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.

Lost Burberry playlist traffic meltdown

I recently suffered an unexpected break up. It felt like I had lost a limb, it was so sudden... I ran to catch the bus one afternoon, and the next thing I knew, they were gone. My Burberry sunglasses had slipped out of my pocket, and probably landed somewhere along the sidewalk. By the time I noticed, it was too late.

We'd been together for almost a decade, through much sunny weather, and those weirdly bright overcast days when wearing shades puts you in the category of annoying hipster trying too hard to be cool but you don't care because squinting causes wrinkles, or so you've heard. 

My Burberrys had been incessantly dropped, scratched and even forgotten overnight in a yoga studio, but we were always reunited, until recently. I was like a lost puppy looking for its home, forced to wear my cheap aviator knock-off "back-up" pair of shades. I've morphed from classy Audrey Hepburn look-alike to trashy Abercrombie and Fitch walking advertisement (from the neck up only - I'm not a pre-pubescent tween girl after all).

Goodbye super cool awesome shades. I'll never look this good again.

Prior to this trauma, I had a full-blown technology-related breakdown at that ill-fated bus stop (I'm beginning to think it's cursed). I had recently been trying to free up memory on my ancient iPhone 6, when I came across a suggestion online that said all I had to do was sign out of my Apple ID account and then sign back in. So I did that. And it worked. And I was elated. Until I got to that damned bus stop on my way to teach a yoga class and pulled up my playlists to pick one out for my upcoming class.

OH MY F*CKING GOD WHERE ARE ALL MY PLAYLISTS!!!! They had disappeared. I spend more time on my class playlists than on personal hygiene so I completely lost my shit. Once I managed to somewhat compose myself, I figured there must be a way to fix this. So I went to Settings, then to Music, and realized that my little sign out / sign in trick had turned off "show playlists on all devices". So I turned it back on. My playlists came back, and I wallowed in shame at my total and complete slavery to technology.

Following my Apple aneurysm at said cursed bus stop, the bus arrives, I get on, and then quickly realize we're stuck in an unusual traffic jam. I have less than an hour to get to the yoga studio, where I'm expected to be teaching a class. It's rush hour and I realize the situation is reaching a critical point so I get up and go ask the bus driver if there's any chance we'll be across town in about 20 minutes. His look said it all: "Not a chance in hell." We're still fairly close to my house, where the car is sitting in the garage. I have a decision to make. I get off the bus, run to my house, cursing all the way there, jump in my car and pray there's no traffic on my secret "back route" which usually takes at least 20-30 minutes. I have about 20 left, and I'm desperately trying not to behave like a race car driver on crack.

Miraculously, I arrived at the studio three minutes before the start of my class, completely stressed and out of breath but I had my playlists, so life as I knew it could go on.

Curbing carbs and sweatpants

There's nothing that induces guilt quite like seeing my vegan stepdaughter's bowl of fruit on Instagram after eating scrambled eggs with cheese and six strips of bacon, my greasy fingerprints still visible on the smooth surface of my iPhone. I always have the best of intentions when it comes to nutrition but then I find myself polishing off an entire box of KD and washing it down with a couple beers. I suppose I'm a bending contradiction, being a yoga teacher and food abuser.

As I write this, I'm being a time abuser, procrastinating getting to my playwriting by blogging instead. I'm a little too hungover to have ideas. I could sit here and stare blankly out the window wondering why I'm not outside on this unusually warm, mostly sunny day. Although, occasionally I hear a slightly aggressive breeze on still bare trees and that encourages me to stay indoors.

I've recently discovered that I can wear my sweats and slum it at Timmy Ho's without judgment because they have free wifi. No need to pull together my hipster cool outfit for Starbucks. Of course, spending the afternoon writing at Timmy Ho's doesn't have the same legitimacy as being seen in more trendy coffeehouses but, in the end, not having to change out of my sweatpants into something more uncomfortable for sheer vanity wins out.

This is what happens when you stop working in an office and cease wearing socially acceptable clothing. Now I'm consumed with making loose-fitting fleece fashionably respectable. Let's remove the stigma of the sweatpant; the assumption that a fleece-wearing person has given up on life. What if the opposite were true? That life is so good, I need to be comfortable to enjoy it; that a skirt and high heels will impede my creativity and hence, ability to make a living using said creativity. My talent for rationalization is truly something to behold. 

