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.

From Obsequious Omnivore to Vivacious Vegan

A couple years ago, my stepdaughter became a vegan. On a weekend ski vacation, she hinted that her father and I should try it too. We politely scoffed, both convinced that it was a great choice, for other people. We were happy omnivores. I was also still working for the animal agriculture industry at that time, convinced that we were doing all we could to minimize animal suffering.

About a year and a half later, I was fired, so I had a lot of time on my hands, and I was also freed from the karmic handcuffs of animal farming. I engaged in what my partner and I call "Netflix research" which basically consists of watching a shitload of documentaries on one particular subject (because Netflix breeds obsession) and afterwards declaring oneself an "expert" on said subject. In this case, the subject was, in a nutshell, how to stay alive, without getting fat or sick or precipitating an already near planetary apocalypse by contributing to the raping and pillaging of the planet.

I could feel my love of greasy bacon slipping away, to be replaced by what can only be described as a "social conscience". Also, there seems to be a lot of evidence that meat and dairy are crappy for humans (I'm an expert now). I know, I know, who to believe? They told us eggs were the root of all evil, and if we continued to eat them our cholesterol levels would rise faster than a hooker's skirt on payday. Then sugar was bad, until the sugar lobbyists pointed the finger at dietary fat. Then gluten was deemed the poison du jour, and all things wheat became public enemy numero uno. So who's telling the truth?

I guess what really got to me was: a) the not dying part, and b) my ardent anthropomorphizing of animals. Call it an epiphany or the result of reading too much Deepak Chopra, but I can't eat anything anymore that had a face, and parents. So, my research was then transferred from Netflix to Google. If I'm going to attempt veganism, how the hell do I go about it? I barely know my way around a kitchen. Perfecting the balance between butter, cream and a powdery pouch of Kraft cheese was, up to that point, my greatest culinary achievement.

(FYI, this is not an endorsement. I was not paid to write this, although I could use the cash. Just sayin'.) I stumbled upon the Forks Over Knives meal planner online. Aha! How to eat vegan, for Dummies. There is also an associated documentary which, of course, I watched on Netflix, prior to finding their handy meal planner. I thought to myself: "With this kind of guidance, I might actually be able to do this."

My boyfriend was working in Europe at the time and I asked him if, upon his return, he would mind if we tried veganism, on the condition that I would take charge of all our meals. He quickly agreed, if only to be relieved of almost exclusive responsibility for our meals up to that point, and also doubting this would last more than a couple weeks, so why put up a fight?

It's been about three and a half months, and I've stuck with it so far. I've set off our smoke alarm at least twice trying to roast vegetables in the oven, and I recently made guacamole so salty, I broke out into a sweat as I ate it. I bought an eggplant for the first time in my life, and can now say "nutritional yeast" without laughing. I poop every day, I can make a pretty decent smoothie (when I follow a recipe and don't freestyle it) and I haven't burned our house down yet. What more can a girl ask for?

Exploding head ass kicking

I realize it's been a while since I last posted here. I'd like to say that's going to change and I'll write more frequently but I've been busy posting pictures of my cat on Instagram.

Since my last post, my entire life basically blew up. Ok wait, I should be more specific: my entire professional life. I best word this carefully for legal reasons. The Universe decided I needed a good kick in the ass in the right direction, and surprised me with a new life. How's that for equanimity?

So now, probably for the first time in my life, I'm pursuing what I really want to do: teach yoga and write plays, like, full-time. It's scary as shit, crazy fun and I've never been happier. Every day is different and I'm fully in charge of my destiny which is daunting at times but it's really forcing me to focus my energy where it needs to go, and trust that everything will work out, hence my renewed obsession with social media.

Whereas sloth used to be my biggest challenge, now I have to learn how to turn off my brain and take some time for myself because I'm so stimulated all the time with shit that I love and am totally passionate about. It's like being on life crack. It's an adjustment and I have to be careful not to OD. I was living in black and white, and now everything is in full f*cking technicolour. The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades.

Yesterday, I got hooked up with Bryan Kest's Online Power Yoga classes. What does this mean? Yoga, every f*cking day. Yeah, I'm still learning not to take a puff of that life crack pipe too often. My head's about to explode.

European inspired root canals

So the boyfriend and I went to Europe for three weeks. We booked our flights and a couple of nights at a hotel in Frankfurt, where we were landing, and that's it. The remaining 19 nights were not booked, nor destinations planned. We were just gonna wing it. We had an idea of the general geographic area we wanted to stick to (Central Europe) but no more thought was really put into it than that.

