Mormon. 

It was mom's idea to have this photo taken on a tree branch. She's not sure why she was so attracted to the idea of having something between her legs and decided to recite ten Hail Marys once the shoot was done. 

This would look totally innocent... if it weren't for the whip cream.
Angus is the youngest of his brothers, a long line of strapping Scots. He can't understand why this isn't immediately obvious and finds himself constantly having to convince women of this, as well as his mother, who, to this day, thinks he's her distant cousin Mildred's child. She was a frail and sickly woman with a penchant for Mentos and always smelled of peppermint and sweat. 
Julia has a very rare physical condition which causes her to burp uncontrollably so she tries to move as little as possible. It all started when uncle Joe fed her pickled rat as an infant. He fancied himself a food pioneer of sorts and was hopeful that his line of pickled rodents would take off and ease him into retirement. He died from accidentally ingesting rat poison. The irony was not lost on Julia.

Angus was immediately attracted to Julia since she reminded him of his sister Rita, who was paralyzed from the neck down after belching on a roller coaster. Julia was shy at first but Angus put her at ease with his facile gaseous emissions. 

Don't trust anyone in dark jeans...
Brad, the eldest, claimed to have "chills" that day but was really detoxing from a Spam bender (not of the e-mail kind). Brad first got a taste of the meaty concoction when his mother served it at his 2nd birthday party. He still remembers the sheer elation he felt - it was like a little piece of Nirvana. He was hooked. 
Next thing he knew, he was pawning his Slinky at the "ghetto" playground for a slice of the stuff. Years later, his gut ravaged by processed meat, he hit rock bottom when he tried to kill himself by swallowing all the little plastic pieces of his sister Jenny's Lite Brite set. That was it. His family decided it was time to head to South Dakota and see Grandpa Billy who ran a ferret farm. If anyone could help Brad, it was Buckeye Billy, who'd been addicted to tater tots for years.
Eat the goddamn apple Adam, and be stuck with me forever!
Adam met Eve when he was struck in the head by a stray pea. To this day, he has no idea who the shooter was. Eve played coy and innocent and Adam, being the dumbass that he is, didn't put two and two together. 
He's still searching for the person who sent that pea hurtling towards his upper left temple. He suffers from mild migraines and the occasional blackout because of the incident but is grateful that Eve always seems to be there when he awakes and finds himself naked and disoriented in public places. 

Eve sniffed too much Play-Doh as a child and this left her mentally compromised. She suffers from occasional violent delusions and cannot remember what happened between February 18, 1986 and July 20, 1994. 
She is disturbed by mental images of smacking her husband over the head, undressing him and driving him to the nearest Quickie Mart. She is convinced these are imaginary and not actual events. Eve wants a baby. Adam wants a new lawn mower.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Oh gluten, where art thou?

So I've decided to go all gluten-free, because it's trendy. Ok, maybe not entirely for that reason, but it does seem to be gaining popularity. I'm doing it to be a skinny bitch. Ok, maybe that's not my main intention but hopefully, a pleasant side effect. I'm actually doing it because wheat was starting to make me feel really shitty. I'd have a few bites of pasta or bread and feel like a beached whale, and was constantly congested.

I made the connection a few months ago but wasn't ready to do anything about it. I mean, I'm a carb whore. No more bread? No more pasta? Yeah. Right.

I did find out that rice pasta is a great alternative and actually tastes like pasta. However, the quest for yummy gluten-free bread has proved an abject failure so far. The last one I tried, some rice/flax confection, tasted like sandpaper and if, God forbid, you accidentally dropped that shit, it might break a toe, it was so hard.

To the makers of gross gluten-free bread: Seriously? Who's gonna eat that shit? I mean, come on. Ex-carb sluts trying to wean themselves off gluten need a little help here. At least make it palatable.

I did cheat a bit recently. I was attending a yoga workshop over the past weekend, and like a good little yogini, bought a half dozen gourmet doughnuts at a recently discovered shop right behind the yoga studio while on break.

Sweet Mother of all that is good...
The next day, my workshop buddy introduced me to a relatively new bakery in town and, upon entering, I realized that trying to uphold my new gluten-free philosophy in that place was futile. It would be like slapping life in the face when presented with an opportunity for sheer pleasure and contentment. I caved and ate a most delicious ham and cheese sandwich on gluten-rich bread.

I'm back on the wagon but have decided that I'm on a low-gluten diet, instead of a no-gluten regimen. Cutting something out of my diet entirely always seems to backfire. I overcompensate with something else.

Since I went (mostly) gluten-free, I'm obsessed with cheese, like it's my new comfort food due to lack of bread. So, once in a while, I gotta even things out, and have some freakin' gluten. However, I will choose those moments judiciously, and indulge with only the most delicious, high-quality gluten-rich foods, like a Costco meat lasagna.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

How I accidentally Instagrammed my cooch

I get an e-mail from Twitter titled "Because you have more to show". Am I to assume Twitter is encouraging me to post photos of myself scantily clad, in provocative positions?

I mean, I'm no Demi Moore in a bikini in my bathroom, desperately trying to hold on to my failing marriage by proving how hot I am via Twit Pic, but I might gain more followers. Ok Twitter, you're on. I might crash your site. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Having to pee can kinda ruin a spa appointment. I was recently traveling on business and had a few hours of downtime so I scheduled an overpriced facial at the hotel where we were staying. Once our meeting concluded for the day, I was heading back to my room when a couple colleagues sitting at the bar spotted me and called me over. Come over here! Have a drink! I had about an hour and a half to kill before my spa rendez-vous.

Two cosmos later, I'm racing to the spa to get there on time. I'm a little tipsy due to the alcohol and general fatigue but figured this will just add to my relaxation. I'd gone to pee twice since arriving at the spa, before my appointment even began. On occasion, I can drink numerous cosmos without consequence. This was not one of those times.

About 15 minutes into my appointment, I realize I have to piss like a race horse. But I don't want to interrupt. I'm in some kind of spa tunic, under covers with a wet towel on my face. I don't want to piss off the spa lady. So I suck it up and wait it out.

The facial felt quite nice but let's face it, I was distracted by my bulging bladder. F*ck. After what felt like an eternity, the treatment mercifully came to an end. I headed for the lavatory. Ahhhhh....... sweet relief. I did feel incredibly relaxed and my face had a certain glow. So it wasn't a total loss. But for that much money, I really wanted to be present, you know? Damn those cosmos, they sure were tasty.

I must have been inebriated because I forgot to leave a tip. How gauche. I only thought of it hours later, in a haze of red wine and port, and figured by then, it was too late. I can never show my face there again.

Best quote ever: "This party is so lame, it makes me want to cut myself again."