I've even started doing yoga in my sweatpants. The once sacred space of the skin-tight legging is giving way to loose-fitting fleece. Where will it stop? Is there a support group for an addiction to comfort and soft fabrics, and complete lack of regard for highlighting my female desirability? 

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.

They like big butts and they cannot lie

I read a Runner's World article yesterday stating that stretching, either before or after running, is actually not recommended. I know. Very surprising considering we've been told the opposite. I was quite pleased because I do run but I'm lazy. If I don't have to stretch afterwards, great. Workout done. On to couch potatoism that much sooner.

I also read a great article recently stating that, contrary to what the vast majority of women think, men are mostly attracted to visibly healthy, athletic-looking women. Women with curves, and muscles, not skinny bitches who look like they couldn't lift a toothpick. 

It was so refreshing to read - an article actually encouraging women to build strength and muscle, get some curves, pack on a caboose (with strength training, not doughnuts) because a big ass and a muscular ass are two entirely different things. The article stated something I found very interesting: most media are trying to sell women's bodies to other women, not men. So all those super skinny fashion models appeal to some men but not the majority of men.

Most women think the opposite. They exercise to stay skinny or get skinnier, not to maintain an average weight, and stay healthy and strong. They try to emulate fashion models they see in mainstream media but guess what? That's not what guys find crazy hot. If you put a fashion model next to say, a Gabrielle Reece (beach volleyball super hot athlete chick), the fashion model wouldn't stand a chance.

Apparently, guys go gaga over chicks who look like they could scale the side of a mountain or go on a hiking trek through the Amazon forest, babes who look like they're game for anything, not skinny twigs obsessed with calorie-counting who might break something on a light walk around the block.

So ladies, instead of trying to figure out how to get rid of your curves, go pump some iron, and eat real food. Celery sticks only count if they're part of a complete meal, i.e. accompanied by healthy sources of lean protein and complex carbohydrates.

And the next time you read a fashion mag, remember, their only goal is to sell you shit, not to keep you healthy and happy.

Gravy mix and cigarettes cause muffin tops

We bought some gravy mix at the grocery store the other day. My boyfriend stuffed the packets in his coat pocket since we didn't get any other groceries at the time (after paying of course - we're not hooligans). Once we got home, he asked me to get the gravy from his coat because he had forgotten. I did as he requested and, once in the kitchen with said packets of gravy, I said: "Is that gravy in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

I really like low-rise pants because I have a short torso and my waist is fairly close to my boobs. I also have really square hips so I look like a... well, like a big square. I like to think of my figure as more "athletic" than "hourglass".

The problem with low risers is that they give me a muffin top when I sit down. I find this strange because I'm of perfectly normal weight so nothing should be hanging over my pants, you know? If the pants have a somewhat higher waist, I can just tuck my tummy under the pants and pouf! flat abs.

I can only conclude that I need a personal seamstress since mainstream fashion cannot possibly begin to address my unique body shape which I have aptly named "the square", as shown in this lovely illustration:

I came across some old Johnny Carson interviews on TV the other night and immediately got the warm fuzzies. I used to watch the Tonight Show back in the day, before I became a soulless peon engulfed in what Henry David Thoreau described as "lives of quiet desperation". The interviews were mainly from the 70s and 80s, when I was young and my greatest worry was missing an episode of the Dukes of Hazzard on Friday nights. 

I couldn't help but feel nostalgic and long for the days when one could smoke on television. I mean, when George C. Scott lit up a cigarette and recited a monologue from a play he'd done 25 years prior, he personified cool. But I'm a reasonable adult, and I get that the whole cancer / death thing put a kaibosh on that. 

Another hallmark of the 80s for me was getting away with wearing the same clothes every day at school. If I came across a piece of clothing I found particularly comfortable, I would wear it all the time, like my black harem pants in grade 6, or my favorite sweatshirt in grade 4:

 

I think I won a prize for that hat

The stripes, the ruffles - that thing killed. Somehow, I don't think my office attire could consist solely of pajama pants and sweatshirts which is unfortunate because I would be much more productive in flannel than hosiery.

A few days ago, I was complaining about something or other and the boyfriend says: Crimea river. 