Strangely, leading up to the trip, we didn't think about it much. I guess we were busy with our daily lives and since we had decided on relatively little planning, it really wasn't front of mind. It only started sinking in about a week before we were leaving when I drew up my "pre-trip" to-do list. Then it was like, holy shit, we're going overseas for three weeks. WTF.

Now, you might be thinking, big deal. Everyone goes to Europe. A lot of people don't really plan their trip. So what? And I would say, yes, that's true. I would also say there is truth to the old adage that people go to Europe to "find themselves", because I found myself. At 39. Racked with anxiety and wonderment.

That first night in Frankfurt, I couldn't sleep because our idea was finally hitting me. We're on this continent for three weeks and I have no idea where we're going or what we'll be doing. A complete blank slate. Sheer panic started to set in, and I was hit with a sharp pang of homesickness.

You see, I plan for a living. I'm always thinking of the future, booking things in advance, organizing, and I have a very stable lifestyle, i.e. my ass is on the couch most nights watching TV, after a day of work. I also have a touch of the OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and the specter of the unknown for three weeks hit me like an abusive husband on a bender.

I guess you're supposed to work this shit out in your late teens / early twenties when most people go backpacking across Europe. I've always been a late bloomer. We ended up going to Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Vienna and Budapest, and at 39, I discovered that major urban centres, although stimulating, stress me out a bit, especially when I don't speak the language and we're trying to use public transportation to get around cities we're unfamiliar with. As the boyfriend put it, I earned my orienteering badge on this trip.

I realized I'm a nester, and just as I was getting comfortable feathering my nest in one city, we would up and leave for the next. I guess I've always known this about myself but nowhere was it more evident than on this trip. Wow, I'm really not a gypsy. Ok. Except that "nester" doesn't sound as cool as "gypsy". "Nester" sounds like generic suburban housewife, which I am most definitely not. I think.

Then, on day 4 of 21, I developed a very mild toothache which I consequently, at varying degrees, on different days, obsessed about. I mean, it didn't hurt or anything but I knew something was amiss. Again, with the unknown. What's causing this? Should I see a dentist right away? Can it wait? It can wait. I mean, I'm in a foreign country, and it's not an emergency. But can it wait another two and half weeks? I've had a root canal before. What if this is indicative of another one? What if my tooth is rotting from the inside right now? Or maybe it's just my gum that's inflamed. I DON'T KNOW. The idea of not getting any answers for at least a couple weeks was somewhat traumatic. I don't cope well with uncertainty, and yet it's the basic condition of human life. Go figure.

It was a deeply profound experience in that I remained on my edges for 21 days, without the comfort of the familiar, constantly exposed to new cities, languages and cultures, and ultimately reminded that we all resemble each other so much more than we differ from each other. All our unplanned logistics fell into place beautifully and helpful, friendly people always seemed to show up when we needed them. I guess I realized it's ok to not know, and the world "out there" is nothing to be afraid of. Unless you're traveling to Somalia. Then, you should probably be afraid.

I did have to get a second root canal when we returned home. Both of my canine teeth are now dead. It's a matching set. I wonder if that makes me kind of a vampire.

Pavement and my ass: two things that should never meet unexpectedly

I recently caught a severe case of fallis on assis on a busy street in front of a gaggle of pedestrians. There's nothing quite like public embarrassment to keep it real, you know? The culprit was a patch of black ice. I know what you're thinking: "Why is there ice to contend with in April?" Well, this winter has been particularly harsh, the kind of winter they're referring to in Game of Thrones when they say "Winter is coming."

I've started commuting via bicyclette and it's still colder than a witch's titty out there. I know, WTF right? So, I'm riding my bike down a busy street, all proud of myself for paying attention to parked cars and people coming out of them (as a cyclist, parked cars can be a menace if a door opens and you're unprepared) but what I fail to notice is a light turning red at a pedestrian crosswalk.

I keep going merrily on my way when I realize I'm about to run over someone innocently crossing the street. Shit. Slam on the brakes. Except, double shit, ice. Back wheel fishtails forward and gains serious momentum due to frozen water underfoot. So much momentum it drags the rest of the bike and me along with it until I find myself flat on my ass. WTF just happened.

Then I hear tidbits of conversation among the onlookers: "What the f*ck! Look, there's ice. Are you ok?" Once I realized I hadn't run over anyone, I felt marginally better, except when I tried to get up. My left knee hurt like a mother f*cker. But my ego was already severely bruised so I pretended like everything was ok, and rode off to continue my trek to the office.

I was shaken up by the sudden trauma of public embarrassment but I managed to arrive at work in one piece. However, I realized my knee had sustained some kind of injury. But I was a trooper. I wasn't gonna sit around all day, feeling sorry for myself. I went to the gym over lunch and realized that my knee actually felt better when in motion and worse when static for long periods of time. Weird.

