A Plague of Wokeusts

As I wrapped up my morning worship service at the altar I set up for Chris Harrison, in the hope he'll one day return to the Bachelor franchise, I wondered: Will Black Friday be changed to "Day you can trample your neighbour to buy useless shit that's on sale"; will the Indian Ocean be changed to "Indigenous Persons' Ocean"; will anyone ever again understand what someone means when using the word "they"; will Shotgun Wedding now be known as "Pre-matrimony pregnancy ceremony"?

Should humans born as biologically female ever bother again with competitive swimming? Since "she" competitors may have been a former he who's now a she and claiming to be two spirited. Or is that too spirited? I get confused.

I figured while public discourse in the West was raging over whether Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head should have a gender, I'd learn Mandarin. 

Aren't the homeless visible enough to be considered a "visible minority"? 

If there's Metis blood in my European family tree, is that cultural appropriation? 

I was blindsided by the interdiction of the word "blind". 

Should "competitive pricing" now be "participation pricing"?

Should He-Man and She-ra now be referred to as "They-man" and "They-ra"? Will it matter when Putin takes Ukraine?

As a white, Gen X, cisgender, heterosexual female pondering the sins of others that have somehow become my own, I wonder: "If I enter the confessional, can a pedophile in a dress absolve me"?

If you're into BDSM, can you still use the word "slave"?

Richard Nixon brought in the EPA. Al Gore sits on Apple Inc.'s Board of Directors. Don't judge a book by its glossy cover. 

If I'm spooked by a savage lack of veracity in one's discourse, am I consciously referring to a racial slur from World War II and using centuries-old European colonizers' language or am I simply saying: "That makes no sense."

I would stop using the term "first-world problem" except that would deny the fact that there is indeed a global class system, and I doubt that a poor African villager's worst problem is that Uber Eats is late with their Thai food delivery. It's a first-world problem. 

My spirit animal is the sloth. I can say that because I have Metis blood in my family, and I'm lazy.

Elvis Presley sang about the "ghetto" so I guess we should cancel him. Oh wait, he's already dead, and ghettos still exist.

Post Apocalyptic Diatribes of a Non-Politically Correct Nature

Sooo... There I was, a few months ago, internally dialoguing with my naïve self, saying: "Yeah, this crummy pandemic should be done soon and I'll be back at work." Oh Ye of little knowledge. As a yoga teacher, it has now sunk in that I won't be "back at work" anywhere near my pre-pandemic capacity for like, eternity. To say I've been "watching" Netflix and Prime is like saying an alcoholic had one drink. I've been gorging on television like a starving Hollywood starlet set free in a Krispy Kreme donut shop. 

In the meantime, the world has turned from total shit to "I think it might be better to be dead". Disease, riots, Trump, the fall of Hong Kong to Chinese rule, Putin's Poison Patrol and the left's adept answer to all this: the Politically Correct Gestapo. I've always considered myself to be a left-leaning Liberal but lately, I'm embarrassed to admit I have any "left" leanings at all. There has been a groundswell of rabid woke folk who somehow have deemed themselves of the purest moral fabric and pronounce their judgements on all others who do not comply with their wokeful edicts.

One is no longer allowed to have a differing opinion or ask difficult questions when it comes to issues of race, gender, sexual harassment, climate, or any other classically left-leaning subject. Take for example, climate change. The PC Gestapo claims that carbon is enemy numero uno and we must focus on reducing our carbon emissions at all costs because THIS IS THE ONLY PROBLEM THAT EXISTS AND DON'T ANYONE DARE QUESTION IT. I choose to question it. I'm not a climate denier. I've loved the environment, recycled and hugged trees for as long as I can remember. But no one seems to be talking about the issue of plastics pollution which may kill us before carbon does, or the sustained availability of potable water, which we literally can't live without or, gee, pandemic preparedness BEFORE a pandemic hits.

There is scientific research (and researchers) stating that yes, the climate does change but we humans have little to do with it. Don't believe me? Feel free to read this; this; this, this and this. I simply feel that it's ok for me to not believe everything I'm told and to do a little research of my own to understand the full breadth and complexity of important questions. Call me crazy but I think a rational, considered response to things seems to be the best route to follow instead of listening to a whiny teenage girl tell me I'm a bad person for merely having existed on this earth longer than she has. 

The PC Gestapo has also lost sight of differing degrees of actions when it comes to things like sexual harassment. The advent of the #metoo movement was an important development and dangerous predators were stopped. I fully agree that this was a good thing. But in the midst of this karmic wave, accusations are being thrown about like yesterday's dirty underwear and people like Al Franken are put in the same category as Harvey Weinstein. With this, I do disagree. Al Franken may have behaved badly, had a momentary lapse of reason, but he's not a predator, à la Jeffrey Epstein. Human behaviour is complex and nuanced. Good people do bad things and bad people do good things. The Left's insistence on categorizing human actions and words to fit into neat little black and white boxes is ridiculous and shows very little understanding of human nature. 