Like I would ever Instagram my cooch, even accidentally. What is wrong with you people?

Friday, September 14, 2012

Bad theatre drove us to drink

So I'm in a fitting room trying on a couple pairs of pants when I overhear a couple next to me. The female of the couple is also trying stuff on. The boyfriend is waiting outside the door. Her: "Do you want to see?" Him: "Not really. I mean, yes." True story.

Apparently, Alison Pill, an actress on The Newsroom, "accidentally" tweeted a naked photo of herself. She gained 6,000 followers. I know what I'm tweeting to my 13 Twitter followers... brace yourselves.

But I digress. The boyfriend and I went to see a play last night. This was a professional production, so we expected a certain, umm, quality. Turns out it was a raging piece of shit and we left at intermission.

The night before, we were also at another theatrical show and left at intermission. However, in this case, the show was actually good but by the time intermission rolled around, we'd already been there about an hour and a half, and knew it would end late, and we didn't have the fortitude to keep going. It was like eating at a buffet. You know you've had enough, you're tempted to go back for that second helping but choose to be pleasantly satiated instead of stuffed like a hog at a pig roast.

However, there was just no excuse for last night's production. My boyfriend, who is a theatre director, was so dismayed, he decided we had to track down a liquor store that was still open and erase the memory of said awful play via alcohol consumption. Bad theatre drove us to drink. Luckily, the big, fancy liquor store downtown closed late so we got some wine, headed home and drowned our sorrows while watching Family Guy reruns and Airplane during commercials.

By the time we finished the bottle, it was pretty late, for a school night. So I headed to bed, planning to read for a bit, then go to sleep. It was inching towards 2 am when I finally put the book down. You see, I'm almost done the second book of the Fifty Shades trilogy. I'm so enraptured with these awful novels, it's embarrassing.

(SPOILER ALERT) Christian's helicopter was missing. Anastasia was devastated because she didn't know where he was. I mean, he could be dead for all she knew. I had to know they were going to be ok before I stopped reading. I just had to. Turns out, Christian had to make an emergency landing in the middle of nowhere because his engines caught fire, and it took him hours to get back. But he returned home, alive and well, and he and Ana had sex in the shower. All was right with the world.

Except that one who works a 9 to 5 gig should not be going to bed around 2 am. That shit cray. F*cking Fifty Shades. You own me.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Lattés can be life-threatening. Just sayin'.

So, I realized the other day that drinking a latté immediately before spinning class is perhaps not such a good idea. I hadn't given it much thought until I was warming up on my stationary bike, and my heart rate was already spiking. Then it dawned on me - there is fresh caffeine pulsing through my veins. My heart may blow up in my chest.

Luckily, it didn't but I had a strange, fluttery sensation when we got to the juicy cardio segments and felt somewhat lightheaded and winded. Then I thought I had read somewhere that caffeine before exercise helps to burn calories or something but it's dehydrating. What to believe?

I concluded that, yes, my heart was working overtime but the workout probably burned off the fatty bits of the latté, so, mission accomplished. I would not, however, recommend this practice. I was on the edge, people, dangling precariously between life and... well, life, albeit in a compromised state.

I went to a wedding last weekend and wore my Fergalicious black pumps. Now I have blisters on both sides of both ankles. I wore these very same shoes to my office Christmas party last December and seriously cut the rug with them all night long, sans injury.

However, it would seem that wearing these same shoes in the summer is a different story. The heat, swollen feet, sticky skin. Ouch. I had to dance barefoot. It was strangely liberating.

Leftover birthday cake is an excellent breakfast. Sure, I could go for a nutritious meal or I could eat something fun and packed with sugar. Life is short. Eat cake.

The irony of being a yoga teacher is that you have less time to do yoga which means you're probably less grounded and less relaxed than your students. Basically, you're a basket case putting on a brave face 'cause you haven't had time to get your Sun Salutations on. Does that make me a hypocrite? Should I tell my students I eat birthday cake for breakfast?

If it were up to me, I'd only wash my bed sheets maybe once every three... four... six months. This deeply disturbs my boyfriend.

I went to the dentist recently for a routine cleaning and found out I needed a night guard. Not of the human variety. Apparently, I clench my jaw in my sleep and it's wearing my teeth down so this oral apparatus gives them something soft and protective to clamp down on instead of other teeth. The hygienist asked me if I was an anxious person. Is there any other kind? I mean, really.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Yoda, are you leading me astray?

So, I have this poster of Yoda quotes. I was looking at it one day, pondering...

If you choose the quick and easy path... You will become an agent of evil. If you choose the quick and easy path, you'll have time for drinks.

Control, control. You must learn control. This directly conflicts with my Healing Power Hour quote: Give up your need for control. Who to trust? Yoda or New Age feel good pap? I'm torn.

Size matters not. Tell that to a fat person.

You must feel the force around you. All I feel is my general disdain for other people. Does that count?

Beware of the dark side. Anger...fear...aggression. If that were the case, we never would have evolved beyond cavemen and life would be devoid of any pleasure.

Luminous beings are we... Not this crude matter. Really? Has Yoda ever smelled a bad fart or had to light a match after a particularly pungent bowel movement?

You must unlearn what you have learned. / Mind what you have learned. Save you it can. WTF Yoda? Do I have to mind what I've unlearned? Is this some kind of Zen koan? You're f*ckin' me up, dude.

The dark side clouds everything. Impossible to see the future is. So... if I'm nice, does that mean I can see the future? 'Cause if that's the case, I might consider an attitude adjustment.

Named must your fear be before banish it you can. This only applies if you want to be a functional person. Bo-ring.

A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind. Zzzzzzzzz....

Adventure. Heh! Excitement. Heh! A Jedi craves not these things. Wake me when being a Jedi sounds remotely interesting.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Turn that frown upside down!

Moody artists are, at times, subject to bouts of depression and periods of paralyzing self-doubt. So we become steeped in melancholy. Sad, unenthusiastic, preoccupied with existential navel gazing. It's the price one pays for being a creative genius.

However, a dilemma arises when one writes what is essentially a humour blog. How can I be funny when I'm depressed? Well, I had a few thoughts on this...

How to cultivate funny when you're depressed:

1) Watch an Intervention marathon on A&E while getting smashed. The irony alone will be enough to perk you up.

2) Incorporate people you hate into your next script. Be merciless. The lesson here? Don't piss off a writer. It will come back to haunt you and will pull said writer out of their funk.

3) Fart loudly in a crowded place. Artists eschew civilized behaviour. And let's face it, farts are funny.

4) When co-workers ask "How are you?" answer with: "Your what hurts?" It will lead to instant confusion.