I was really bummed out when I thought I might not be able to run for a while because of my sore knee but the boyfriend said I should probably keep moving it, so I did, and realized I can still run. Good thing too because I just started up again after being unable to run due to my frankenvein (aka vericose vein) treatments over the last three months. At first, I was all like: "Universe, what up yo?" but now I'm like:" Ok, it's cool, everything still works".

So the moral of the story is: there shouldn't be any ice left in April. (global warming my ass...)

Operation "Kitty Rescue"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Royal Wedding Fever - Part Trois

Shortly after Wills and Kate tied the knot in jolly old England, we Canadian commoners found out that the Duke and Duchess would be making their first trip abroad to... wait for it.... Canada! And better yet, their first stop would be in.... Ottawa! Canada's Capital! And most importantly, WHERE I LIVE. Young, attractive British royalty in my 'hood yo!

Needless to say, I was deliriously happy with this news. I thought to myself: "We must prepare, prepare to Royal chase". That would mean some serious crowd surfing since the newlyweds would be in Ottawa on Canada Day, the only day of the year that Ottawa is a "hip" city and there's a huge street party downtown. And by huge, I mean tens of thousands of people show up. It then reverts back to its dull, civil servant laden self. Not that I don't love where I live, but I know Ottawa ain't one of the cool kids, if you get my drift...

Wills and Kate were scheduled to arrive at 2 pm on June 30 at the Ottawa airport, which happened without a hitch. Then they would make two public appearances in downtown Ottawa. However, I was stuck in a meeting all day. Imagine this, if you will. I was in an office building not 10 minutes away from their first public appearance at a war memorial. That hurts people. It cuts to the bone.

To add salt to the wound, my boyfriend and stepdaughter were free to go to the estate of the Governor General (the site of the Royals' next public appearance) where William would make his first speech to the Canadian people. Jealous much? You know it. My stepdaughter has photos, PHOTOS of William and Kate! And I was NOT THERE! Because I was WORKING! But I digress...

The next day, July 1st, was Canada Day, one of those rare days when Canadians get all patriotic and shit. We love our country but we have trouble showing it. Except on Canada Day. Then we're all like, "Hells ya! This country rocks!"

It's a national holiday so I was off for the day and free to hunt for a Royals sighting. We decided to head downtown for the noon show, an event William and Kate would be attending. We squeezed in a bit of shopping beforehand (what can I say, there's a mall on the way), then headed towards Parliament Hill around 11:45 am.

It was a mad house. There were people everywhere. It was a hot, sunny day. Sweat was beginning to form at my brow. We got down to business and dove into some serious crowd surfing. At this point, I would have been content to watch the show from the huge monitor set up for spectators on the street where we were located, just East of Parliament Hill. I assumed the Royals were already there.

But the closer we got to our intended destination, the more it dawned on me. We're walking along the street that Wills and Kate would have been traveling on, in an open carriage, on their way to the noon show. And they haven't come by yet. HOLY SHIT. Suddenly, there was a possibility we could see them IN PERSON. 

We walked a bit further, then staked out a spot behind a few rows of people. We couldn't see much except for the tops of people's heads and outstretched arms holding cameras. And this is why I have the best boyfriend in the world - he offered to hold me up on his back so I could get a better view. He is awesome. 

I did indeed get a much better visual. First, the security detail, a succession of sinister looking black cars with tinted windows came up the street. Hmm. Ok. That's cool. Then nothing. Then, more sinister looking black cars with tinted windows. Then nothing. I gave my boyfriend a break and jumped back down to my feet. Then, shortly thereafter, he tells me I'd better jump back on. Something big is coming. 

Sure enough, a legion of RCMP officers in official uniform on their horses turn the corner and come up the street, and then.... at first I only saw her red fascinator but I knew - I knew it was Kate. I lost all sense of decorum and started screaming: "Oh my God!". The horse driven carriage made its way up the street and at one point, Kate looked right at us as she smiled and waved and we cheered.

I don't have a photo since I cannot multitask. Fumbling with a camera while trying to seize the moment would have ended in disaster, I'm sure. We do however have my stepdaughter's photos and videos from the previous day to commemorate their visit. If I ask her nicely, maybe she'll share one with me and I can post it here.

I don't know why we're so fascinated with the British Royal Family but I was caught up in the excitement of it all, and to be in such close proximity of widely known people (celebrities, really) was a crazy rush. And just in case you were wondering, they look exactly as they do on TV and in print. Simply gorgeous. 

OMG, I'm Jewish!