"Cancel culture" in which we essentially deny opinions we don't agree with and the "Twitter Mob" which, to my understanding, is a group of reactionary puritans with a lot of time on their hands whose mission it is to destroy the lives of those who dare to think independently, are both alive and well and thriving in our crisis-riddled, pandemic-plagued present. We don't know how to have a healthy, respectful debate anymore. We don't know how to talk to each other anymore. Hurling insults on social media is not debate, it's bullying of the most cowardly kind. 

When we discuss climate, my partner jokingly refers to me as a right-wing Republican when I start questioning the current climate zeitgeist. I know it's meant in jest, and I laugh because it's funny and I still have a sense of humour, but it is indicative of our current need to categorize and pick sides. Why can't I stand in the middle and share my popcorn with everyone? Oh right, because there's a PANDEMIC.

Generation X Sobriety Triggered Non-Offensiveness

So yeah... it's been a while since I've posted here, and I can't guarantee I'll be writing with any regularity but I'd like to try (first New Year's resolution that will probably be broken). The boyfriend and I are going to try something called "Dry January" meaning no drinking in January which I foolishly agreed to. Not that I'm a heavy drinker (most weekends and the occasional weeknight include wine, and/or a beer, and/or a snifter of some yummy liqueur with egg nog) but going dry, that's big. I also agreed to this before I found out that Friends would no longer be available on Netflix as of TODAY, to which I say, WTF Netflix? and why did I agree to toss my liquid crutch out the window at such a vulnerable time?

You see, Friends is like a safety blanket, something I could turn to when people piss me off (which is pretty much always), when I feel unmotivated and just want to procrastinate and not move forward with my life or when I yearn for some wholesome, family entertainment. Now what? I thought the blow would be softened with The Office remaining on Netflix, but, as I found out, that's disappearing as well in 2021. Again, I say, WTF Netflix? If alcohol is bad for you, how are we expected to quit when our emotional support shows are yanked off our streaming service?

Wine: nothing but a fond memory now.

You'd think being a yoga teacher and all, I would have learned how to cope without alcohol, but, as I say to no one anyone who asks: "It's a process, and I haven't evolved past the fetus stage yet, in spiritual terms". Being a Gen X'er and a yoga teacher is kind of an oxymoron, isn't it? None of that soft, mushy "safe space, respect my triggers" Millenial marshmallow soup tainted our generation. No, we were the "stick it to the Man, grunge music-listening, apathetic, everyone sucks, I don't care if you're offended" generation who also may have invented the Internet, so go figure.

I mean, I love what I do, but I also understand why we're mercilessly ridiculed in mainstream media, and I haven't completely sloughed off my Gen X'er cynicism and hard edge. I mourn the loss of our sense of humour, and the pendulum swinging way too far in the direction of political correctness, with what I call the "PC Gestapo" monitoring every word said, typed, tweeted and shared for potential "offensiveness". To which I say: learn how to be offended. Not everyone will share your views, and multiple truths can co-exist at the same time. Also, humour is one of the most effective tools at pointing out things like racism, sexism, bullying, harassment and discrimination through the use of jokes, sarcasm and ridicule.

I think people are so easily offended because, with the advent of social media, everyone thinks their opinion matters. Newsflash: it doesn't. The world doesn't need our opinions to move forward. What the world needs is for us to read books, stay informed, be actively engaged in our communities, and learn how to gracefully accept someone else's differing view even if we're feeling "triggered". Also, maybe we could re-learn in-person communication, you know, how to talk to an actual human being sitting in front of us. Whoa! What a concept. I'm hopeful that social media will eventually lead us to a "back-to-basics" movement of actually talking to and listening to each other, once we get sick of the endless comment wars, attention seeking and cowardly bullying (yeah, it's easy online, but try saying that to someone's face).

No amount of online attention can replace authentic human connections, and this is coming from a Gen X'er who generally hates people. So you can imagine the desperation I'm beginning to feel if I'm encouraging touchy-feely "let's talk" shit. Sobriety is making me soft.

Happy F*cking New Year.

Does flaming out fan my inner flame?

Beware expressing unbridled enthusiasm for profound life changes because once the fairy dust clears, fear and self-doubt creep in. "WTF am I doing?"; "I'll never make it in this business."; "How will I make ends meet?"; "I should just give up now, and find another cozy cubicle where my soul can atrophy in peace."

I know, I know... You're all like "Dude, join the human race. We all feel that way." I just need to momentarily believe I'm the only one who's ever felt this way in the history of time, so as to have an effective pity party. If my feelings of inadequacy are diluted by the masses, what's the point of complaining? Maybe I'm just tired, and seeing things through the embittered eyes of exhaustion.

If you're not careful, constant enthusiasm and optimism will burn you out, especially when you're not used to it. Pessimism comes much more naturally to me. Existential crisis feels like a soft, warm blanket in which to comfortably wrap myself. Does familiarity breed contempt or laziness? And is laziness so bad? Perhaps it's only mislabeled. Maybe laziness is really contentment. Ceasing to constantly need better, bigger, faster, stronger, and getting really comfortable with "what is".