We were at the grocery store, once again, and the boyfriend orders a prosciutto and pear panini but he pronounced it "pros-kiutto". I said: "Honey, it's pronounced proshiutto. The "s" and the "c" make a "sh" sound." His response: I'll "sh" you.

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.

"Honesty is such a lonely word"

So there I was, trying to be a decent human being, reading some article on Gwyneth's goop website about honesty and gettin' real with yourself and how it will allow you to be honest with others, blah, blah, blah... and I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy 'cause I figure I'm doing some "inner work" by reading this thing and evolving, you know?

Then I come across the following statement, made by the author of said article: "It's an emotional reconnection experience I include along with many others in my upcoming book, Within: A Spiritual Awakening to Love and Weight Loss." WTF?

This is when any semblance of authenticity this guy may have had flew out the window. A spiritual awakening to love and weight loss? Are you f*cking kidding me? You schlep all your "honesty" bullshit and get real with your feelings crap to hit me over the head with the release of your new book which, amazingly, couples spiritual pursuits with weight loss.

Brilliant M.O. my friend. Well done. How better to capture an audience's attention than to throw at them two of the most sought after and often elusive concepts: weight loss and the quest to find the meaning of life.

It's not the first time I've heard weight loss in the same sentence as personal betterment. Apparently when you drop your emotional armour, extra pounds can come off with it. Hey, that's cool. But the above-mentioned statement was couched so surreptitiously within the lines of this article, it felt like a slap in the face, like: "Hey, guess what, this was just a sales pitch asshole. Gotcha!"

Note to goop editors: next time you want to publish some lovey-dovey article about being honest with yourself, you may want to examine how honest the author's motives are for writing the article in the first place. Otherwise, your readers will feel like they've just been f*cked up the ass. That's my honest opinion.

Is Gwyneth an elitist bitch?

Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow was recently accused of elitism, and her newletter Goop, of catering to a privileged few who can spend a 1000 bucks on a pair of shoes or hours preparing a dairy/gluten/meat/sugar/anything good-free meal.

I've been a Goop subscriber for a couple years now (not sure why I signed up in the first place, boredom maybe?) and the accusations are somewhat substantiated. I mean, she ain't selling to Joe Blow middle class or even upper-middle class. To buy into the life she presents in Goop, you need to be wealthy. Not just comfortable, rich.

Gwyneth was recently quoted as saying she can't act like she makes $25,000 a year when that's just not the case. Good point. So I guess you kinda know what you're getting if you sign up for her newsletter: a look into the life of a glamorous movie star. No, not a lot of people live this way. Should she be criticized for being elitist? I don't know that she's ever stated who, exactly, she's targeting with her newsletter so, maybe not.

She's a rich, white girl who grew up in a highly privileged environment. Should we hold that against her? I mean, if we were her, wouldn't we pretty much do the same thing? We seem to have something against wealth. Gwyneth was criticized as being "out of touch". With who? The majority of the population? Then yes, that's true. Does she have to be plugged into the common man and affordable pants? No.

Truth is, if we, the common folk, are looking for advice on anything from what to cook for dinner to the latest Spring trends, we should realize that we won't be getting any useful information from a rich movie actress. Is she somewhat disdainful? Overly-obsessed with healthy eating? Probably. But maybe we would be too if we had to make a living in front of a movie camera with exacting demands on the female form, and were able to afford to eat organic-only.

But most of us aren't of that class. When we're tired and hungry, we go to McDonald's. We buy clothes at Costco 'cause they're cheap, yet well-made, and somewhat stylish.

Do I get irritated when movie actresses self-righteously tell us we should be eating a healthier diet, or "cleanse" seasonally, or buy ridiculously expensive products? Nah. I mean, she's gotta stress about having a perfect ass before starting to shoot the next Ironman while I gorge myself on ice cream without a care in the world.

Fake nipples and Frankenveins

So I'm walking down the street the other day and some guy gives me a look. Then I realize what's happened. I'm wearing a hoodie under a thin coat, and hoodies have strings, with knots at the ends, which end up strategically placed near the nipple area under said coat. So it looked like I had giant nipples. Mystery solved.

It's strange what time off can do to a person what with the mental space that opens up when you're not caught in your daily routine. My boyfriend and I were on vacation last week in downtown Montreal. About mid-week, I decide to ask him for advice about something I'd been tossing around in my mind.