Yesterday started out like any other day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, I had my yoga pants on backwards while teaching a class ('cause I'm cool like that) and I discovered I'm Jewish.

Let me explain. I've always had what one might call a "prominent" nose. It has a certain curvature to it that's hard to miss. I was laughed at as a kid and have often felt self conscious about my schnoz. It's a family trait from my mother's side that I inherited. Case in point:

So, yesterday my boyfriend and I attended a Jewish / Catholic wedding. I know. You're thinking: "How is this possible?" It was also multilingual (English, French and Hebrew). I live in Canada. This kind of stuff happens all the time. But I digress. The ceremony was presided over by a female Jewish rabbi, or priestess or whatever they're called in the Jewish tradition. 

She was fabulous. Funny, classy, warm, beautiful, with the voice of an angel and a nose... like mine. I know, it's not politically correct to point out that Jewish noses are quite unique and easily recognized. But it's nevertheless true - it's a distinguishing feature of these fine people.

It was during this lovely ceremony, while watching this remarkable Jewess that it hit me - OMG, I'm Jewish. These are my people! No wonder I bailed on the Catholic Church - it was all wrong, like an ill-fitting dress. 

Now I have to figure out how to break the news to my French Canadian Catholic mother. It shouldn't be too difficult since she's pretty much abandoned the Catholic thing too. See, on some level, she knows too. 

I've decided that I'll need to do a full on search of my family history. I mean, how many French Canadian Jewish folks are out there? Actually, there could be quite a few. I really don't know much on the subject but I'm excited to find out.

However, if I decide to adopt the Jewish faith, I can't give up Christmas. If there's anything my Christian faith has taught me it's that those few weeks in December devoted to rabid consumerism, impossibly high expectations and superficial, awkward family shindigs are a must.

No honey, it's called Gigolos and it's a cable TV show, not porn.

The other night I had to kill some time since my boyfriend and stepdaughter were busy with non-TV related activities. So I perused my On-demand options and decided to give Showtime's Gigolos a try. I had read a brief article about the program and how it consisted of a good, honest look at this small group of upscale male prostitutes in Las Vegas.

How could I not be intrigued? 

So, I plunged in and watched the first episode. It went something like this: Ok, so far everything seems pretty normal. A camera follows these hot dudes around as they talk about their lives and their work. Oh, one of them is meeting a client. Ok, cool. That's kind of interesting. Oh holy Moses, everyone's naked and having sex, in front of the cameras. Ok, so that's how it's gonna be. Alright. I'm down with it.

The program also aptly shows the camaraderie among this group of five men, who treat each other as brothers and really have each other's back. It's sweet, and warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart. 

What I did notice after a few episodes was that the sex sequences all seemed eerily similar. The guys pound away like a hammer to a nail, and the chicks all make the same sex sounds and pretty much say the same things. I started to wonder if I was actually watching porn. 'Cause it was getting that cheesy.

I mean, the clients who somehow agreed to be on camera while having sex with male escorts (WTF?) were a pretty diverse group of women but after about three episodes, I could barely tell them apart. Once the action started, it sounded something like this, every time: Ooh, yeah, that's it, harder, ooh, oh, I'm gonna come. End scene. 

There were no crazy ass screamers or quiet, intense types. Just your standard porn soundtrack types. Except for that one who was honing her dominatrix skills. But I digress.

Then, there's this episode where one of them wants to come clean and tell his college buds about his unconventional career choice. The guys are all having a conversation about how they don't talk about what they do, and that their friends and family don't know how they make their living. Ummm, well, now you're ON TV. Secret's out boys. 

It's an intriguing premise, and I haven't quite finished watching all the episodes yet, which I plan to do, in the name of anthropological research. (You would too and you know it.) The irony is that the sex is the least interesting part of this show. The guys' individual stories are far more captivating than watching them bang yet another gal.

And finally, a note to the director(s): when it comes to those sex scenes, mix it up a bit 'cause everyone knows that porn sex isn't real sex. It's the stinky cheese of sex on tape. Go for something a little more authentic. Homemade is better than highly processed.

Assis talkitis: when one talks out of one's ass to the detriment of humanity

So check this out.... Sean Avery, a notoriously bratty, pain in the ass, annoys the crap out of everyone NHL hockey player has publicly stated that he supports gay marriage and got bashed for it by some sports agent dude. 

Sean is apparently quite the fashionista, has been spotted at independent film and hip music festivals and his friends consist of artists, musicians, actresses and models. Ok, those last two are endemic to any professional athlete's life, but artists? musicians? Tres impressive. The guy has other interests besides chasing a puck around and beating up other guys on a slippery surface.