Maybe contentment is really gratitude. Gratitude for this hot cup of coffee I'm drinking this morning; for an able body that lets me gracefully (mostly) move through this life. Maybe constantly chasing the spotlight or some idea I have of "success" is only indicative of an inner emptiness I'm trying in vain to fill. As Marianne Williamson states: "To the ego, self-acceptance is death." What if I agreed to die? Figuratively speaking, of course.

Maybe an experiment is in order. What if I expressed my creativity with no other intention? Just create for the sake of creating, with no thought to any particular result, no desire for praise or recognition, no utility or value judgement. It might be a golden opportunity to mine that deep chasm of self-hatred instead of embarking on yet another futile pursuit to placate it. Or a great excuse to start drinking heavily.

Baby turtles eat raspberries

My brother-in-law recently posted a video on Facebook about how young adults today seem to lack basic life skills like cooking, sewing, personal finances, etc... As I watched this video, I realized that, to some extent, this was me. I mean, I can do my laundry and make an omelette, but I'm by no means a domestic goddess. I have the ability to cook but I just don't want to. So maybe it's not that I don't have the skills, it's that I'm lazy which I guess is an entirely different problem.

It's become clear to me today that instead of working on my latest play, I will piss away my time on social media and other general time-wastage activities. Watching a baby turtle eating a raspberry may cause me to have my next big idea. I think I entered into a meditative state while watching a toddler scale a rock-climbing gym wall. I mean, that's when I'm open to the muse, when my subconscious can rise to the surface due to my tremendous focus on a singular thing, like videos of cats destroying Christmas trees. Yeah, I know it's July. Don't tell me you don't get nostalgic for Christmas come month seven of twelve.

I just impressed myself there with a semi-Star Trek reference. If you didn't catch it, you're a loser. Get caught up. Wiki Jeri Ryan. Or ask your boyfriend. So we finally got hooked up to Netflix, because the boyfriend and I were tired of being losers too. So now when someone says: "It's on Netflix", I promptly reply: "Seen it, bitch" because I have no life.

Remember Amanda Peet? She was almost famous for a while... like maybe a decade ago. She's the Rom-Com pretty young girlfriend, think opposite Jack Nicholson in Something's Gotta Give. I figured she was an average actress at best. Until I watched HBO series Togetherness, in which Ms. Peet plays one of the main characters and proceeds to blow my f*cking mind. She's absolutely brilliant in this show, making bold choices as an actress and completely unafraid to play someone who's kind of messed up. She's the real deal, friends. Watch this show. Of course, you'll need Netflix, or Apple TV or whatever's not available on your regular cable subscription.

This girl ain't no poser. She's for real.

Now if I could just finish reading the latest Jonathan Franzen novel I started six months ago. Thanks Netflix, and adult colouring books.

Sloth-induced positive birth trauma

A colleague sent me this meme recently:

I've always had a natural affinity with felines.

My 11 years of yoga practice haven't really contributed to my evolution as a human being. I still feel like a spiritual infant because people, in general, still irritate me and I don't like to share. This could also be caused by my lack of empathy towards others, except when it comes to animals. Play a sad Sarah McLachlan song and show me abused animals and I wither in a river of tears. Show me an impoverished child with the face of an angel and... nothing. Sure, on some level, I know it's "sad" but I remain unmoved.

I'm beginning to realize I may lack sensitivity which is surprising since I consider myself a writer, and being such, qualify as an artist, who in theory, should have a "sensitive" soul, or something. All I really "feel" is bitterness and scorn, sprinkled with resentment. I know that, based on The Secret and the law of attraction and all that jazz, that negative thinking will land me in all manner of hell. However, positive thinking has brought me some messed up shit. So, WTF yo?

Is an attitude of gratitude helping or hindering me? How about a "f*ck it" attitude for 2016? If I didn't give a shit, then I wouldn't have to pour so much effort into being grateful all the time which is exhausting. Gratitude demands a positive outlook on life which is not my default setting so I'm constantly straining against my natural tendency towards misanthropy. My attitude is essentially this: despite basically being part of the world's one percent (upper middle class), things still happen to me on a daily basis that I consider "shitty", thus thwarting my attempts to be content.

To make matters worse, I'm an introvert, so it goes without saying that I'm misunderstood since I usually prefer the non-company of people. However, my f*ck it attitude would come in very handy for someone who generally prefers being alone. Do I want to do anything fun / positive / useful / productive? F*ck it. I want to get drunk and watch Girls reruns. I want to give up on my dreams and sink into the quiet despair of an unchanging daily routine. Pursuing goals is much too demanding and there's no guarantee of success. I'd much rather wallow in the safety of mediocrity.