You see, I have a Frankenleg, or in other words, varicose veins, which apparently, is hereditary. I guess it's better than inheriting a high probability of getting breast cancer and having to chop off my boobs. Oh Angie... But I digress. It's not gotten to the point where the mere sight of my legs frightens little children but it's just enough to start being somewhat noticeable, to me, and possibly no one else. But still.

My family physician referred me to a vein clinic almost two years ago but I didn't really follow up because I saw it as some kind of possibly risky cosmetic surgery and, at the time, wasn't bothered enough by the tiny bulge in the back of my left leg to do anything about it.

Fast forward almost two years later, on a downtown Montreal street. The boyfriend thinks it's probably like getting a tooth filling - not a big deal. I sense he's right. And then I get sucked into the rabbit hole. I must have my leg fixed NOW.

I look up the clinic on the Internet and do some reading. The procedure to get rid of the frankenveins is pretty straightforward, like getting a tooth filling. It's too late to call the clinic that evening so I'm up early the next day making a long distance call because I want an appointment as soon as possible so I can fix my leg in time for summer.

"How about 3 pm on August 29th" says the woman from the clinic. "Sure", I say. Just in time for... fall.  I have to wait three months. I feel completely deflated. I mean, I made the appointment, which was good, but three months! Three summer months of shorts wearing! The horror!

At this point, the obsessing intensifies. The full length mirror in our hotel room doesn't help one bit. I don't have one of those at home so I don't see my full legs very often. But now I do, and I stare, and scrutinize and judge and am horrified. It utterly consumes me.

We see these super cool international dance shows while in Montreal and all I can think is "look how perfect their legs are. I wish mine looked like that."

It's strange how the mind works, once it decides to notice something, and focus on it intently. I would imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to achieve goals but not so much when you'd just like to turn off the switch.

Then my boyfriend asks me: "Has anyone ever pointed it out to you?" "No", I say. "When I spoke of it with friends, I actually had to show them my Frankenleg because they hadn't noticed anything". "Uh-huh", he says. Message received. Sometimes, the sheer depth of my superficiality scares me.

Social media this.

So, I've had this aversion to social media as of late. I find myself completely uninterested in Facebook or Twitter or Pinterest. I mean, I still post stuff, but on a very irregular basis. It's like my brain is protesting. I can't take in all this information all the time. I'm becoming one of those delinquent users who logs on once every six months.

It's the dark night of my social media soul. The new existential crisis. To tweet or not to tweet, that is the question. Or it could be that I lead a completely uninteresting life and have nothing to say. But I highly doubt that because I am an incredibly interesting person whose life should be broadcast for all to see.

Maybe it's sheer laziness. It takes a modicum of mental focus to look at stuff on social media. It does not to play Fruit Ninja. I'm becoming apathetic due to overexposure to useless information. Sure, I might miss some pertinent tidbits here and there but then again, there was a time when we had no social media and we survived.

I could make this into a whole essay about the advantages and disadvantages of social media but I think that's been done. Also, that would require effort and critical thinking. Gross.

I mean, I did find my 15-minute ab workout on Pinterest, without even looking. It just kind of randomly showed up in the humour section. Go figure. There was a photo of a chick with a six pack at the end of the workout and I thought to myself: "Hmm. A six pack would be cool." Of course, the two hot dog / poutine combo and McDonald's burger I scarfed down this past weekend may delay results. Ok, I'm starting to see how telling me I could have six pack abs is funny. 

It dawned on me that we live in a new age when, after finishing said hot dog and poutine combo, I said to the boyfriend: " I totally should have taken a photo of that before eating it. I could have Instagrammed it." And regret washed over me. The sad part is I'll make sure we go back to our little roadside restaurant so I can do just that.

I guess I don't mind Instagram so much because it's just pictures, no words. Wow. That sounds really cavewoman-ish. Want picture, no word. I mean, I still read books and stuff. I'm currently learning how to re-parent my inner child.

I think I like Instagram because it makes me feel like some cool photographer chick. I take photos, make them pretty in Instagram, then post them. It's like hyper-reality. Of course, if no one "likes" them, my whole sense of self-worth is destroyed, but whatever. 