He appears in a video campaign for New Yorkers for Marriage Equality along with some other celebs. Apparently, it's quite rare for professional athletes to publicly support gay or lesbian causes. So, kudos to you Sean for having some balls and coming out, in a manner of speaking.

So this sports agent dude, Todd Reynolds, tweets that he's all against gay marriage and shit. Some excerpts from his tweets: "Very sad to read Sean Avery's misguided support of same-gender 'marriage'". He goes on to say: "This is not hatred or bigotry towards gays. It is not intolerance in any way, shape or form. I believe we are all equal. But I believe in the sanctity of marriage between one man and one woman. This is my personal viewpoint. I do not hate anyone."

Umm, yeah. I don't know whether to laugh or try to find this guy and punch him in the head. Not hatred or bigotry? That's EXACTLY what it is! It's like saying people of different races shouldn't marry. WTF? 

And throwing the "sanctity" of marriage in there? Really, are you gonna keep flogging that dead horse? Would you invest in a stock with a 50% failure rate? 'Cause that's how well "marriage" is doing these days. Not great odds.

But to deny anyone the opportunity to be miserable in a crappy marriage, that ain't cool. Dude says he believes "we are all equal". Clearly, he DOES NOT. Being against gay marriage is basically saying heterosexuals are better than homosexuals and only they should have the opportunity to make their love legal. 

Frankly, if there's one group of people who don't know how to get their shit together when it comes to relationships, it's heterosexuals. So why should they get first dibs on walking down the aisle?

I think people are confusing religious dogma and reality. The truth is that marriage is a legally binding union between two people. Period. 

This whole "Oh, it's got to be between a man and a woman" bullshit has to go. It's based on some archaic religious belief that the sole purpose of marriage is to procreate. Well, the planet's already overpopulated folks. We don't need no more babies. So it's time to redefine what marriage means in the 21st Century, minus the completely irrational religious overtones.

Is this love that I'm feeling?

As you may recall, I was considering upgrading my cellphone to a Blackberry after some very savvy marketing on the part of my cell provider (Damn you big, evil corporation trying to sell me cool stuff!).

After some reflection and online research, I decided that if I was going to upgrade, I would go all the way, I would not only drink the kool-aid, I would jump into a giant vat of it, and immerse myself completely. 

So I got an iPhone 4. 

Oh holy Moses. You must understand, I'm relatively new to the world of Apple. My closest brush with it pre-iPhone was a hand-me-down, 5-year-old iPod, with music from my CD collection downloaded onto it by my generous stepdaughter.

This iPhone 4 thingy is like crack-cocaine. While shopping for iPhone accessories at the Apple store, a staff member asked when we got the phone. Yesterday, I replied. "Is it your first iPhone?" Yes. "Ha! Good luck trying to put it down!" NO SHIT.

I'm overwhelmed with giddiness and curiosity as I cautiously navigate this new, virtual world. My stepdaughter's already workin' the thing like a seasoned pro. I watch her in awe as I awkwardly explore the device like a baby learning to walk.

I downloaded my first songs from iTunes all by myself, like a big girl, and felt mighty proud. The training wheels are slowly coming off. Now the challenge is to find a balance between being actively engaged in my life, and being completely zoned out while playing with my new toy. 

On the upside, my iPhone won't sit around like my last cellphone, collecting dust. I think that's why I chose to go this route - most of the time, I forget it's also a phone since it does all this other cool stuff. 'Cause, so far, I have two contacts, my boyfriend and my stepdaughter. Yeah, I'm cool like that. My friends and I just don't communicate via cellphone or texting. We're e-mailers and land line callers. Must be a generational thing.

But now that my cellphone is also my calendar, my iPod, my go-to place to check the weather, surf the Net, and sift through thousands of yet undiscovered apps, I don't feel it's a waste. 

I think I shied away from iPods in the past because it sounded so complicated - you needed the iPod, and a computer, then you had to download stuff from your computer to your iPod, blah, blah, blah. 

The iPhone 4 really appeals to my sloth-like nature. It's a one-stop shop. iTunes is right on there and your songs are downloaded onto the same device. No mess, no fuss, very little effort. I'm all about taking the path of least resistance; always on the lookout for what will allow me to maximize my innate laziness.

I used to gladly lend my cellphone to my boyfriend, who doesn't have or want one, when he goes on road trips for business. He's away for a couple days next week, and I don't want him going out on the open road without a means of communication, in case of emergency. This will require that I lend him my iPhone. I'm dying inside, just a little bit.

A pedophile's paradise

I know, I know... It's been a while since my last post. But, unless you live under a rock and hadn't noticed, it was CHRISTMAS TIME, and I have a LIFE people. Jeez... 