Investing myself in anything worthwhile feels like a waste of time, and also highlights the harrowing depths of my sloth. One would assume that I'd be happy doing nothing, since it's essentially my chosen path, but one would be wrong. I would have to criticize and mock those who are doing something. How dare they tarnish me with their ambition and drive.  

Obviously, 2016 is starting off on a high note. I've become wary of even-numbered years. They don't have the same promising, cozy feel as uneven-numbered years. It's strange that I would feel this way since I was born in an even-numbered year. Although, it could explain my dread of the even-numbered year since I found out fairly recently that I suffered birth trauma upon my arrival, and was basically in need of a therapist within the first minute of being born. But that's another story.

Yoga rage, Birkenstock rejection and ibuprofen

You know when you attend a yoga master class with a world-renowned teacher and you're really looking forward to it and then you're jam packed in a classroom with too many people and you've got someone's smelly feet in your face for most of the class which is highly irritating and taps into an endless supply of rage that then seeps out of every pore until you're just a big, badass ball of seething anger? Namaste.

Then, on our lunch break, I realize I can't go and gorge myself on gourmet donuts from my favorite shop next door to the yoga studio because I don't want to be puking all over my mat during the afternoon session. So I had to make a healthier choice. I balanced that out with alcohol by evening's end. Detox / retox, yin / yang... it's all about balance.

I'm a Birkenstock reject. I've tried to wear them and like them but they reject me. They tear at my flesh, sand and rocks somehow edge their way in constantly, and my feet just can't get comfortable in them. This surprises me since they're a product of German engineering which typically, one would assume is of superior quality. I see them everywhere. People seem to love them. Maybe it's me... I'm of too inferior quality for my sandals. Time for a trip to Dollarama for some flip flops.

Ibuprofen has become my new best friend. I've been getting frequent headaches, probably from an inoperable brain tumour, or inordinate amounts of rain we've been getting (those low pressure systems really f*ck with my head) or hangovers. I haven't forgotten who I am, used swear words at completely inappropriate times or spontaneously lost bladder control, so I can probably rule out a brain tumour. Although, my love of corn dogs and Cheetos remains unexplained.

I've always had a love of TV show intro songs but HBO's new season of True Detective takes the cake. As soon as I heard Leonard Cohen's haunting Nevermind, I was hooked. I had to watch the show because the intro was so creepy, it drew me in. Lera Lynn's My Least Favorite Life, performed in the very first episode, was also utterly mesmerizing. Thank you Shazam for basically revolutionizing how I find really cool music. Of course, marketers have figured this out too. They know people are gonna Shazam that shit. It's music video as television program. Brilliant.

German Darth Vader Advent Calendars on Smartphones

Know what I hate? People staring at their mobile phones while walking in public and not bothering to look up so as not to run into you. They still manage to swerve and avoid you because they somehow have an "object in personal space" perception but the fact that "other people" don't even merit a quick glance really irks me.

I mean, yes, I have a smartphone, and yes, it is the second most important relationship in my life (the first being my relationship with the boyfriend, obviously). Ok, I may have added that comment in brackets merely to avoid appearing politically incorrect, or sociopathic. I mean, my relationship with my iPhone couldn't possibly be THE most important relationship in my life, right? Right?

I'm also pissed off at all those critics who poo-pooed the third season of Homeland which the boyfriend and I are now finally getting around to watching. It's very good. What is everyone's problem? Unless it was reverse psychology. Tell everyone it's shitty and when they watch it, what a pleasant surprise it will be that it doesn't suck. Oh big brother... I'm onto you.  

So I had another tooth that was feeling a bit sensitive. They're so easily insulted. I keep telling them to grow a thicker skin. I'll spare you the rest of this story because it's kind of lame. Here's the condensed version: Stressed. Dentist. Fine. Toothpaste for sensitive teeth. If you're wondering why I said "another" tooth, read this. I really need to grow out of this oral fixation phase or start smoking again.

I was on a gluten-free diet for a while until I developed an obsession with cheese. I've always loved cheese, but the absence of wheat products turned cheese into crack-cocaine. It wasn't pretty. I was obviously compensating for the lack of croissants in my life. So I gave that up and simply opted for a balanced diet: a little bit of everything and a lot of wine.

I'm kind of bummed out because I can't find my deluxe Lindt Advent Calendar at Costco. Have they already run out? Did they not receive their shipment yet? Will they simply not stock them this year? What up Costco? Where's my f*cking Advent Calendar?

"Luke, ich bin dein Vater". That's German. I can't attest to its grammatical correctness since I just started learning the language five weeks ago but anyone familiar with Star Wars will figure it out.

 My cat has a new boyfriend:

I'm not sure how I feel about her dating. If she asks for a sleepover, I think I'll say no. We haven't really had "the talk" yet and that boy looks shifty.

Being 40 - A Manifesto

So... I'm 40 years old today. I was feeling quite ambivalent about this for some time but now that it's actually happening, I can't help but feel... elated, mostly because I'm steadily beginning to care less about what other people think. My new motto is: I'm 40, I can do that, or, I'm 40, I don't give a shit, or, I'm 40, I don't have to shower.