Rainbows and unicorns are overrated

2013, so far, has a really good feel to it, a seriously positive vibe. I sense big things will happen this year. For me. I mean, I hadn't really thought about anyone else.

Narcissistic much? you might say. Yeah. I take photos of myself now. Then post them on Instagram. And Facebook. I won't post them here, though. Well, ok, maybe just this one...

Just starin' at my reflection y'all

 

As a playwright, I'm mainly concerned with myself and getting my shows produced so throngs of people can adore me and tell me how talented I am. As an artist, cultivating self-love feels like a waste of time. If I'm not torturing myself with constant self-criticism, what will I write about?

 

If life is all happy and shit, I'm fucked. What would there be to say? Hey, life is wonderful. The end. I think artists are born with a predisposition to bad luck (i.e. fucked up childhood) or, if you had a perfectly normal, uneventful childhood, an unusually overdeveloped sense of self-loathing.

You must keep yourself apart from life, apart from the crowd, so you can mock it, even though you secretly want to be a part of it, and think there's something intrinsically wrong with you because you're an outsider, even though being an outsider gives you a false sense of uniqueness which you consider a sign that you were meant to be a great artist, an artist like no other that ever existed in the whole history of humankind.

The irony is that every creative person, on some level, thinks this way. So you've got a shitload of people thinking they're the greatest thing since sliced bread. Hence, the clash of egos. Not that this doesn't happen in other professions, but it feels especially true for the performing arts.

So, you've got a whole swath of the general population caught in the grips of crippling insecurity, wanting to be noticed, to be "heard", to express their "vision" with the ultimate goal of public adoration, of validation outside the self, of their very existence.

Some artists know from the start that this is their lot in life and embrace it. Others, like me, know early on, are terrified, try to deny it and "fit in" with mainstream society and all its expectations, fail, are miserable, get treated for depression and other anxiety-based conditions, realize they've abandoned themselves, have an "A-ha!" moment, and decide to come back to what they love and make a go of it.

Then comes the rejection. Ah yes, the instances of repeated rejection. Not just once, but many, many times, which seems to go against every fiber of the artist's being. Where is the idolatry and the free swag?

Now, I could say what happens after this, if one truly believes in oneself and stays the course, but it sounds so corny, like something out of an after school special, that I just can't do it.

Suffice it to say, good shit happens.

Of course, once you've reached the pinnacle of success, you must be thrown into the cycle of suffering once again. Otherwise, where will your next masterpiece come from? It's not like you can write about rainbows and unicorns.

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.

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.

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.

Zombies and pigs and spiders, oh my!

Lately, I've been obsessed with exploding cherries, pea shooters, lethal chili peppers, lily pads, sunflowers and zombies. Probably an indication of my sheer genius, you know, thinking outside the box.

Ok, no. I downloaded the Plants vs. Zombies app on my iPhone. This shit is awesome. You have to figure out how to kill an onslaught of zombies with plants that have different kinds of powers.

  I know, it looks super cool, right?

I've shifted to this game since I'm stuck on a certain level in Angry Birds, I can't figure it out and I refuse to buy the all-knowing eagle that would help me get to the next level. I'll find the solution myself, eventually. But I figured I needed to take a step back, assess the situation and kill some zombies. Besides, those green pigs can be so smug, with their crooked smiles and big, beady eyes. 

 Look at those green f*ckers. Just starin' at ya, like you're never gonna figure out how to topple that shit over and kill them. Pricks.

I've also been focused on not letting a spider eat my butterfly. Sounds dirty, right? Pervert. It's a new version (or maybe old, what do I know?) of Bejeweled, a puzzle game. 

My stepdaughter also got me onto Instagram - it's like Twitter but with photos instead of tweets, and it has all these cool photo editing tools so the pics you post make it look like you have the hippest effing life. It be dope, bitches. Here's the latest pic I posted:

I know, I could be a professional photographer. I have the inner eye, you know, the vision.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life was like pre-iPhone. What the hell did I do in my spare time? Read? Stay informed about current events? Try to be a responsible and engaged citizen? Bo-ring. 

I'm starting to realize there are endless possibilities for mindless distraction, and I can safely loaf in a myopic cocoon of my own creation, effectively ignoring my immediate surroundings. Who needs social skills anymore? I don't have to talk to anyone. I have my apps.