Well, now that we've got that out of the way, my "life" over the holidays consisted of numerous opportunities to watch heinously bad TV. I mean, even I had to lower my already egregiously mediocre standards to be able to withstand one particular program that assaulted even my moral sensibilities. This is saying a lot since, basically, I HAVE NONE.

The program in question is titled Toddlers and Tiaras and airs on The Learning Channel, the same illustrious network that airs Sarah Palin's Alaska. "Learning" channel my ass. This network seems to pride itself on displaying the most perverse and disturbing human behaviour, couching it in the guise of "learning". Yeah, learning what it takes to be a circus freak. No, wait, I like circus freaks. These people are far worse.

Imagine, if you will, morbidly obese, middle-aged women and men, some claiming to be former beauty queens (Ahem...), spending thousands of dollars to sexualize their infants and young children, dressing them in provocative outfits, fake hair pieces, fake teeth, spray-on tans and tons of makeup and hair spray. 

And as if this wasn't enough, drilling into their children (both boys and girls alike) that winning is good and losing is bad, and winning is predicated merely on physical attractiveness, greatly enhanced by fake appendages. I feel dirty writing this, that's how disturbing this show is. 

It's tantamount to child abuse, is what it is. These fat, ignorant f*cks are working out their control issues on their children in some totally whacked out pervy fairy world. 

Stop looking at me like that, I'm like, five.

Ever wonder why Sarah Palin has her own TV show?

Whenever I wonder why Kim Kardashian is a fixation in our collective consciousness; why anyone in their right mind would give the Hasselhoffs their own reality show (mercifully, it was canceled after only two episodes); why the Twilight saga is so successful; why Arrested Development was canceled after only three seasons; why the cast of Jersey Shore was interviewed by Barbara Walters; why teen moms are glorified on MTV; why George W. Bush and his cronies were allowed to plunder the US for EIGHT YEARS without a day of reckoning; why, after only two short years in office, and having inherited the White House from the worst administration in US history, Barack Obama is heavily criticized for not getting things done fast enough, and why Republicans have regained control of the House of Representatives... I watch this short video, and all is explained.

A tale of two shits: gassy lady on her cellphone and Hollywood movie executives

Certain displays of human behaviour make me wonder if we're not generally regressing to a realm of deeply inferior intelligence. Take for instance what I witnessed yesterday in the ladies' bathroom. 

I was at work and had to go for a "number 2" so I went up one floor to the deserted bathroom since the one on our floor is too busy. You see, the bathroom must be empty for me to do my business. I cannot poop in the presence of other people. I do not want to submit them to the sounds and smells that sometimes emanate from my body, 'cause I'm nice like that.

So there I was, sittin' on the throne ready for action when in walks in some lady and settles herself in the stall right next to me. She then proceeded to take a big 'ol crap, sound effects and all while I patiently waited until she finished. Now, up to this point, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Until....

In the middle of her defecation, she MAKES A CALL ON HER CELLPHONE to her husband, boyfriend, whatever. It went something like this: "Hi honey (rrrhhhhh - sound of her physical exertion while pooping), how are you? How's your day (rrrhhhhh) going? (Pause as he responds.) That's good. We're still in (rrhhhh) meetings. We'll barely have time to get to the airport (rrrhhh)." Etc... 

I was sitting in the neighbouring stall, trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. I was MORTIFIED. This is taking cellphone usage too far. There must be rules of etiquette people! Unless it's a matter of life and death, no one should be calling anyone while taking a shit.

She wrapped up her convo, then proceeded to shit and fart some more, and finally exited said bathroom. I was left wondering: "What is this world coming to?" 

Then, this morning, another display of colossal stupidity. In my half-asleep morning haze, my boyfriend, who was reading the morning paper, tells me that Warner Bros. announced that they will be remaking a Buffy the Vampire Slayer film, WITHOUT its creator Joss Whedon or the original cast from the TV series.

WTF? You evil, soulless marketing rep weasels! You take something sacred and defile it to make a buck! You try to cash in on the current vampire craze by ruining a cherished cult establishment? I say: Shame on you! I will boycott this movie. 

I will call Warner Bros. on my cellphone and shit all over this crappy idea.

Bite me, Revlon

There are rare moments, when I catch a glimpse of something on TV, and say to myself: "I did NOT just see that!". I recently had one of those moments when I spotted a commercial for lip gloss. Oh sorry, a lip "stain" and "balm" from a Revlon line called Just bitten. One of the shades is called Twilight.

Are you f*cking kidding me? The depths to which capitalism will sink never cease to amaze me. Apparently, the makeup industry has seized on the current obsession with vampire-related literature, films and television. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I love the vampire thing, and loved it way before it went all tween mainstream. But even I can't wrap my head around launching a line of lip products based on being a blood buffet. 