In honour of this rite of passage, I figured I should probably come up with a manifesto for this new chapter in my life, so here goes...

Being 40 - a manifesto

I will not automatically conclude that every minor physical ailment is cancer (or some other life-threatening illness) which means that, under no circumstance am I to look up symptoms on the Internet. Ever.

I will continue to shop at places like Aritzia, American Eagle, Hollister, etc... you know, places where "40" doesn't exist, because dammit, I like their stuff, despite the fact that a salesperson at Aritzia once asked me if I was shopping for my daughter (*cue Psycho shower scene music here as this accurately expresses my rage at the very thought of this).

At any given time, I will eat as many cupcakes as I want.

I will never wear high-waisted shorts that expose my ass cheeks. This has nothing to do with my age. It's a matter of taste... and class, as in, I don't hail from a trailer park.

As much as possible, I will be honest and do away with pretense, unless it's in my best interest to lie.

I will try to read grown-up books, unless The Bachelor is on, then all bets are off.

I will continue to wear my Lululemon gear while doing yoga because my Lulu leggings are so old, you can't see my ass crack through them.

I will continue to use abbreviated words like LOL, OMG, Whatevs, TTYL, etc... because I'm lazy and have become accustomed to not speaking in full sentences.

I will no longer base my self-worth on the number of "likes" I receive or followers I have on various social media platforms. I will develop a drinking problem instead to deal with pesky feelings of worthlessness and self-doubt. 

I will always choose sleep over personal hygiene. This will never change.

"Morning" me will always be skinnier than "evening" me. It's a fact I've come to accept.

Corn dogs and mayo = breakfast of champions. Ok, maybe I do hail from a trailer park.

Hello Kitty is also turning 40 in 2014. I don't know why that matters, but it does.

Betcha didn't know there was a Playboy Hello Kitty...

 

How corn dogs blew up my blog

So I kind of, accidentally, completely redesigned my blog. All I wanted to do was replace a few old pictures with new ones. Then, somehow, as a result of my technical ineptitude, I ended up deleting my super-cool background, which clearly was not my intention. I tried to restore it, but alas, it would not work. It was in the attempted restoration process, however, that the website where I got said super-cool background suggested it would work better with one of the newer Blogger templates. So...

I was perusing some templates and clicked on one which I guess meant "apply". Holy. Shit. So yeah, guess what? Whole new look. I was seized with panic when I realized I had forever altered the look of my blog. It kind of felt like jumping off being pushed off a cliff. However, I'm warming to the new look, although quite unexpected, and somewhat traumatic.

Perhaps this laps in judgment was caused by my frequent ingestion of corn dogs and mayo for breakfast this week. I'd like to think I have a refined palate and prioritize healthy foods over synthetic junk but every time I spot them corn dogs in the grocery store, I can't help myself. I must have them. This surprises me because I've never lived in a trailer park. 

I feel equally guilty about adding flavoured coffee cream to my morning joe to give it that authentic fancy coffee house, foamy, non-fat, hold the whip, latté flavour. It's so bourgeois. Or do hipsters still occupy coffee houses? In which case, I'm too hip to care.

I vowed not to purchase one piece of clothing this year so I could start to address my tiny debt problem and the lack of space in my closet. I then proceeded to buy a very expensive purse. I'm not sure what it means. Sublimation via Italian leather? I do, however, use this purse everyday, so I did need it.

The final season of Mad Men starts in April. I'm concerned about this since I fear the end of this great series will stymy my campaign to have hard liquor readily available in offices across the country. I believe it will increase productivity while lowering stress levels. If you have statistics to support this hypothesis, please send them to me.

Chicken soup is a bad influence on asymmetrical ears

Can I still eat my salad if a few flakes of dandruff fell into it when I scratched my head?

The boyfriend and I watched some of the special features on our Season 3 Game of Thrones DVDs after finishing the season. We realized we should have done this sooner since we now finally understood what was going on. It's a testament, however, to the quality of the show that we keep watching even though, most of the time, we're thoroughly confused. But the characters are engaging and the stories compelling, and we seem to know enough to piece together some kind of incomplete, yet coherent narrative.

I suspect some Walking Dead writers must have recently read a volume of Chicken Soup for the Soul because the latest episode was surprisingly schmaltzy. Teen girl looking for her first drink in a post-apocalyptic Zombie nightmare; her white trash adult caretaker refusing to let her drink Peach Schnapps in favour of good 'ol Moonshine. If you're gonna do it, do it right. Then they got into some real movie-of-the-week crap with "Let's heal our past wounds by setting fire to this house as a symbol of rebirth." Puke. More zombies please. Or bring back the Governor.

I recently realized my skull is not smooth but quite ripple-y. This surprised and perturbed me. What if I'm deformed? What if my skull is gradually caving in on itself? I asked my boyfriend if I could feel his skull. Also ripple-y. Is this a biological fact I simply wasn't aware of? I guess I always figured my head was spherical, and I suppose it kind of is, in the way the moon is round but has craters.

