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.

Pre-Apocalyptic Musings of Post-Democratic Proportions

So... the biggest problem I had on New Year's Day 2020 was the prospect of Friends disappearing from Netflix. Oh Universe, you have a dark sense of humour. Turns out Friends is still on Netflix but the Apocalypse is nigh which would make Friends being on Netflix a moot point. COVID-19 is basically creating a new reality most of us have never experienced: thinking of others before ourselves. This may require actions we are not inclined to do: cancelling travel and cool shit you were going to do (think of all those lost opportunities to post your awesome picks on social media - you'll need to find alternate means to sate your hunger for attention and validation); staying at home (for an introvert like me, it's like winning the lottery); keeping your outings to essential trips only (pretty much what daily life used to be like for me - who's laughing now extrovert bitches).

It's hard to complain about a forced vacation where I can catch up on all sorts of shit I usually wouldn't have time to do; boredom is not a problem I foresee encountering. Sure, the economy is turning to shit, my investments may be evaporating before my eyes and I have no gainful employment at the moment, seeing as teaching yoga in person is currently considered a biohazard. But I get to sleep in every morning, eat corn dogs and chips without guilt (I consider these emotional support foods since my emotional support animal has her own preoccupations at the moment, like my partner and I being home all the time, disrupting her daily napping routine).

If I don't watch the news too much, I can keep my stress levels at a manageable level. If I start binge watching CBC News Network and CNN, I usually find myself curled up in a ball, rocking myself gently, self-soothing to the dulcet tones of Kenny G., and that's on a good day. But hey, I can't really complain. There are folks out there working their asses off so the rest of us losers can stay home and not spread this virus: front-line medical staff; grocery and pharmacy staff; truck drivers. The supply chain is relatively intact, and if it weren't for a few freaks stocking up on toilet paper (WTF?), we may not have felt much of a disruption at all.

My mother actually made an interesting remark regarding all this pandemonium - she said that maybe it was time we were shaken up since our respective societies are rotting from self-interest, corruption, greed and a lust for ever-expanding growth. Sometimes, we need the shit kicked out of us; a pressing of the "reset" button, if you will, to perhaps reframe how we live, how we treat others and the planet, how corporations are basically running the world and we need to address this. But will anything change once this pandemic has passed? I doubt it. We're creatures of habit. We've normalized the moronic and deceitful words of despots; we've turned a blind eye to the murder of a journalist by a brutal regime because, hey, it would mean breaking a contract worth billions.

Kenny G.'s not sounding so bad right now, is he? I want to believe that the human race learns from its mistakes but with the advent of an era of stupid and mean (Trump, Johnson, Putin, Jinping, Bolsonaro, etc...), we seem to be stepping backwards towards intolerance, ignorance and totalitarianism. At the time of writing this, there are still some spring-breakers in Georgia who refuse to cut short their vacation because "you know, we've always lived with viruses, what's the big deal"? With this specter of sheer idiocy, being forced to stay at home and not deal with people seems like a blessing.

Think of it this way: we were already living Armageddon before COVID-19, it was just happening in small increments. So maybe buy a couple extra bags of Miss Vickie's (why not try a new flavour?), pour yourself a glass of your favourite numbing alcohol, spark up Netflix, and ponder how to save the world once you're out of quarantine.
 

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.

A divided self, a divided world

If asked what characterizes the current state of our world, the first word that comes to mind is division: us vs. them; right vs. wrong; winners and losers; black and white. This is a very simplistic way of viewing things, when one considers that there is far more grey than black and white. Not everything can be defined, cut into neat little pieces for easy consumption, or be easily understood.

It's simple to lash out and blame all our current ills on Trump, Putin, rapacious corporations, the media, etc., etc... If we are to even begin bridging the gaps, we need to look at the divisions within ourselves, at how we so easily compartmentalize without asking the big questions.

We sit back and proclaim that climate change should be addressed but we're unwilling to change our lifestyles. We bemoan cruelty to animals but continue eating meat because we're so far removed from its source that all we see is the neat little package in the grocery store without asking ourselves where it came from, how the animal was raised and how it died.

We are masters at lying to ourselves, at ignoring those dark corners we wish didn't exist, at whitewashing pain, ugliness and struggle, at extracting with surgical precision those parts of ourselves that don't fit into the current accepted narrative. If we are at war with ourselves, how can we possibly begin to bring peace to a fractured world when it is simply a reflection of our inner state?

We are not separate from anyone or anything. We are each other's caretakers and keepers of our environment, and other sentient beings with whom we share this planet. We are failing miserably on both counts.

