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.

Sloth-induced positive birth trauma

A colleague sent me this meme recently:

I've always had a natural affinity with felines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Happiness Disease

I've noticed of late that there is a clear preference for "happy" people, keeners, positive thinkers, extroverts; as if everything can be glossed over with a smile, a friendly nod and an optimistic thought. That would require an acknowledgement that everything is indeed ok, which frankly, is rarely the case.

"Happy" is not my default setting. I usually wake up with some degree of melancholy and general unease. Happiness feels like work, and I'm not about that. Maybe I'm just lazy, or unmotivated. Are those synonyms?

I'm most certainly an introvert. There seems to be a general misunderstanding of introverts since extroverts are valued so much more. Introverts make people uncomfortable. I'm guessing it's because others can't understand why we would more often choose to be alone than with other people.

It seems pretty obvious to me. Other people are usually really f*cking annoying, especially those sickly sweet, jazzed up extroverts who are basically asking for a punch in the face. It's not that I aspire to be a recluse. I'm just very particular about who I spend my time with, and much more so as I age, and realize that life is short so why would I spend it with people I hate or find generally irritating?

The one beautiful thing about aging is that you start to care less and less what other people think. If everyone is basically obsessed with what everyone else thinks of them, no one is paying attention to you, so why should you care what others think because they're not thinking about you at all. They're only thinking about what you think of them.

I tried to get on the "positive thinking" bandwagon a few times. It's much easier to be bitter and cantankerous, and frankly, much more interesting and entertaining. Being steeped in anger and resentment feels natural to me, and fuels my drinking habit, which I treasure dearly. Also, being a happy writer just sounds like an oxymoron. What would I write about if I were happy? How to be happy? Puke. Besides, that market is completely saturated... with extroverts.

I recently had a profound revelation. I thought my life would miraculously change once I was a playwright with a production under my belt. Well, I'm now a produced playwright, and guess what, jack shit has changed. It's been a very humbling time.

I thought all this "positive thinking" would ensure an unprecedented success for my show. Well, it was a success, but not unprecedented, not entirely unique, and everything is basically as it was before, i.e. me wondering why I even write at all when it feels like I'm losing an uphill battle, then deciding I may as well start drinking before I get swallowed whole by my existential angst. Maybe I'm not visualizing enough or I'm doing it wrong. I was supposed to be an international sensation by now. Perhaps my 104 Twitter followers think I am, and I suppose, for now, that will have to do.

Being 40 - A Manifesto

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

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

Being 40 - a manifesto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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.

The Waiting Game

So, it's morning. I'm almost done my daily thermos of coffee. Things are moving along, if you catch my drift. I decide it's time to take a stroll to the ladies' room. However, considering what I have to do, I choose to go to a different floor so as not to run into any co-workers. The washrooms on the floors below and above us are also usually less busy than ours.

So, I make my way downstairs to what I assume will be an empty, quiet washroom. Tactical error. As I make my way in, I hear loud, farting noises which, quite frankly, is a rarity in a women's washroom. I figure, hey, that lady is really comfortable with herself and confident which is more than I can say for myself. So, I end up settling into the last stall by the wall and waiting. You see, I can't go about any kind of serious #2 business with other people around. It must be empty.

So, I wait. Then the other lady in question becomes quiet, like she's waiting too. Trying to wait me out. This is when I tell myself: "Game on, girlfriend." No one waits me out. I always win at that game. You will give up and leave me in peace to do what it is I need to do. Best you not be present anyway. But this one's tough. She hangs on and gives me a run for my money, so much so that I have to readjust my waiting position on the porcelain throne. But I have no intention of giving up.

Still waiting... in silence... a silence only broken by workers out in the hall moving office furniture. And then, finally, it must dawn on her that she's fighting a losing battle. I hear rustling and the squeaky sound of a toilet paper roll on its hinge. Victory is mine.

So, I'm strolling back to my gym locker when I glance up at the TV screen and see "Deepak Chopra, Canada Post CEO" and I'm all like "Huh? I thought Deepak was some spiritual guru dude." "Is that why Canada Post is getting flushed?", I ask myself, thinking that spiritual guru dudes may not be the best business magnates.

So I google it and find out there are two of them (quite possibly more but for the purposes of this paragraph, there are two). All this time, the CEO of our national mail agency had a name I could make fun of but didn't because I wasn't properly informed. This is why it's important to keep up with current events.

You know when you're out to dinner with friends, and you really have to pass gas, it's not one of those situations where you can just hold it in, so you discreetly lift a cheek up off your chair and let a silent one go, assuming no harm has been done? Yeah... I tried that last week. Unfortunately, a stench so foul emanated from me, I almost said something. But I couldn't.

I just watched as my boyfriend got this strange look on his face and hoped to God the scent didn't waft over to the other side of the table where, surely, our friends would pass out. There was a subtle pause, barely noticeable, then we just kept chatting. Crisis averted. My boyfriend thought it was the guy behind him until I copped to it at home. He kind of looked at me in shock and disgust. I started laughing hysterically.

