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. 


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