5) If you have a male boss, the next time he asks you to do something, respond with: "Yes, Mister Grey." Then, when he's all like: "Mr. Grey?" you say: "Ask your wife and, you're welcome." Fun for you, and could score you extra brownie points if he gets laid as a result.

6) Wear clown makeup. How can you not be happy with a clown face? And it might terrorize people with an irrational fear of clowns. You win.

7) Try eating pet food. It smells kinda good. How bad can it be? If anything, it will momentarily distract you from your despondency.

8) Go up to a complete stranger and ask "Why am I here?".

9) While shopping, try on at least six pieces of clothing, simultaneously. When the sales clerk looks at you as if to say: "What the f*ck?" answer: "Duh. It's called layering."

10) The next time you're accosted by someone trying to get you to support a charity, say "Let them eat cake!" When they look at you, confused, say: "Someone doesn't know their French history!".

I feel better already...

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Fifty Shades of... WTF?

I just started reading the wildly popular Fifty Shades trilogy. I'm maybe a quarter through the first book, (SPOILER ALERT) where the ever enigmatic, perfectly chiseled Adonis, Christian Grey, and the sweet, innocent and virginal (but not for long), Anastasia Steele, have engaged in "vanilla" sex. I haven't yet got to the really kinky stuff. Is that "chocolate" sex? Maybe "rocky road" would be more appropriate.

I'm a little torn about what I've read so far. The writing is awful. The story, banal, until you get to the sex, which, let's face it, any way you cut it, is titilating. Of course I'll continue to read, because once you get to the raunchy stuff, you don't really care how it's written. It's dirrrty, and we like that.

However, my dilemma arises from the portrayal of how easily this young virgin takes to sex. In their first sexual encounter, Anastasia is still a virgin and has never once masturbated, however, she manages to have three orgasms, one while Christian is stimulating her nipples, the second, during intercourse, with a condom, and the third, again during intercourse, from behind, with a condom.

I get that it's supposed to be a fantasy, and most women who've just read the paragraph above will acknowledge that it is indeed just that, a fantasy. I don't know about you, but the first time you have sex, even if you're not a virgin but with a new partner, it is rarely, if ever, of the multiple orgasm kind.

It's awkward at best, as two people explore new territory and try to figure each other out on a physical level. In reality, most women can't orgasm simply through intercourse, and with a condom? If you're gonna go the fantasy route, you'd better go all the way. There are no condoms in our fantasies because STDs don't exist in Fantasyland. Why bring down the dream with, and I'm paraphrasing here: "As I lay writhing in ecstasy, I heard the tear of a foil packet and he put on a condom." Is this an advertisement for safe sex? No. So, like, WTF?

Anastasia, as it turns out, is also an instant expert at oral sex. Miracles never cease. Again, in reality, practice makes perfect. Your first blow job probably wasn't stellar. It may have been acceptable, but not of the "sweet mother of God, what just happened" variety. I mean, we're playing with junk that in no way resembles our own, and on top of that, each male partner is different from the next, so it's like starting all over again every time you're with someone new.

Realistically speaking, if you stick with one guy for a while and sleep with him a few times, then things start to fall in place, you get familiar with each other's bodies and, if you're lucky, you start to orgasm.

Sure, there are some exceptions. There may be women who can come at the drop of a hat, just thinking about sex or while sitting on the bus, if it vibrates in just the right way, on just the right spot but that's a very slim minority, and one I'm sure us chicks would all like to be a part of.

I guess my only beef with this kind of writing is that it sets such unrealistic expectations of what sex and intimacy are that it can only lead to disappointment if readers try to live up to these ideals. It may even lead some women to think there's something wrong with them because they can't orgasm while some dude pounds away at them, all porn-style. Of course, Anastasia could orgasm, like, her very first time having sex. Feel good about yourself now?

I think erotic literature definitely has its place, especially for women, who I suspect prefer to read about and imagine it rather than watch it. This particular trilogy has definitely got people talking about sex and thinking about sex and probably having more sex and, in that respect, it's a good thing.

I would just be wary of trying to emulate what's in the books, hoping for the same results. Sexuality is such an individual thing and everyone responds to it very differently. Going into it with the myth of the multiple-orgasming virgin looming over you just may suck all the fun right out of it.

Here's my version of this portion of the story:

Christian and Anastasia are having sex for the first time:

Anastasia: F*ck Christian, that hurts!

Christian: You like that, don't you.

Anastasia: No, I'm serious, it f*cking hurts. It's my first time!

Christian: Oh. Ok. I'll go real slow. Easy.

Anastasia: Ok.

Christian: How does that feel?

Anastasia: Um, kinda cool, I guess, and well, weird but good, I think.

Christian climaxes. Anastasia doesn't but thinks sex is kinda neat and wants to try it again sometime soon.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

If they were real vampires, it would have lasted forever

I love it when celebrities trip up, especially ones I feel are overblown, talentless hacks. Like Kristen Stewart. I know, I know, she's Hollywood's little darling, but I can't possibly be the only one who noticed that, ahem, she sucks. Not only Robert Pattinson ... but as an actress.

So, imagine my delight when I found out she was busted for cheating on her Twilight beau with the married director of Snow White and the Huntsman. First off, dude, you're married, and secondly, if you're going to cheat and had to pick between Charlize Theron and Kristen Stewart, the choice seems pretty obvious.

Stewart is one of those questionable Hollywood creations, full of hype but lacking substance. I've seen her in a few flicks, Twilight and non-Twilight, and it quickly became apparent to me that she has no range whatsoever. She's like a wet noodle, flaccid, uninviting. And yet, according to, like, everyone, she's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Classic propaganda.

I cannot be convinced and will not be brainwashed by studio executives and their media peons falsely marketing their latest ingenue to sell movie tickets. I'm constantly amazed at the power of media to plant ideas in our brains and manipulate our perception to make us believe in things that aren't even there.

This cheating scandal is the most exciting thing Kristen's ever done.

Ahhh, glad I got that pickle out of my ass. You know, these things, they weigh on me, and I just have to let them out, like diarrhea.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Wet shirts, breakups and the news

So I notice spots on a brand new shirt I'm only wearing for the second time. You'd think I could let it go until I got home from work and put said shirt in the laundry. But no. This is not how I function. I decided I needed to take immediate action and attempt to cleanse those damn spots. I have a thing about stains

So, instead of walking around the office with barely noticeable spots on my shirt, this is what I looked like:

Hmm.... my boobs look good from this angle...

I've also been obsessively reading about TomKat's breakup on The Daily Beast. You know, you start out with one article but then they have the ever so sly "You might also like" which leads to yet another article. Of course, I might also like! Because they're all related to dissecting this high-profile breakup to the enth degree, and each new article is like a line of coke (not that I would know, but I'm guessing it's quite similar).