Merry Christmas everyone.

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?

Fake nipples and Frankenveins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I loves that scary shit

What turned a good weekend into a great one? We started watching Season 1 of American Horror Story. I'm trying to remember the last time I was so frightened and riveted for such a sustained period of time. My boyfriend had to mute the intro because he found it so creepy. Extra points for scary awesomeness.

With a cover like this, you know that shit is gonna be f*cked up.

I'd heard the show was great but really had no idea what it was about. Six Feet Under actually sold me on this show since Frances Conroy (a.k.a. Ruth Fisher) is in American Horror Story. Since SFU is probably my all-time favorite show ever, I figured if Frances was in this new show, it had to be good.

Jessica Lange also headlines in AHS and rocks that shit like nobody's business. She still looks amazing too, and naturally so, I might add. She looks like a woman who's aged incredibly well, not like some circus freak trying to turn back the hands of time but like someone who takes care of herself and has embraced the aging process. In other words, she's still hot.

What I like about the whole concept of this show is that it feels like a prolonged horror film. Over 12 episodes, there's time to develop a complicated plot and multi-faceted characters, as well as scare the shit out of you over and over using various plot twists and shooting techniques.

The cast is superb, the writing solid. I'm more and more convinced that television is rendering movies obsolete with its sheer excellence. Shows like Dexter, Californication, American Horror Story, Breaking Bad, just to name a few, are eclipsing film as a story-telling medium since they have the luxury of multiple episodes, story arcs and seasons. But most importantly, they make me feel less bad about my TV addiction, and that's what really matters - contributing in a positive way to my rationalizations of questionable behaviour.

Speaking of questionable behaviour, I got nearly homicidal over a squeaky bike brake this past weekend. My boyfriend and I headed up to a provincial park near our place on a beautiful, sunny November afternoon for a ride in the woods. What should have been a mildly challenging, Zen-inducing ride in nature turned out to be a constant inner struggle against my growing rage.

You see, I got brand-new fancy brakes put on my mountain bike and this was only the second time I was using them. I had just figured out what was causing another rattle on my bike and fixed it, and for a brief 10-15 minutes was enjoying the quiet and beauty of the woods when, lo and behold, another incredibly annoying sound started emanating from my front wheel brake. And it didn't stop. It was my own version of American Horror Story. Stuck in the woods on a squeaky bike, the sound magnified tenfold by the sheer silence of nature.

When I pay what I paid for new brakes, they had better work and be whisper quiet. Those mo fos at the bike shop f*cked my shit up and I was pissed. I tried to be all like: "Well, there's nothing I can do now, so I should just surrender to the situation, and try and enjoy the ride despite this loud, irritating noise." That did not work.

So I went with this instead: "I should just surrender to my anger and resentment over this noise that has effectively ruined what might have been akin to a religious experience." Yeah, that felt right. Just be bitter. Don't try to fight it. It's not like it was the last ride of the season. Oh, except it WAS the last ride of the season and I'll carry that with me until next spring when the bike shop will have fixed the problem and I will erase the memory of this debacle with a wonderful ride on my quiet mountain bike.

I have issues. I am aware.

We need to talk about poo

You know, back in the day, when women didn't really talk about "that time of the month" and a girl got her first period, and she thought she was dying, because bleeding from a bodily orifice is usually a bad sign? Well, I experienced something very similar.

Unless you're a new parent, no one is talking about poo. For some reason, poo is taboo. No one likes talking about the plumbing, you know? And until recently, it wasn't at the top of my list, either.

Once upon a time, a girl is going about her morning "business" when she notices a red-coloured ooze emanating from the product of her elimination. It wasn't bright red but more of a diluted blood colour with a pinkish hue. Being the hypochondriac that she is, said girl feels absolute dread settle into every bone in her body as she is now convinced of her imminent death by painful and swift acting gut cancer... or something.

She then starts to rationalize, trying desperately to dig herself out of this black hole of despair. Perhaps it's those new "moist wipes" she started using which frankly, only serve to dry out the tender skin of such a sensitive area. That must be it. Dry skin, friction of substance exiting body through tiny, tiny space. The next day, the girl saw an improvement and was quite relieved. By the following day, the situation seemed to have resolved itself. Those damn wipes! So she stopped using them. Problem solved.

Two weeks later, it happens again. Out of the blue, for no apparent reason, and the girl can no longer blame the wipes. "Sweet Mother of God!" the girl tells herself. "I AM dying!" as she imagines her insides slowly seeping out of her derrière, bit by bit, as the cancer liquefies everything in its path. She decides it's time to call the family physician.

A week later, at the doctor's office, the girl prefaces the discussion with "I apologize for the nature of the conversation we're about to have." Luckily, the doctor puts her at ease right away. Apparently, she talks about poo a lot, par for the course in her line of work. This is good, the girl thinks to herself, and she begins to convey her tale of woe.