As Gandhi proclaimed: "Be the change you want to see in the world." The only place to start is with ourselves. Can we quiet the constant stream of mental noise and distraction that only allows us to skim the surface of things? Can we summon the courage to delve deeper, get acquainted with our soft underbelly and befriend it? Can we find out where our fear resides and try to release it? Can we be brave enough to be still and listen?

Every choice we make matters. Wouldn't it be better if those choices were conscious ones?

Unlocking our POWERful potential

This past July, internationally-renowned yoga teacher Bryan Kest was in Ottawa giving a weekend of master classes. If you're wondering who that is, along with being credited for its creation, he coined the term "Power Yoga". Ironically, he mentioned to us that he was open to suggestions for a new name to replace "Power Yoga" since he felt the term was perceived as intimidating.

I tend to agree. I practice and teach this type of yoga, which can also be classified as a vigorous type of "Flow Yoga" but as soon as you throw in the word "Power", people wince and retreat in terror. I'm beginning to think that, intrinsically, we don't like to be challenged. We avoid stepping out of our comfort zone. We stick with what we know, and what we think we're capable of. Problem is, we're always capable of so much more than we think we are. But we'll never find out if we don't step beyond our perceived limitations.

I'm the first to admit I'm lazy. My default setting is sloth - exerting the least amount of effort most of the time. I have to consciously fight against this tendency. Sometimes, sloth is totally appropriate and called for; yin and yang. But my yin gets greedy and wants all the attention. However, when I do work actively against my laziness and commit to an active, empowering yang practice, afterwards I can feel every inch of my body teeming with something I can only describe as "aliveness".

It's not always a pleasant experience. I usually feel bitter when I'm being challenged. Of course, the other side of that coin is that afterwards, I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment for not having walked away from something that reminded me of my own strength and resilience, and left me feeling like a million bucks.

Kest also reminds us that we should approach this type of yoga practice with moderation. Sure, it can be challenging but we don't have to go crazy. It's possible to find a balance between effort and ease when we tell our ego to take a hike and release any notions of physical or athletic "performance". What it truly comes down to is a steady breath and being present. Can we allow ourselves to feel challenged yet remain calm? Imagine how effectively we could deal with our daily lives off the mat if we simply mastered that.

A Song Without Music

Me: "You know how much I love spending time in the kitchen." Boyfriend: "With a phone and a take out menu."

Now that I've kicked off this post with the requisite witty humour, I can turn to other insignificant things, such as my playwriting. The idea recently flashed in my brain of sharing some of that writing here on my blog, kind of like a story in serial installments. I mean, why not?

A few months back, I began very preliminary work on a musical; the writing part, that is. I'm not sure where that project is headed but I wrote my first ever song lyrics. It's not exactly an uplifting ballad as I was exorcising some demons at the time but I think it could be a catchy tune. I call it: " A Song Without Music". 

Good morning, good morning 
You're my wife, short of a ring
You're my mother, only better
You're my daughter, don't run for cover

Good morning, good morning
Under my thumb, blessed underling
It's the only way I know, the only love I can show
Look pretty, don't think. Hint at desire, leave me on the brink

Good morning, good morning
Your submission is a sacred thing
It's your calling, weaker sex
You've got no strength, no muscle to flex

Good morning, good morning
I'm the master and you the slave adoring
My psychic steel rod violating your space
Hunting you down, because I need the chase

Good morning, good morning
Come to me and say good morning
Good morning, good morning
Bend the knee and say good morning 

Stay tuned for my next creative writing installment. I think I'll go with a comedy next time.

Stereotype cancer - an insidious disease

Yesterday, I found out that a beloved figure in the yoga world, Michael Stone, had passed away, following a lifelong struggle with bipolar disorder, a struggle he kept mostly silent and hidden. Shock rang through an international yoga community at the sudden death of one of its own. The tragedy of his passing seems all the more bitter at the thought of his internal struggle with demons largely out of his control.

It also reveals a soft underbelly of the yogic community: an expectation or preconceived notion that yoga teachers have their shit together; that they easily rise above it all and are able to remain in a continual state of zen-like balance. They're vegetarians or vegans, don't drink or swear and lead a squeaky-clean life. These stereotypes are also propagated, ad nauseum, by popular media and frankly, are reductionist and far off the mark of what yoga and meditation are all about.

But yoga is not the only victim of stereotypes. They are widespread and pervasive, and they are harmful. In my former job, every morning when I stepped into the office, I felt like I had entered Stepford suburbia, and if I didn't conform to some incredibly narrow-minded idea, imposed by others, of who I should be: a happy, smiling, pleasant, social and above all, easily acquiescing female, I paid the price, either with social isolation or eventually, in my case, dismissal.

Stereotypes are an insidious cancer that refuse to recognize the full depth and breadth of each individual, and leave no space for variety, vulnerabilities and flaws - the very things that, if brought to light and shared with one another, actually draw us together and create community.