A part of me secretly likes it when celebrities break up 'cause you know what? They're filthy f*ckin' rich and basically get to play all day, so yeah, a little pain to even things out makes me feel good. 

We started watching Aaron Sorkin's new TV series The Newsroom. Now, I'm a Sorkin fan but it feels eerily similar to that other Sorkin TV show, The West Wing, right down to the sweeping, melodramatic intro.

There's an ensemble cast portraying intelligent, witty, highly accomplished people, and there's a lot of walking around. Instead of the halls of the White House, it's now in a newsroom. 

The scripts are solid and chalk full of interesting facts and there's the obvious undercurrent of critique of current media practices which basically pander to the lowest common denominator and present what can best be described as "infotainment" rather than the actual news. 

However, I can't get past the recycled aspects of this show. Couldn't we have been a little more creative so it didn't feel like The West Wing with a different cast? Just because a TV show was wildly popular at one time doesn't mean we should rehash the same formula over and over again. It was a fresh, new approach back in the day but is now past its expiration date and just feels stale.

Most of the rhetoric contained in these scripts would be better suited to editorial pages and might be more effective as such.

Ooh, I think I got those stains out of my shirt. F*ck ya.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

The death of TomKat. Who saw that one coming?

I'd love to say "I told you so"... and I will. I saw this coming from the start; from that weird, couch-jumping, fist-pumping spectacle on Oprah. Tom and Katie. It's been a "WTF?" since the very beginning. 

Numerous rumours swirled around these two and how, exactly, they got together. She auditioned and signed a contract to be Tom's 3rd wife. He's secretly gay and she's his front. I mean, who really knows?

But I can tell you what I do know, here and here.

Oh yes, I've followed TomKat throughout their courtship, breeding and subsequent marriage. I wonder if Katie realizes that this divorce will mean the end of her acting career? Because, let's face it, anything she's gotten since hooking up with Tom was, well, because of Tom. 

Remember Katie in Christopher Nolan's first Batman movie? Of course not. No one does. Zero charisma. No talent, for acting anyway. Although, she did play the part of Tom's wife quite convincingly. I'll give her that. And she probably doesn't want her daughter brought up as a Scientologist and I support her in this. One less Scientologist in the world just makes the planet a slightly more sane place.

It's too bad Tom's kinda nuts. He's been around forever, in Hollywood years, and has had some memorable roles, ones I actually liked, for instance in Jerry Maguire and Tropic Thunder. But he's got the religious zeal thing going on, and that's a real turnoff.

Maybe their courtship started out as a publicity stunt since the unveiling of their peculiar relationship took place amidst openings for one of Tom's Mission Impossible movies and for Katie's Batman film. Not that she had any impact in that movie whatsoever but Tom certainly brought some attention to it by dating Katie at a most opportune time. 

It pains me to this day that Katie was cast alongside Christian Bale for Batman. Who does that? Doesn't Christian deserve better? Anyhoo...

I was a bit shocked, but not surprised, at the headline that TomKat were divorcing, and more so that Katie filed for divorce, and not Tom. I didn't think she had it in her since she's been acting like a lobotomized robot for the past five or six years. However, in the last few photos I've seen of them, Katie looked distraught, unhappy.

I guess being married to Tom Cruise ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Operation "Kitty Rescue"

So there we were, one Sunday afternoon, my boyfriend, one of my best gal pals and I, riding our bikes in a vast provincial park, enjoying the warm weather and great company. We have this one route we really like where we bike a few miles in the woods to a beach on a large lake.

On our way back, we spotted what, from afar, looked like a rabbit, hopping across the bike path. As we got closer, we realized it was a kitten. A very small, very young kitten, alone in a huge forest. We looked at each other and realized we had to try and rescue the little critter or it would not survive for very long.

We got off our bikes and tried to approach it but it immediately bolted into the woods. We tried to track it down but to no avail. So we came back to our bikes to deliberate our next move. After a few moments, we spotted kitty a little further down the path. This time we tried a more stealth approach but, again, as soon as one of us got close, it ran away into the woods.

We searched through tall grass and dense bushes, wading through swamp-like damp earth, looking for this terrified little creature, so out of place in this setting. After our second failed attempt, we stood on the path, unable to leave, but not quite knowing what to do next. We suspected it would make its way back to the path, so we waited, and it did.

The boyfriend suggested we try one more time before giving up. Kitty was now on the bike path, running up a hill as fast as its miniscule body would allow. My boyfriend cautiously pursued it. It ran into the woods once again but the boyfriend had it in his line of sight. My best friend and I approached the wooded area with caution.

This is when we got into military ops mode and decided to triangulate, and close in on the little critter. As we got closer and closer, it ran past me, but somehow the best friend got behind it, as it was running back towards me and the boyfriend came up the side which made kitty freeze in place. Bingo. Best friend picks up kitty.

We immediately make our way back to our bikes and wrap kitty in a towel to keep it warm, all the while wondering how this vulnerable creature made it out here in the middle of nowhere. We shuddered at the thought that it was purposely dropped off in the woods because it was unwanted. But it's possible.

Anyhoo, we make it back to the car and my best friend and I are trying to decide who should take it home. Ultimately, we decided kitty should come with me and the boyfriend as the best friend already has a 16-year-old cat at home and we weren't sure how it would react to another cat.

Ironically, earlier in the day, as we lounged on the beach, we spoke about pets and I had said I 'd probably wait at least a few years before getting another cat, after having to put down my beloved Phoebe last August which was, quite frankly, devastating. I guess the Universe had other plans.

The next day, we brought kitty to the vet. Turns out our rescue was in pretty good shape considering its ordeal. No fleas, ticks or ear mites. It was dehydrated so they administered some fluids. The vet figured kitty might have been out there for about three days or so, and had it not been found, would probably not have lasted much longer.

We were also informed that the provincial park we were in is often used as a dumping ground for unwanted puppy and kitten litters, even exotic pets like iguanas and snakes. I don't know how people who do that can sleep at night. Anyway... we're not sure how kitty got there considering where we found her is uninhabited for miles.

Turns out our little feline is a girl. We named her Romy. She's incredibly sweet and loving, and we're  absolutely thrilled to have her as the newest member of our family.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Wanna be my "Crack Spirit Guide"?

I love it when I stumble upon a gem of a new TV show. I'd seen a commercial for HBO series Girls and was intrigued. It looked kinda funny. So one night when perusing our On Demand service,  I suggest to the boyfriend that we try out this new series.

Holy f*cking crap. It is SO f*cking good. It's like Sex and the City but with better writing and real people. Lena Dunham is the creator/star/writer/director of this show.