I also realized my ears are not symmetrical. One of them sticks out more than the other. When I pressed my finger into the side of my left ear (why? who knows), I felt a tiny piece of cartilage that isn't on the side of my right ear. I never knew this until now. I had to stop pressing my finger into my ear though because I was getting a headache, and I was in a shopping mall.  

I had a unicorn once. I named it Horny.

So we're watching the Bachelor finale and the host, Chris Harrison, who's always been my fave, is gettin' all up in Juan Pablo's grill because the dude didn't want to propose to his chosen one but instead wanted to date her. Chris was completely flummoxed by the fact that Juan Pablo wouldn't say he was in love with Nikki (his winning contestant). He even enlisted the help of last season's Bachelor, Sean, and his new wife, Catherine, a saintly couple if there ever was one, to validate his ire. Bewildered, I watched this glaring display of American puritanism which so proudly showed little to no tolerance for alternatives.

I mean, think about it. Not everyone is ready to get married after knowing each other for 10 weeks, AND, all the while one of you is dating other people. So Juan wants to date Nikki and see where that leads, now that it's just the two of them. He likes her a whole lot but he's not sure he's in love with her. That sounds like a perfectly honest and reasonable situation to me. Shame on The Bachelor. Maybe your next season should air on the Christian Television Network - a more appropriate home for ill-founded dogma.

Sloth, feline dental care and crack smokin' politicians

I wanna say I have stuff to write about but frankly, the highlight of my day yesterday was finishing a bag of chips in one sitting, and I'm not talking about those individual size bags, I mean a large one, destined for at least a small group of people. In my defense, the boyfriend had some too but not enough for me to say we actually shared the bag.

I had minor knee surgery a couple days ago which, sadly, is the perfect excuse for sitting around on my ass and doing jack shit. I'm a fairly active person but once ensconced on the couch watching Six Feet Under on demand, it's pretty hard to imagine doing anything else. Last night, the boyfriend turns to me and says: "I can't do this for the next five hours. Let's go mattress shopping." Much to my chagrin, I had to peel myself off the couch, turn off the TV, and like, go out.

I hadn't showered in a few days. I'd like to say it was because of the surgery but on average, I wash my hair about once a week and maybe shower a bit more frequently. So, there I was, in sweats and greasy hair, flinging myself on various mattresses, trying to determine which was the best. I hope my hair didn't leave stains on the store pillows we were using.

Since we've started watching Season 4 of The Walking Dead, all I've been waiting for is the return of the Governor, and at the end of the last episode, I got my wish. Shit's gonna go down. I'm pumped.

I'm trying to refrain from watching Christmas movies until December but it's tempting. I don't allow myself to listen to my Christmas playlist until December 1st, if only to thumb my nose at the too-soon retail holiday blitz that's rolled out even before Halloween. I do, however, already have my Lindt Advent Calendar 'cause that shit flies out of the store and I will not be caught without it. Priorities, people, priorities.

The boyfriend and I may have crossed over into ultimate yuppiedom since we've started brushing our cat's teeth. Who knew felines needed dental care? I somehow feel like it's utterly frivolous and yet, without proper care, she'll get tartar buildup and gingivitis, and I pride myself on being a responsible pet owner. I'm aware the more people know about this, the more we'll become the butt of jokes. So naturally, I have to broadcast it on my blog.

It took a crack smokin' mayor in Toronto to get me interested in watching the news, which I usually never do. I'm not sure what that says about me.

Delinquent no longer. Well, for now, I guess.

So, yeah. I've been a delinquent blogger. So much so that I almost forgot my password when logging in. What can I say, I've been distracted by Miley Cyrus licking tools (or Robin Thicke, with her ass). Apparently, where Miley directs her crotch is more important than where the US directs its diplomatic policy regarding Syria.

Is it just me or is Honey Boo Boo getting fat? I mean, sure, it's her destiny in life, given her genetic predisposition to homeliness and fried chicken but didn't she get her start on Toddlers and Tiaras? Wasn't she a "beauty queen"?

Then again, most of the parents on that show are ticking time bombs, a lot of them former pageant contestants themselves. This begs the question: Does participation in beauty pageants predispose one to a healthy lifestyle given the emphasis on physical beauty? Apparently not.

We just finished watching the third season of The Walking Dead. Is it wrong that I was instantly attracted to the Governor, psychopath that he is? But then, I tell myself, he wasn't always a merciless killer. He had a family. He probably made sweet love to his wife and was a doting father. Then the wife up and dies and the daughter becomes a zombie so really, it's not his fault.

Then we watched some special features and found out the actor playing the Governor is like, British or something. That pretty much sealed the deal. Don't you have a boyfriend? you ask. Yes, I do. But when these things happen, I simply turn to him and say: He's my Halle Berry. We have an understanding.