It is a terrible tragedy that Michael Stone felt compelled to remain silent about his mental health issues, but it is a silence I fully understand. I grappled for more than a decade with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in complete silence. I couldn't bring myself to tell my family physician I was suffering these strange symptoms that were not physical. I felt I couldn't tell my parents or my friends. Only when I was living on my own and the symptoms progressively worsening, did I finally seek help because I could see the downward spiral awaiting me if I continued to do nothing.

It was one of the best decisions of my life. I sought treatment and am completely open about it now. I've managed to let go of the shame I used to feel about it, and I'm fully aware that I'm not alone. However, there remains a stronghold of shame and misunderstanding around mental illness, one that needs to be removed, so those who are suffering can rise to the surface, come into the light, and seek the help and support they need.

As a yoga teacher myself, my students should know that I am not perfect. I have shitty days. I struggle. I make bad decisions. I eat meat. I drink alcohol. I use swear words, sometimes profusely, but that takes nothing away from my passion for yoga and devotion to sharing it with as many people as I can. We need to allow space for people to be who they are, and release these rigid ideas of who we think we should be. All we need to be is ourselves.

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.

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.

The Facebook Fee

It's official. Facebook is insidious. There was an ad strategically placed on my newsfeed for the Candy Crush Saga app. When I first saw it, it briefly captured my attention, then I moved on. But the seed had been planted. Then I saw the ad again, and it stuck. I downloaded it, and now I'm addicted.

It was technically "free" to download but you only have five lives and if you max them out trying to get to the next level, you have to wait 8, maybe 10, maybe 20 minutes for a new life to continue playing. OR, you can BUY five more lives and keep playing NOW.

Guess what happened next. I got app raped. I spent a few bucks so I could keep playing, like a gambling addict in the wee hours of the morning, sucking the last dregs of cheap alcohol from a plastic cup, scrounging for those last few dollars while getting the stink eye from the dealer who's counting the minutes until the end of what seems like an interminable shift.

It seemed wrong to shell out dough so I could keep matching virtual candy but I couldn't help myself. I felt dirty afterwards. When I was asked for my Apple ID so I could buy more lives, I shamefully tapped in my password, thinking I'd sunk to a new low.

So you see, Facebook isn't free. They get their money through the back door (pun intended). Who needs a user fee when advertisers pay Facebook to sell people shit that's specifically targeted to their own individual interests. I don't know why everyone has their panties in a knot over Obama reading their e-mail. Facebook knows more about you than the government ever will. Big Brother is watching, with your permission.

Does this mean I'm going to delete my Facebook profile? I bought the app, didn't I?

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. 

Tick Tock, it's one hour ahead o'clock

Why can't we just gain another hour for Daylight Savings Time. You know, Fall Back, Spring Back. Then we'd be continually gaining time. Or how about we don't change the time at all. It was probably useful when we didn't have electricity or caffeine but it's kind of a moot point in modern times, you know?

More importantly, it f*cks me up. I couldn't get my ass out of bed this morning and I've been dragging it around ever since. My head's all foggy and I feel tired. Why? Because I was robbed of an entire hour. So there could be more daylight.

You know what, though? The days were already getting longer without any help from us. Why f*ck with Mother Nature? 'Cause I tell 'ya, the way I'm feelin' right now, she's having the last laugh. "Look at those fools, trying to manipulate daylight to extend their already over-strenuous activities. I'm gonna f*ck 'em up good."

I don't blame Mother Nature. If we'd just leave shit the f*ck alone, this wouldn't happen. Like last night, it was 7 o'clock but it really felt like 6. It was late but felt early so you don't want to go to bed when you should because it's practically still light out but then you end up going to bed later than usual, you're tired the next day, and left wondering why you feel like you're on tranquilizers.

I disagree with this whole time change business. Even in the fall, when we gain an hour, it's depressing because it's pitch black at 4 pm. I don't want to know what that feels like unless I'm in some arctic location where it can't be helped. We do it on purpose. Why? To get a little extra light in the morning? It's like we can't accept that days are getting shorter at that time of year so we f*ck with things under the misguided assumption that we're maximizing whatever daylight is available.

Except we're not. We're screwing with our internal clocks, creating a form of landborne jet lag.

I could also be suffering from sugar withdrawal after having gorged on Cadbury Creme Eggs for the past couple weeks. But I prefer to not blame myself for my lack of energy.

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.

Oh gluten, where art thou?

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Mother of all that is good...

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

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

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

Fifty Shades of... WTF?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christian and Anastasia are having sex for the first time:

Anastasia: F*ck Christian, that hurts!

Christian: You like that, don't you.

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

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

Anastasia: Ok.

Christian: How does that feel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She held her breath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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