This girl, she's amazing, which kinda makes me feel bad about myself, 'cause she's 26, ridiculously talented and has her own kickass tv show, but whatever. I'm reaping the benefits of her talent by being thoroughly entertained. "Crack Spirit Guide" - that's comedy gold right there.

If you haven't seen this show, you must watch it. The people cast in it look like, well, people you and I would know. They're not all statuesque models living in impossibly expensive New York apartments with a wardrobe worth millions.

Nope, these are your typical 20-somethings searching for meaning and identity in what can sometimes be a shitty f*cking world. However, this show never strays into melodrama. It's quirky, funny and refreshingly honest.

Lena has now officially been placed on my girl crush list along with Tina Fey. HBO must renew this series. It's too good not to continue, and they should also pay me to write reviews. Just sayin'.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Oh clothing tag, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways...

Why is it that clothing companies sew tags that feel like sandpaper into their clothes? This material rests against our SKIN, people. WTF? I admit it, I'm a full-fledged taggist. I hate tags and have paid the price.

Just yesterday, I went swimming in a new bikini top. I had forgotten to cut the tags off and it distracted me from fully enjoying the activity. So, once we got home, I pulled out my scissors and thought I was carefully removing the collection of multiple tags on the inside of the top. Once I was done, I looked in horror at my lovely new bikini top. I had somehow punctured it with my scissors and there was now a gaping hole where I had removed those nasty tags.

This has happened more than once. I have a lovely shirt I had to sew back together after removing a tag. If I wanted a skin exfoliant, I'd use a bath product. I wouldn't have it sewn into my clothes.

I though I'd found the mother of all sewing tools when I finally realized what some strange looking hook was for - it was a stitch remover. Ah-HA! I could safely remove tags without ruining my clothes! This will revolutionize my entire life, thought I to myself.

But not all tags are created equal. Oh no. Some are sewn right into the seam of a garment and the only choice you have is to carefully cut away what you can with a pair of scissors and hope for the best, like in the case of my bikini top, and a brand new shirt I recently bought. Except I didn't cut a hole in the shirt. I did, however, obsess about the feel of the material on my skin where I had cut the tag for, like, an entire f*cking day.

I ruined two tank tops by essentially ripping them apart to remove what was left of tags I had cut. Even the leftover tags were driving me crazy. Now there's a hole on the side of each tank, and they still feel weird. They'll be relegated to the general use household rag category. 

Perhaps my skin is ultra-sensitive and I can't tolerate what the majority of people consider normal. Would it be so hard to print washing instructions right into the material of the garment? Can't we eliminate tags altogether? Wouldn't that be good for the environment or something?

I can't tell you the utter joy I feel when putting on a tag-free garment. The softness, the smoothness... And I don't have to wreck a piece of clothing by hacking it apart to remove uncomfortable little squares of material that drive me to delirium because they're so f*cking ITCHY or they downright hurt by STABBING MY SKIN.

So, fashion world, here's a little suggestion: no more tags. Period. And if this continues, I'll start walking around naked. Ok, maybe just in my house, when no one's watching, not even my boyfriend. But it will be in protest! So THERE.

Friday, June 8, 2012

G-strings, hamsters and global warming

I realized yesterday I've become one of those girls, you know, the ones whose G-string pops up over their low-waist pants every time they sit down or bend over. Yep. That's me.

I've managed, however, to avoid the full-on plumber's butt 'cause, I mean, I have standards. They're pretty low (waisted) ha! but not trailer trash low. More like upper middle class suburban pot dealer low. Not that I deal pot, 'cause I don't, Mr. Policeman. (They're watching me.)

I bought a couple pairs of jeans at American Eagle the other day and got their AE Rewards card, so I get points whenever I buy stuff there, and I also get 15% off purchases during the entire month of my birthday. Man, these guys know how to turn you into a consumer whore 'cause you know I'm gonna eat that shit up and be there EVERY DAY of my birthday month. Suckers.

Did you know hamsters eat their babies? I thought of this as I was pondering how much I dislike menstruation. Go figure.

Know what I hate? When you get a flavored Starbucks latté and all the sweet stuff sinks to the bottom. It tastes pretty good until you get to those last few sips. Then, your face contorts as an unexpected onslaught of syrupy flavoring overwhelms your taste buds. It's gross. Starbucks, please fix this.

Why do people get headaches when it rains? They say it's because the pressure in the air shifts or something. But aren't we always under pressure, you know, 'cause of gravity?

If a fart is silent, does anybody hear? Like those dog whistles that only dogs can hear.

With about 7 billion people on the planet, why haven't we suffocated from our own gaseous emanations?  I mean, with that many people, someone's farting every second of every day. It's like the cows and their methane.

That shit is so toxic, it's causing global warming, mostly so we can scarf down Big Macs. If fast food didn't exist, there would be less cows, and therefore, less methane, leading to less greenhouse gases causing a reduction in global warming. Holy shit, did I just solve global warming? I ROCK.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

It's not a death wish - it's a writing prompt!

This week's writing prompt over at Studio 30 + is to write your own obituary. Need I say more?

Stephanie Turple (that's my real name and I'm not afraid to use it, unless someone starts stalking me, and I'm forced to go all Hunger Games on their ass.) Where was I? Oh yeah, Stephanie Turple's obit.

Alright, so, Stephanie was a cantankerous bitch. This was, however, overlooked due to her sheer brilliance at life. As you know, unless you live under a rock, Stephanie was a critically-acclaimed and universally adored playwright and screenwriter. (Shut up, it could happen.) She became filthy rich because everything she wrote was a huge, international success, and decided to spend her days sipping cosmos and eating cheese.

The end.

Umm, I guess there should probably be more, right?

Let's see... she successfully avoided getting shanked by her stepchildren and died peacefully in her sleep at some ridiculously old age which is surprising since she developed a heroin habit in her later years (à la Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine) and had a tendency to wander into traffic, claiming she was defending pedestrians' rights and denouncing traffic rules as draconian.

Stephanie dyed her hair hot pink at 85 and wore her Converse All Stars canvass sneakers up until her death. She refused to buy old lady shoes from Naturalizer and get the mandatory seniors' short hair cut and perm. Then again, it could have been the heroin...

Stephanie didn't want to bore you with all the lame shit people usually have in their obits like "loved teddy bears and rain drops". She traveled the world, drank too much, ate what she wanted and had a great time thumbing her nose at society's thinly-veiled contrivances. Towards the end, she brazenly walked around with a muffin-top hanging out of her too-tight skinny jeans. She just didn't give a shit anymore.   