I had minor surgery on my left knee yesterday and I can't do a whole hell of a lot for about three weeks, until the stitches come out. So, I've decided to take up drinking as an activity instead of simply a diversion from my deep-seated feelings of worthlessness and crippling self-doubt. 

I downloaded the new iOS 7 update onto my iPhone yesterday. Just saying that makes me feel like one of the cool kids, like I belong. In actuality, it's probably akin to a Borg chip being implanted in my brain. Resistance is futile.

So, I kinda got shanked on the way home...

I seem to have this staggering ability, in my mind, to go from a perfectly normal, free association of harmless, random thoughts to dark, disturbing images and unimaginable grief. You see, I was riding my bike home yesterday, and at one point, some kinda weird-looking guy who wasn't really paying attention to where he was going walked out onto the path I was on. He didn't even really see me.

But then I thought that might be the type of guy to randomly attack me in broad daylight on my bike.  So then this whole scenario starts playing out in my mind. This guy comes out of nowhere and starts stabbing me and of course I fall onto the ground and he keeps attacking me and I'm screaming but by the time someone hears my cries for help it's too late because my wounds are fatal and I'm bleeding out on the bike path.

Then, I imagined horrified bystanders taking pictures and posting them on Twitter: "Random violent attack in public park! Holy shit! Someone call 911!". Then, I imagined my boyfriend and stepdaughter at home, wondering when I'll get back from work, thinking: "Hm, it's getting kinda late. Where is she?" Then my stepdaughter sees something on Twitter. "It couldn't be" she thinks to herself. More time passes and still I don't arrive home. Sirens are heard in the distance.

Eventually, two police officers show up at my house. They found my ID in my blood soaked backpack. Inexplicable grief and shock grab hold as the reality of this random attack sinks in. Brave citizens chase my attacker into a neighboring subdivision and apprehend him. The late-night newscast reveals that I am the victim, next-of-kin having been notified of my untimely demise. There is a candlelight vigil that night on the very spot where I was attacked. People are now determined to "take back the park".

The following day, the story is everywhere. A city is in shock. "DEADLY ATTACK" is strewn across the front page of the newspaper. My work colleagues are huddled in small groups, crying and consoling each other. A few days later, hundreds of people attend my funeral, so touched were they by this horrible crime.

At this point, I realize I've made myself cry with all these mind machinations and am thankful the house is empty when I get home because, umm, crazy much? Otherwise, it might have gone something like this: "Why are you crying, honey?" "Oh, I was just imagining this whole scenario where I get murdered in broad daylight on the way home."

This is why I don't watch the news.

Eat responsibly. It could save a life.

A new grocery store opened down the street from us a few days ago, a new location of one of our favorite chains. I nearly wet myself when we went for our inaugural shop in the new digs. Feeling that much excitement over a grocery store concerned me for two reasons: 1) this is a sure sign that I'm getting old and 2) this will only encourage my sloth due to its proximity to our house.

And today, a liquor store is opening right next door to the new grocery store. This is my chance to finally get on that liquid diet I've always wanted to try. We're going to buy a bottle of wine there tonight to help support local businesses, 'cause that's how we roll.

I'm eating grapes right now just to stay awake. The Walking Dead isn't the kind of show that should be watched just before bed. It can f*ck you up. I had a fitful, waking dream kind of sleep. What's funny is that I asked myself, just a few moments ago, why I felt so tired today. I thought: "Wow, weird." Then I realized: "Not weird. I didn't f*cking sleep last night". So I can justify being a bitch today. Mothafuckahs.

We recently purchased all four seasons of The O.C. I had mixed feelings about this and wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, I love Peter Gallagher as an actor but then there's Mischa Barton, and there's just no excuse for her. What I didn't expect was this show to be so funny. Not because Mischa's so blatantly awful but because Adam Brody has emerged as a prodigious scene stealer. Mischa's character tried to kill herself a couple episodes ago. The writers should have let her succeed.

Know what happens when you eat a lot of Cadbury Cream Eggs, besides a diabetic coma? There comes a time when you've just had enough. No, it's not because you've passed out after too much wine. I mean, what? There seems to be a point where the body is satiate and no longer requires a massive sugar overload and the feelings of euphoria that follow.

So, if you're craving something sweet or fried, gorge yourself on the stuff. Don't bother with some weak transgression like: "Oh, just this once, maybe I'll cheat a little." No. Go to Costco, get the bulk box of Cream Eggs, or whatever it is you're craving, and stuff your face. Guaranteed, you won't want any more for months. However, eat responsibly. It could save a life.

1 cent delusions of menstrual grandeur

The Canadian government stopped making the penny. So, if I hold on to the ones I have, will they increase in value? I'm thinking early retirement. I've got at least, oh, 10-20 cents in my wallet. So, let's say they double in value every hour into infinity from now on. I can't do math 'cause it hurts my head and I suck at it but I think that will make me rich. Gives a whole new meaning to saving your pennies for a rainy day.