The last nail in this vampire coffin? The spokesperson is Jessica Biel, uttering the words "Have you ever been bitten?" Puke. Here's the commercial, for your viewing pleasure:

Dear Revlon: Really? REALLY? You morons were so desperate for ideas that you came up with this? A line of makeup products insinuating that the violent removal of blood from one's body is something to be saught after? WTF? 

Now, you may be thinking to yourself: "Maybe it's a metaphor for being bitten by love. There's nothing wrong with that." It's not. Don't kid yourself. These bastards know exactly who they're targeting and what that tagline refers to.

 

You may think I'm being extreme but put yourself in a twelve-year-old's shoes. You want to fit in. You want to be cool. Next thing you know, we'll be hearing about the latest teen craze of "death by biting". Don't think it can't happen - they were into choking themselves for a while. 

Bite this, Revlon.

What goes up must come down...

My dearest Sassies,

I have returned from my vacation with tales of adventure and death-defying feats. 

My boyfriend and I often go trail riding in the Ottawa area. I was under the impression that this was "mountain biking" and referred to it as such. I found out that this is not quite the case. What we do is called "cross-country" riding which involves going uphill and downhill over gravel, dirt, roots and rocks, and is quite the aerobic workout.

We figured since we were "mountain bikers" that we'd try out single-track riding on a ski mountain in Maine. You know when you decide to try something and realize, once it's too late, that you kinda wish you hadn't? Like that time you innocently thought: "I'll just try heroin this one time" after you shot up? Well, this experience was kind of like that.

I should have known we were in trouble when the guy who sold us our lift tickets told us riding on the mountain is "pretty intense". I was a little apprehensive to begin with. His comment ignited my nascent terror. But I'm no quitter, no sirree. So...

 we proceeded to go up the mountain, on a chair lift, with our bikes...

It was at about this time that the tune "What goes up must come down" entered my mind. We have to come down this mountain, on our bikes. All traces of saliva disappeared from my mouth and my limbs felt weak. We get to the top and are handed our bikes by the very helpful staff. We consult the map, looking for the "beginner" trails and are on our way. 

Our first ride starts out ok, but then it slowly dawns on me that I'm right out at the edge of my skills and abilities. In other words, I'm scared shitless. This is so NOT like the trails at home. We discovered that all "mountain biking" is not alike. Barreling down a mountain is a little different than riding through the woods. 

It was quite a humbling experience. But we're suckers for punishment. Following numerous contusions and bruises from wipeouts, bike pedals colliding with tender shins and sliding down a particularly steep stretch on my ass, we decided to return a few days later and give it another go. 

I can't think of anything more exciting on a vacation than cheating serious bodily injury and/or death. Good times...

I have something in my head... literally

My dearest Sassies,

Please forgive these departures from celebrity smut. I can't help myself. Weird shit is going on and I must share. I'll start from the beginning. Last spring (April 2009), my boyfriend and I were cycling in a park when we came across a very narrow trail with a lot of thick tree branches lining both sides. Of course, we decide to take this trail because we're adventurous like that. At one point, I lost my balance, and a tree branch basically stabbed the back of my left ear. 

Needless to say, it hurt like a bitch but I kept on riding because I'm tough like that. Back at the car, our adventure done, my boyfriend took a closer look at my shanked ear. There wasn't a lot of blood but there seemed to be a pretty big gash. He thought it would be a good idea to go to Emergency and get it looked at. I balked at the idea but caved and ended up going to the hospital.

Once there, we waited, and waited, and waited... Then, we were brought into an exam room, and waited, and waited, and waited. We started playing with some of the equipment, out of sheer boredom, then got kicked out of that exam room and put into another. Finally, a doctor arrived. We explained what happened, he looked at my ear, then said "This is why I don't exercise." He flushed out the wound with water and glued it together (apparently, they use glue now instead of stitches for some minor wounds). 

Over the next year, I sometimes noticed a little bump in the back of my ear and always thought it was the scar from this incident. I never bothered to actually grab a mirror and look behind my ear. Well, this past weekend, my boyfriend took a closer look because, from what he could see, something just didn't seem quite right. After a closer examination, he suspected a piece of wood may still be lodged under the skin behind my ear. You must understand that usually, I don't worry too much about my health. Until someone tells me they think a foreign body is stuck under my skin. Gross.

So, at my boyfriend's suggestion, I went to see my family doctor who looked at it and said "Huh". Her theory: it could very well be a piece of wood or a piece of broken cartilage. She thinks there's definitely something there. Meanwhile, I'm thinking I should start shopping for funeral homes. Sometimes, my reactions are slightly out of proportion with what's actually happening. I had a tearful breakdown in a bathroom stall once when I found out I needed a root canal.