She'd like to say she tried to make the world a better place but who is she kidding? The world was her playground and she didn't have time to worry about the less fortunate. Aren't there charities for that, anyway?

After the devastating loss of her pet rock, Pebble, Stephanie decided to never again adopt a pet, the pain of their death being just too much to bear. Pebble was accidentally thrown into a lake, or rather skipped over water to see how far he could go. Oh wait, Stephanie did that. Again with the heroin. Stay away from that stuff, kids. It can only lead to no good.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

N to the Y to the C

The boyfriend and I spent last week in New York City, hence the radio silence, and I spent the weekend recovering, unevenly burning/tanning sunbathing on our deck under a gloriously, unseasonably hot sun. One definitely needs to decompress after five days in Manhattan.

We landed in Newark and took the train into Penn Station where we walked around in circles until we decided to climb any steps leading upward, figuring we'd eventually come out at street level. Luckily, our hotel was literally down the street from the station, and there seemed to be quite a few people walking around with body bags suitcases, so we didn't feel out of place.

Our first night was spent at Madison Square Garden watching game 1 of the conference final between the New York Rangers and New Jersey Devils.

Yeah, it was pretty awesome. Best part? Souvenir hand towel which I will proudly display when attending yoga classes, 'cause I'm cool like that.

The next day we meandered down 5th Avenue in the rain, on our way to the Museum of Modern Art, which, if you didn't know, is closed on Tuesdays. We didn't know. So we decided to at least check out the MoMA gift shop to soften the blow of disappointment. I bought some handy little journals to jot down my brilliant ideas 'cause I was feeling particularly artsy, you know, all writer-like and shit. And don't writers walk around with journals?

Then we decided to head to Times Square and decide what show we wanted to see that night for which we could get half-price tickets. The only show I really wanted to see was The Book of Mormon which, of course, was sold out, or we could get tickets for like, a bazillion dollars. So, not an option. Unfortunately, none of the other shows seemed particularly appealing so we decided to wander aimlessly about while trying to figure out what to do about the Broadway show situation when, lo and behold...

A nice, young lady asks us if we want to attend a taping of the David Letterman show, for free. This takes a moment to sink in. I used to watch Letterman all the time in high school and university, when I didn't have to get up early. So we decide, what the heck, ya, let's do it! Turns out this chick was legit and we got to see a live taping of the show at the Ed Sullivan Theatre. If MoMA were open on Tuesdays, we may never have seen Letterman.

We did end up going to see Avenue Q the following night, a Sesame Street satire of sorts, where cute puppets have sex on stage and sing songs like "The Internet is for porn". I'm not a fan of the musical genre but this, I enjoyed, especially having grown up watching Sesame Street.

We also made it to MoMa, which was open on Wednesday. I pretended to look like I understood what some of this stuff was about:

I know, very convincing. Don't I look deep in thought? Pink planks make you think, man. Just sayin'.

We also dropped by what I consider to be a holy place, due to my devotion to Tina Fey:

Security didn't have to be so rough with me, though. I mean, Tina and I ARE friends. In my mind. And like The Secret says: "Thoughts become things". I was just trying to manifest. Is that so wrong? (Ok, there was no actual scuffle with security. Only in my imagination, where I enter 30 Rock and cry out: "Tina! Tina!" à la Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire and security promptly removes me from the building.)

I really hope this isn't all that's left of the Occupy movement:

Kudos to this guy for puttin' it out there and garnering some attention but it's one guy. What happened to Occupy? In stark contrast, we stumbled upon a fashion shoot on our way to lower Manhattan:

Ahh, capitalism at its best, selling us stuff we don't need in pretty packages. It was cool, though, seeing this in person, kinda like: "Oh my GOD! Is that a REAL model?" Like they're some kind of endangered species or something. With the right agent, lighting, stylist, hair and makeup artist, coke dealer, personal trainer and chef, I too could be a model.

This is just a cool shot from the 86th floor observatory of the Empire State Building:

On our way back to the airport, we got to experience Penn Station at rush hour, where I was almost smothered to death trying to board a train to Jersey. Then, the train was so packed, we stood in the vestibule. Even though there were other people in there with us, I sensed this was against security protocol since, if you looked down, you could see train tracks in the space where two cars were hinged together, and you had better hold on. Good times...

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Honey badger don't care

Honey badger is fearless. It eats snakes, despite getting bitten, eats bee larvae despite being stung. Honey badger don't care.

How to cultivate your inner honey badger:

1) Wear a waist-high thong, hip hugger skinny jeans, a bra as a top and stilettos to church, and proclaim "Jesus loved prostitutes too!"

2) Park in a handicap space and fake a limp.

3) Fart silently in a crowded elevator and smirk when the effects of your noxious fumes take effect.

4) Sit in the "priority seating" section of a bus and when people give you dirty looks because you don't move for the very pregnant lady, point to your stomach and say "six weeks asshole".

5) Ask for a skinny, half-sweet, lactose-free, no foam, whip cream, three sprinkles, double-shot Venti mocha latté at a busy McDonald's.

6) Light up a cigarette in the lobby of an abortion clinic and when they tell you to put it out, say "What? It's not like it's gonna hurt the baby."

7) The next time a casual acquaintance sees you and asks "How are you?", slap them across the face and tell them you've done away with civilized behaviour.

8) Pay for an expensive restaurant meal in pennies.

9)  Walk briskly in a crowded mall, then stop abruptly. Repeat several times.

10) Approach a young child while telling the parents "Oh, he/she is adorable!" Crouch down and whisper to the child "Santa doesn't really exist."

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

She held her breath

So I'm watching 30 Rock the other night when Tina Fey unveils another of her comic gems: snart. What is a snart, you ask? When one sneezes and farts at the same time.

C'mon, no need to be shy about it, we all know it's happened to us at least once in our lifetimes. And with the force of the sneeze, it's possible even a little poop shot out too. Hmm. What would that be? A spnart?

Speaking of bodily functions, have you ever been sitting in your cubicle, minding your own business, thinking: "If I fart right now, it'll be silenced by my cushy office chair"?

Well, I've thought that, and this one time, I let one rip, right into my chair, only to have the sound rebound off the chair into the surrounding perimeter, causing a brief but loud cacophony, followed by silence. The person in the neighbouring cubicle must have heard something but politely went about her business.

When you have to puke and poop at the same time, how do you prioritize? Which do you need to find first? A sink or a toilet? I'm thinking toilet since shit would be way more disgusting to clean up than vomit.

Although, it would really depend on the content and scent emanating from the vomit. Maybe some puke is grosser than feces. I mean, I kinda know what to expect from poop but how am I supposed to remember all I've ingested in the past 24 hours that could come hurling back up? I can barely remember what happened this morning.