Menstrual cramps are very distracting.

Just checked my bank account. I shouldn't have done that. Credit would be a good thing if they taught us how to use it properly. Then again, if we used it properly, the banks wouldn't make any money. I'm thinking I should be getting more perks, though, because they make a lot of money off me. I don't know, a free trip, unlimited Starbucks lattés... it might make me be even more irresponsible about using credit thus making me a better customer thus garnering me more free stuff. I'm on to something here...

You know, when you meet someone who could be an important professional contact, and then, in your mind, you think you've had an impact on them, that you've been charming, witty and unforgettable? Then you cross paths with them again a few months later and they barely remember who you are? This is when I start to worry that I suffer from constant delusions of grandeur and that everyone is as self-obsessed as I am and it's a wonder anything gets done at all because we're so wrapped up in our own version of what the world should be like that when it falls short, well, it's humbling. Humility sucks.

How long do I have until self-pity just seems gauche?

The fourth episode of Girls held some promise. I could glean shreds of its former grandeur. Bravo, Lena. You may have found your footing again after a shaky start. Even the boyfriend watched it.

I'm planning a trip to Iceland in 2014. There are perks to digging Björk. I probably would have never heard of Iceland if it weren't for her, and if her native country is anywhere as cool as she is, it'll blow my mind. I loved her Oscar swan dress despite its universal revilement. I bet everyone remembers it, whether they liked it or not. But can you remember what anyone else was wearing at the Oscars in 2001? Björk wins.

Cardio-Tramp. You know you want one.

So, I get this e-mail from Air Canada and notice this:

I know I should get excited about airline seat sales and stuff but instead, I got depressed thinking our whole world is basically up for sale to the highest bidder. So I had to drink wine. To deal with my feelings of disillusionment about the corporate takeover of our planet.

I found out I can purchase the following item at Costco:

Which marketing genius came up with this? Cardio-Tramp. It sounds trashy. Which makes me want to buy it 'cause, as the kids say these days, I'm ratchet, which basically means dirty whore. I know this because my stepdaughter calls me ratchet all the time. Should I be concerned that I'm not insulted by this?

I'm trying to put myself on a budget this year so I can save money for things I really want to do like travel to some exotic locales and get a nose job. Ok, I might pass on the rhinoplasty for fear of losing my Jewishness. I'm not technically Jewish but my nose is.

It's funny when I decide to set lofty goals and the Universe says: "Mouahahahaha!" You see, next weekend I'll be on my own for approximately six hours in downtown Toronto. That's like putting a syringe in front of a heroin addict. I'm trying to decide what my approach will be. Do I give myself a modest shopping budget and try to adhere to that? Do I attempt not to buy anything at all? Do I go all ape shit and YOLO and all?

Oh Universe, you test me, yes you do.

I had to stop my spinning classes this week. I've had a sore hip for a few months now, as well as a sore hand and neck. I couldn't figure out what was causing this. I had my suspicions that it might be my spinning classes because I can't seem to do anything in moderation. Once I find something new that I like, I go hard core. Except I'm getting old now, and shit starts to hurt.

It finally dawned on me when I went to a class a few days ago and left dragging my right leg like some lame animal that had been shot but not killed. You know the ones I'm talking about. You see them and think: "Oh God! Put that poor thing out of its misery!"

So I decided to replace it with some Yin yoga, which is basically a moving nap. Hell yes.

I hadn't really thought past December 21, 2012

The Mayan Apocalypse never happened. So it's not like I have a plan for 2013. I kinda thought we'd all be annihilated in a fiery blaze or thrown into Dante's Divine Comedy or something. I didn't really plan past my own death, you know?

Well, I'm glad I'm still alive. This is good. Especially since we started watching Friday Night Lights on DVD. It would have really sucked if we had died before even finishing the very first season. For this, I am grateful.

I'm mostly gluten-free but I had pizza for breakfast on New Year's Day. It's going to be that kind of year.

13 is actually a lucky number. I don't know why everyone thinks the opposite. Bad press?

I finally updated the software on my iPhone. You see, I don't have a computer to sync it to and was afraid to use my boyfriend's in case I lost stuff or the process went catastrophically awry. But alas, my phone was woefully out of date and when I couldn't get the Snap Chat app, I snapped. Now that my phone is all up-to-date, my engagement with reality has become even more tenuous.

I'm tempted to distract myself at this very moment with my iPhone as I'm basically talking out of my ass and running out of pithy one-liners.

I guess I could try to wax poetic about my lofty goals for 2013 except I don't have any. Cutting back on Cheetos is as far as I've gotten.

I could maybe shower more often...

I'm thinking in Tweets now which kinda scares me.

I want to pick up that damn phone again. Must. Stay. Focused.

Whoever said writing was fun is full of shit. Wait, has anyone ever said that? Probably not.

I will complete my first great masterpiece this year! I can't even write that with a straight face.

I think the showering thing will keep me busy for a while. This will buy me some time to reflect.

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.

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.