It's a mystery since there doesn't seem to be any kind of infection, there's no pain, and it hasn't really bothered me for over a year. The family doctor decided to refer me to a plastic surgeon, who will ultimately decide my fate, since she concluded her expertise in this area was somewhat limited.

Knowing there's something stuck in my head feels kind of weird. Ignorance really is bliss. Of course, this surgeon may decide not to do anything if it really isn't bothering me and it's not causing any harm, apart from the circus freak aspect of it. Except now it is bothering me, psychologically speaking, because I know it's there, and I don't quite know what it is.

Of course, I'm trying to keep things in perspective and have a sense of humour about this. Yesterday, my boyfriend and I were discussing something having to do with sex and I said: "Hey, now I have wood too!".

Earthquake!

So there I was, minding my own business, sitting at my desk on the 10th floor of an office building, when lo and behold, the building starts to shake. I don't know about you, but the last thing I want a building to do when I'm 10 floors up is rattle around like it's made of jello. This lasted about 20 or 30 seconds, or so we were told later on the news. It felt like an eternity.

There's currently construction going on in the underground parking garage of said building so I initially thought someone on the crew had royally screwed up and the building was comin' down. It's only when we saw crowds of people streaming out of neighboring office buildings that we realized it wasn't just us. Then calls from loved ones came in. Apparently, the whole city felt it. Turns out it was a 5.0 magnitude earthquake.

Seismic activity is not uncommon in the Ottawa area but quakes registering in the "moderate" category are a rare occurrence. It was a frightful experience to say the least. I was strangely immobile as it happened, staring out the window, thinking "This can't be happening. I don't want to die today and certainly not like this." My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking. Then it stopped.

My co-workers and I congregated in the hallway, trying to make sense of what just happened, still feeling quite skittish. Being on the 10th floor of a high-rise is not a place you want to be during an earthquake. I just kept wondering how the hell we could get out without getting crushed, even though that concern was unwarranted in this case, since the quake wasn't  severe enough to cause any damage. Thank God.

If anything, the whole experience was incredibly humbling. It brought into sharp focus the fact that we have no control over external events in our lives. We can only control our reactions. It was also a reminder to savour every single moment because it could all end in one unexpected instant. 

These types of events bring me into my dark places, into the things I fear most. I have a terrible fear of dying. I don't know, maybe everyone does, to varying degrees. Anything that reminds me that waking up in the morning and getting through the day alive is a f*cking miracle kicks me out of my comfort zone, and I don't much care for that. 

On a more humorous note, some Taiwanese tourists were interviewed on the news yesterday evening, and they were asked what they thought of the quake. They weren't perturbed in the least. Apparently, this kind of thing happens two or three times a month in their country. It was a great reminder not to take things too seriously, and that brought me back to my happy place.

This makes me want to give up on humanity

So this is how it works in Hollywood. I should have known. Your life is a shambles. You have ex-wives and almost ex-wives coming out of your ass, and children from various relationships to support. You were arrested on Christmas Day for attacking your wife. Turns out you're both addicts and total f*ck wads. You halt production on your hit TV show to go to rehab for unknown reasons, and your infant twin boys were floating in some parentless abyss because your wife also went to rehab.

And now they're gonna pay you $2 million f*cking dollars per episode to return to Two and a Half Men! If anything, you should have been kicked out on your keister until your life had some semblance of stability. 

But no, that's not how it works in La-La Land. It's more important to make money off a hit show than display any kind of moral backbone and cast someone else in the lead. TV series do not necessarily die when there is a major cast change. It happens all the time and shows survive, if not thrive.

Besides, Two and a Half Men is some piddly, lame sitcom. It's not a generation-defining, brilliant show like, say, Seinfeld. The fact that it's a number one sitcom disturbs me. This is what we've come to. Drivel. Charlie Sheen is not worth $2 million f*cking dollars per episode. Wow, I can't even say that without swearing. Actually, no one is worth that much. 

It simply brings to light a sick society that would rather pay a selfish ass wipe ridiculous amounts of money to "entertain" us than pay a school teacher a decent salary. F*ck you Hollywood and the dumb asses who watch your dumb ass shows, while propping up an addict. You suck.

I think I need a Valium...

And if I ever catch you in my neighbourhood, 

I'll have a few choice words for you, yes I will.

Pamela Anderson is golden

My dearest Sassies,

I will leave this with you to contemplate over the weekend. I feel anything I have to say would be superfluous to what any intelligent person is thinking.

Peace out y'all...