You know what really sucks? Having gas cramps when you're teaching yoga. First off, my distended belly looks like a second trimester baby bumb. Then, I have to keep my posterior cheeks squeezed fairly tight to prevent gaseous emanations from escaping as I lead others into enlightened bliss. It's happened once or twice when, despite my efforts, some squeak escaped and I prayed my students thought it was a creak in the floor.

Why do chicks pretend they never fart? You know what happens to people who never fart? Well, I don't either but I suspect bad things happen, that's what. I mean, do guys really think that "real girls" don't let one rip once in a while? I think they would prefer a fart buddy. I mean, how cool would it be for a guy to brag to his buds that he lit up blue angels with his girl last night?

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!

You know, when you're kinda drunk, and things aren't quite as they appear to you, in your slightly altered state? Like when I think I'm being really, really quiet, trying to avoid the one creak in our kitchen floor at 1:30 am because I've decided to try and remove stains from an old hoodie with my super-duper Ban It bar over the kitchen sink.

Turns out I sounded like a herd of elephants running from poachers, stepping on that damn creak one too many times, awakening my beloved who was peacefully slumbering in our room directly below the kitchen. 

I blame the boyfriend. We have a wine drinking routine that works very well. We share a bottle; we both get about two and a half glasses of wine, and are nicely marinated, not drunk. He broke the routine. Mayhem ensued. He decided he wanted beer instead of wine after we had opened a bottle and he had merely had a few sips.

Then, he went to bed, and left me unsupervised with a half-full bottle of wine. Tactical error. You know I'm gonna down that shit. Drunkenness ensued. I usually head to bed around 11 pm on Friday nights, 'cause by that time, I'm ready to pack it in, when I'm sober.

In my drunken haze, I decided to start watching an episode of Six Feet Under around 11:30 and discovered that this is not a show one should watch under the influence of any drug that lowers your inhibitions and opens wide the doors of perception. 

That was some deep shit yo, and my wine-laden brain was cracked open, like an oyster offering up its pearl. Except the show is about death, and dying, and what lies after death. In my inebriated state, all I could hear was Jack Nicholson yelling: "You can't handle the truth!"

I then started watching a second episode. I needed something to do while I polished off the vino. Then, around 1:30 am, I decided to go and see if this hoodie I was cleaning earlier was dry and noticed yet another stain. Why not try to get it out now! says I to myself. No time like the present! 

My senses were obviously askew, and I thought perhaps I would have a case for appearing on that Strange Addictions show. Woman addicted to removing stubborn stains from clothing in the wee hours of the morning. I was pulling some genuine Lady Macbeth action: "Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!" except I hadn't convinced my boyfriend to shank anyone, you know?

The next day, my hangover was not merely as proportional to the amount of alcohol I consumed (thank God for small mercies). I pulled out a Nalgene bottle from the cupboard, a 32-ouncer, and filled it with water. I needed hydration, people. And it was one of those badass BPA-laced Nalgene bottles. I live on the edge, man. Can you handle it?

I realized the last time I used this bottle was about eight months ago, when I was seriously hurting after, you guessed it, too much wine consumption. So I baptized it the hangover Nalgene bottle. It's pink. How cool is that?

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

There's bad, awful, worst of all time, and then... these album covers

My stepdaughter sends me a link to a blog post listing the worst album covers of all time. Below are extrapolations on some of my personal favorites.

Ken was the original prototype for the Ken doll, of Barbie lineage, but he refused to shave his 70's porn 'stache, claiming he had issues with authority and wouldn't be told what to do.

Ken's rebellious ways saved him from spending the rest of his life in the shadow of public humiliation since the Ken doll was devoid of any masculine genitalia, and it would have been assumed the real Ken (by request only) was a eunuch.

To this day, Ken is grateful for having grown up within the confines of a renegade, orthodox Christian sect, a hostile and dysfunctional environment in which Ken's anti-establishment leanings could be fully developed.

Although he can't keep a steady job because he inevitably challenges authority and gets fired, Ken is content caring for his squirrel colony (he has a particular sensitivity for squirrels since they were regularly offered as sacrifices in his sect), and making sweet music.

Remember Joyce? Of course not. No one does. That rose in her hand is symbolic, as in "wallflower". The thorns represent Joyce's daily struggle for acknowledgement of her existence and the leaves catch her bitter tears of disappointment when, despite getting a bad perm, she still went unnoticed. 

Sure, Joyce puts on a brave face but she's dying inside. Literally. Joyce has bleeding ulcers because of her secret addiction to drinking Calgon bubble bath.

Sadly, she misunderstood the slogan "Calgon, take me away" and assumed it was a suicide aid. She thought it strange, at first, that they would advertise this kind of thing, but in her desperation, she put all doubts aside and downed her first bottle in one sitting. To Joyce's surprise, she didn't die right away but there was no turning back, and her addiction to drinking Calgon bubble bath began its destructive journey.

She turned to music to try and fill the void that no amount of Calgon could quench but no one bought her album.

Little known fact: Orion was Ronald Reagan's original inspiration for his "War on Drugs" campaign. Nancy Reagan took Orion under her wing following a chance meeting at a campaign stop in Bobo, Alabama.

It was obvious Orion had suffered severe emotional trauma. It turned out Orion's childhood pet, a large potbelly pig named Beaver (for his proclivity to bite things) had sunk his choppers into Orion's right testicle in a faux wrestling match out in the mud patch on their farm. Orion was only five at the time.

Desperately trying to come to grips with this unintended and painful molestation, Orion turned to drugs, specifically LSD. With prolonged drug use, he developed an alternate personality (clearly on display in this album cover), which he named Hooker, feeling his only destiny was in the sex trade since his innocence had been permanently sullied at such a young age.

But Nancy changed all that. Orion's life now had meaning. He was to be the poster boy for the "War on Drugs" but felt he couldn't possibly remove his mask for fear that he would spontaneously liquefy upon revealing his true face (the dude's on LSD, what do you expect?) so he became Nancy's pet project. She felt music would have a healing influence on Orion and might convince him to one day take off his blue mask and rediscover who he truly is. We're still waiting...

Believe it or not, Tino was one of the first Abercrombie and Fitch models. His classic open leg, one hand awkwardly placed on a body part so as to look "sexy" pretty much defined Abercrombie's image as purveyor of fine clothing to perfectly muscled, waxed male models, and skinny bitches. Below, an Abercrombie model. See the resemblance?

Tino grew up in the rough and tumble town of Rancho Cucamonga, California. Tino was branding cattle by age 8 but always knew he had a larger destiny, one in which he could provocatively display his sinewy, latino body in suggestive clothing.