Besides, I post on Facebook, and Twitter, and Pinterest, and Instagram. It's not like I'm totally anti-social. I have friends, albeit virtual, but they feel real, sort of.

Yep, still a whoring consumer slut

Just when I think I'm evolving, something happens to remind me that I'm still a whoring consumer slut. Last Saturday, my boyfriend innocently asked me to join him on a little shopping trip to an outdoor store since he was looking for a new polar fleece vest. I, of course, thought this might be fun and agreed to join him. However, a red light went off deep in the recesses of my subconscious. Danger, Will Robinson!

You see, it's very rare that I can walk into a store and not find something I want to buy, even when I blatantly cannot afford it. But I thought to myself: "What's the harm? I'm sure it'll be fine." despite my instincts telling me otherwise. 

So, we headed out to our neighbourhood big box, mega outdoor store. Got through the entrance displays without too much trouble. Looking at hats, good. Boyfriend found one he likes. Excellent. You know, I do need another head bandeau thingy to cover my ears because the one I have is kind of ill-fitting. This one is nice, and it's only $5.99! I can afford that. Done.

So there we were, my boyfriend with his hat, and I with my bandeau, looking for a polar fleece vest. Much to our dismay, they apparently don't make them anymore. So, we started to make our way towards the exit to pay for our minor purchases. 

Along the way, we came across some Canada Goose men's winter coats. This caught my attention. I stopped. Major tactical error. "Ooohhh", I said. "Look at the nice colours they have now. These feel really nice. I wonder if they have some in the women's section?"

To contextualize, Canada Goose jackets are the Rolls Royce of winter gear. They're exorbitantly expensive (probably because they're made in Canada) and yet, it seems like everyone has one. I dismissed them because I figured they were "trendy" and I didn't want to look like everyone else. I thought it was some kind of fashion statement, and frankly, why would people pay so much just to look cool?

But let's face it, as much as I tell myself trends have no hold over me, I'm a bit of a fashion slut. Something made me stop in my tracks to look at those jackets. So, we headed over to the women's section and sure enough, they had some in the same funky colours. 

Tactical error #2: I decided to try one on. BIG mistake. As I took one off the hanger and put it on, all the pieces fell into place. I understood. "Oh holy mother of GOD." It was like being wrapped in a pillow. I was convinced it was akin to what it would feel like if I were to return to the womb. 

 

 Mommy?

I wanted one, bad. Except for one, tiny hitch. They can cost anywhere between $600 and $800. Luckily, my boyfriend was there to talk some sense into me. "Don't do it. It's too expensive for an impulse buy. Step away from the coat."

So I did. I removed the warm, fluffy pillow of a jacket and put on my Helly Hansen ski jacket, which now felt totally ghetto and lightweight, and walked away. It was for the best. The jacket I tried on was nice, to say the least, but it wasn't quite the style I would want if I were to buy one, and it would have been a minor financial catastrophe for me had I purchased it that day.

The seed, however, has been planted. I started looking online at different styles, picking out the one I want, plotting and scheming, for I will have one. Oh yes, I will have my Canada Goose winter jacket. All in good time, my pretties, all in good time.

Savvy retail marketing = 1 

Me = 0

** Canada Goose did not pay me to write this. However, if they would like to send me free stuff, I will write a favourable review. I can be bought. 'Cause I'm a whoring consumer slut.

Gossip Girl is full of B.S.

The past few weeks have felt like a hike through a desert, barefoot, in a string bikini, with no sunblock. The desert signifying the sheer lack of good TV programming. The only shows we've been able to look forward to lately are Dexter, Hung and Modern Family (when it's not a repeat). In a week that consists of seven days, three TV shows ain't gonna cut it.

However, last night I stumbled upon a cool, refreshing oasis. 1) Season 5 of 30 Rock on DVD. 2) Season 1 of Gossip Girl, also on DVD. No, I hadn't seen one episode of Gossip Girl until last night. Yes, I occasionally live under a rock. I like it there. It's quiet and Fox News can't get a signal.

Anyhoo, there are pivotal moments in one's life, when you realize nothing will ever be quite the same, that things have somehow been forever altered. One of these moments occurred last night when I was introduced to Gossip Girl. They had me at B.S.