His first attempt at modeling occurred when some Hollywood producers blew into town looking for extras for a Spanish version of Ghostbusters. Tino used his charm and obvious physical attributes to try and sway the movie executives but they didn't feel he was right for the part of "hysterical, screaming pre-teen on verge of nervous breakdown due to close proximity of popular heartthrob".

However, due to a chance encounter in a sleazy hotel room, one of the movie executives heard Tino singing in the shower and realized the boy had a gift, a gift for music. And the rest is history. Arcane history, but history nonetheless.

Click here for more inspiring album covers.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Code

You know, sometimes I wonder why I bother trying because every time I think I'm all that, lookin' good, feelin' hip, something reminds me that I'm pretty much a walking dufuss.

There was an incident, not too long ago, when I had just come out of a business meeting, went to the bathroom and saw that I had a big ass clump of mascara under one eye, leaving a trail of black ooze on its descent toward my cheek. The code was violated. No one told me. I'm sure someone saw something yet said nothing.

There is a code, people. A nice way to tell others they have something terribly embarrassing going on, and that they better rectify it immediately or risk being labeled "that freak".

You see, I go to the gym on my lunch hour, and on that particular day, which I've now dubbed "mascara mayhem", I had inadvertently made the mistake of not checking my makeup before heading back to the office.

I had just finished an especially challenging spinning class and sweat like a hog. You'd think I would have stopped in front of a mirror to assess the situation. What can I say? Sometimes, I ain't plugged in. So I went merrily on my way, thinking for hours that I looked socially acceptable.

Except I didn't. And those surrounding me remained silent. Do I exact revenge, or decide to forgive? The next time someone has a big honkin' piece of spinach stuck in their teeth, maybe I'll just smile and nod. When there's a trail of toilet paper under someone's shoe, and they're dragging it around like an idiot, I might take a secret video and post it on YouTube. I'm not a forgiving person.

Too much cleavage? I'll laugh as everyone stares in either disbelief or lust. Ass crack hangin' out? I'll point it out, yelling "plumber's butt!". Muffin top over too tight pants? I might ask: "blueberry or chocolate chip?"

Have no doubt, the evil giant has been stirred and is not content. I spend far too much time obsessing about my appearance to simply forgive others for letting me walk around looking like I've been punched in the eye. That ain't cool, yo.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Russian Dating Chat - it wasn't what I was expecting

So I open up my Gossip Junkie app to check out the celeb scene and the first thing I see at the top of a long list of inane articles on celebrity happenings is an ad selling "Russian Dating Chat Hot Girls". I'm assuming this was written by someone who speaks broken English. Does Celebuzz vet its advertisers at all?

This could be a human sex slave business. A dodgy dude in some rundown Moscow brothel promises its overworked, underpaid, malnourished prostitutes a "new life" in America. 'Cause being a prostitute in the States is much easier.

Unless you start smoking crack. Then, forget it. You'll be hangin' out on some rat poop infested mattress in a condemned building with people who have names like Cutter and Tweaker, sucking back diet Coke while your teeth rot, your skin peels off your face, and your cooch dries up. Then what?

Or maybe it's a mail order bride service. "White collar criminal with "unique" sexual appetites seeks foreign girl desperate for American citizenship to fulfill every whim and fantasy. Must not get nauseous at the sight of blood."

How do we know these girls are even Russian? They could be starving L.A. actresses practicing their foreign accents, dreaming of their "big break". Except that moment never comes, and they end up converting to Mormonism, moving to Salt Lake City, and becoming the 5th sister wife of the leader of some obscure polygamist sect.

Their sense of fashion suffers greatly as the sect will only allow them to wear Little House on the Prairie inspired outfits and they spend the rest of their days struggling with feelings of jealousy and inadequacy.

You can't see these girls, either. Are they really hot? Maybe they're homely kitchen help in some Siberian gulag, forced to have phone sex with foreigners and never seeing a dime for themselves since the profits are siphoned to a Russian mobster in St. Petersburg who's running the prison system through bribery of law officials.

Anyone posting these types of advertisements should really think twice before doing so as they could lead some curious horny pubescent boy down the wrong path.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

It's official - Apple owns me

The sheer depth of my dependence on handheld electronic devices was revealed to me recently. It was, to say the least, a disturbing incident. Not so much because of what actually happened but more so because of how I reacted to it.

There I was, late on a Sunday evening, getting ready for bed. I had just finished texting a friend, and was about to check my calendar, or the weather, or something on my iPhone, when this message popped up: "No SIM card installed". WTF? At first, I didn't pay much attention to it. I was in the midst of downloading updates to my Angry Birds app, and it didn't seem affected by this strange message. 

However, I sensed something was amiss. Again, the message popped up. Then, I noticed the name of my cellphone carrier had disappeared from the top left hand corner. OH HOLY JESUS WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY iPHONE! I then proceeded to check my settings and the phone was disabled. Can't make any calls without your cellphone carrier. 

This is when I started to freak out. What do I DO? Why isn't it working? I didn't do anything to it! What's happening? Why God, WHY? As I'm unraveling, my boyfriend is looking at me with some concern. "Why don't you call the carrier? They have 24/7 technical assistance." "They do?" I respond. "Yes" says my boyfriend. "Ok, yeah, that's a good idea. I should call them. I NEED to call them."

So, I call the cellphone carrier's tech support line, and was put in touch with a very friendly tech dude who walked me through what could be going wrong. 

He indicated that my SIM card may have gotten displaced or may have an error. He told me how to pop it out, give it a clean, readjust it and pop it back in. Once this was done, I turned on my phone again. I remember feeling like the heavens opened up and legions of angels took me into their arms. It worked. All was right with the world again.

Turns out it was a fairly simple problem, and if what I did that night hadn't worked, all I had to do was go to one of the carrier's stores and they would install a new SIM card. Problem solved. 

Once this was all over and I hung up the phone, my boyfriend was looking at me, with a hint of a smile. "What?" I say. "I don't think I've ever seen that look on your face before. It was all contorted" he says. "Oh, like that girl on the Bachelor, who made those clownish faces all the time? And it was really funny?" I say. "No", he says. "Like a serial killer." "Oh", I say.

The irony of this whole situation is that the feature of my iPhone that was momentarily disabled is the one I use the least, the actual phone part. But the idea that I could be cut off from my iPhone world was unbearable. I lost my shit. If I hadn't figured out what was going on immediately, I wouldn't have slept that night. Seriously. 

The degree of my dependence on this device is concerning. I suppose it was Apple's goal to make their products seem utterly indispensable to the smooth functioning of our daily lives. They have succeeded. I drank the kool-aid.  Why not just insert an Apple chip directly into my brain. Or have they already...


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