There are four seasons of this show on DVD. Now I know what I'll be doing over my Christmas vacation. Putting a dent in our couch, watching a marathon of Gossip Girl. I'll probably forego personal hygiene and a proper diet, in favour of greasy hair, coffee and anything with cheese in it. Eating healthy takes time, time I could dedicate to watching vacuous socialites and their petty lives.

I had lofty goals for my holiday break: read a good novel; do yoga; write. That's pretty much all shot to hell now. How can I possibly concentrate on that when there's rich bitch porn to watch? Even the boys are bitches on this show. Resistance is futile.

I've only seen two episodes but it was love at first watch. I just know it'll last forever, or until the show ends, whichever comes first. 

xoxo,
Sassy Girl

Plastic bimbosity busted

There are many reasons why I love Kate Winslet. She's a crazy talented actress, smart, beautiful, funny, etc... and she, along with Rachel Weisz and Emma Thompson, have founded the British Anti-Cosmetic Surgery League, promoting the idea of aging naturally, without plastic surgery.

It's nice to get a breath of fresh sanity every once in a while. 'Cause seriously, this plastic surgery thing has gotten way out of hand. I watched an episode of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills a while back and was astounded by the utterly homogenous appearance of these women. 

Blonde, tanned, fake boobs, oversized lips, immobilized faces. It was obvious each of these women had had a number of cosmetic "enhancements" and frankly, these did nothing to boost their looks. Circus freaks. That's the first thing I thought of when I saw them. 

Why do women think this is beautiful? Or that we should all look the same? If you're working in an industry that basically forces you to undergo cosmetic procedures to keep looking young, to stay "competitive", maybe you should reconsider what you do for a living. And if you feel compelled to go under the knife to retain the affections of a distracted lover, maybe it's time to take the trash to the curb, if you get my drift.

Most of the incredibly talented female actresses that come to my mind are natural beauties, untouched by a plastic surgeon's scalpel or needle: Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, Kate Winslet, Emma Thompson. These are beautiful women, each having their own, unique features. And I remember them clearly. I can tell them apart. They've retained their distinguishing traits, in favour of accepting the body's natural aging process, rather than trying to retard it, and end up looking like, well, a retard. 

Barbie was meant to remain a plastic doll, not become the yardstick by which women measure their proximity to some warped perception of perfection. That false idea of "perfection" was lovingly planted within us at a tender age, watered and tended to by a plethora of corporations who make their money from our self-hatred. Who the f*ck is in charge here anyway?

Bag of rusty nails > Paris Hilton

Funniest headline ever: "Paris Hilton Blames Network for Bad Ratings", found on Popeater. 

I can think of a few reasons why a show featuring Paris Hilton wouldn't get good ratings...

Paris is famous for being famous. And she garnered her fame after (surprise!) a sex tape of her and an old boyfriend mysteriously appeared on the Internet. 

Let's face facts here, Ms. Hilton, shall we? You're a talentless twat. You got famous because you got naked in front of a camera. 

I saw you on Piers Morgan the other night with your mommy, bemoaning the fact that there's a sex tape out there with you in it, and how your life will never be the same and how one day your grandchildren will see this tape because it's all over the Internet, and OMG, the shame! The shame! (Publicity stunt for your failing show perhaps? Hmm?)

You claim you were "betrayed" by your former boyfriend and that the tape got out without your consent? Honey, as soon as you decide to do anything ON TAPE, including things you wouldn't ever want your grandchildren to see, there's a strong possibility that, at some point in the future, someone other than you or your ex-boyfriend will see it, unless it's promptly destroyed. 

I get it. You're a has-been. Yesterday's news. So, like, two years ago. And now you're getting desperate, for attention, that is.

Newsflash sweetheart: No one cares who you're dating, what parties you're hosting or what kind of mindless drivel some hapless TV network let you produce. You suck, and now it's catching up with you. You're some made-up barbie who sounds like a complete moron every time you speak. You're an embarrassment to women in general. You represent all that is superficial and lame. 

And now your time in the spotlight is running out and you want to blame someone else? Well tough shit princess. We're sick of you and your dull debutante culture. If you have any shred of intelligence, now would be the time to showcase it 'cause pretty has taken you as far as it can.