The doctor asks her if she's been experiencing any other symptoms to which she replies: "no". Actually, the girl feels very well, even better than usual since switching to a low-gluten diet. Hmm. The doctor checks "the area". No signs of trouble.

Then she asks: "Did you eat beets around the time of these strange occurrences?". The girl ponders the question and traces back her steps. "Yes! Yes, I did!". The doctor then informs the girl that beets can turn your poo the colour of, well, beets which is kind of a dark pink, almost reddish colour, which could, perhaps, be mistaken for oh, I don't know, BLOOD.

Relief washes over the girl as the true source of her abnormal poo is revealed. For good measure, the doctor sends the girl for blood tests, which come back completely normal.

The girl then decides to regale a few lucky friends with her shitty tale to which one of them replies: "Oh yeah, that happens. I eat a lot of beets." WTF? This is why it's important to talk about poo. 

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.

The delinquent yogini

This weekend, I'll be attending a yoga workshop with a world-renowned teacher focused on detoxification. I'm pretty excited about the whole thing but I suspect my delinquent yogini ways will be challenged. 

I'm guessing there'll be discussions on healthy eating (i.e. no meat, caffeine or sugar). If I attempted to remove these things from my diet, I would be suicidal. I was once treated by a naturopath and had to completely cut out dairy, caffeine and sugar for a month. I felt great physically but I was cranky, obsessed with food and any capacity for joy had all but evaporated. That must be how supermodels feel. Now I know why Naomi Campbell throws phones at people.

Life without that sweet, warm elixir known as coffee would be, quite frankly, unbearable. The promise of that first, piping hot cup of coffee is pretty much the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. Call it a soothing ritual, one that enables me to face the day ahead, and gives me a cool caffeine buzz. Hells ya.

Then there's the whole meat thing. I've tried to be a vegetarian but it never felt right. Or, more precisely, I didn't feel right when not regularly consuming meat. It's like something was off kilter. I was gassy and lethargic - a lethal mix since I couldn't even run away from my own heinous farts. 

Obviously, I don't condone the needless suffering of animals. Those raised for consumption should be treated in the most humane way possible. That being said, a Saturday morning without bacon is like Cher without Sonny (oh wait, they broke up, and he's dead - ok, bad analogy, but you get the drift).

I also drink, as in alcohol. I remember in my yoga teacher training, we were told drinking alcohol or consuming any substance that could alter our mood or perception of reality was like a "shortcut" to enlightenment, and by shortcut I mean "cheating". Instead of earning enlightenment through meditation, yoga and consuming only foods that purify the body, intoxicants "trick" the mind into unearned altered states. Well, I'm lazy and I like the taste of wine. 

I'm sure we'll also learn some yoga sequences over the weekend that help detox the body which is good since I'll probably have bacon breath and be a bit hungover.

The one where I realize I'm a TV whore, and not a high-priced one

My vampire fetish has been well documented throughout this blog, on many occasions. Therefore, it's only logical to think that any movie or TV program featuring these bloodsucking fiends would appeal to me. I would dispute this claim except that I was most recently proven wrong, again.

I think I have standards but then something happens that reminds me that, indeed, I do not. Take, for instance, my recent immersion in the teen TV drama Vampire Diaries. It's basically One Tree Hill with vampires. And like One Tree Hill, I was very skeptical at first. Watching the pilot episodes of both these shows was like slowly shoving a fork in my eye. I did not have the faith. My stepdaughter encouraged me to hang in there. So I did.

Last year, we ended up watching six seasons of One Tree Hill in five weeks. There are about 22 episodes per season, at approximately 42 minutes each. You do the math. Once I had made it past the first five or six episodes of the first season of One Tree Hill, I was lapping that shit up like nobody's business.

The same holds true for Vampire Diaries. If you have the fortitude to get past those first few episodes, and the feeling you're simply watching an Abercrombie and Fitch commercial, the storylines, albeit not overly original, suck you in. The layers start to get peeled away, one by one, and you find yourself actually looking forward to the next episode, until it dawns on you - you're hooked.

It can't be any worse than watching America's Next Top Model. Actually, it's pretty much the same show,  with the addition of male actors.

Yes, I'm a Twilight fan. Sort of. Ok! Are you happy now?

Last weekend I found myself in a strange, mysterious and slightly disturbing place - the teen vampire drama universe. My stepdaughter and I were trying to figure out what mindless drivel we would watch to pass the time, and I voluntarily (key word here) suggested Twilight, which I've seen already, like, three times.

We then decided that, in preparation for the release of Breaking Dawn, Part 1, the fourth installment in this wildly popular series, we would also watch New Moon and Eclipse again, both of which I've already seen, but only once, and at the time, I felt once was more than enough.

It's interesting what happens when time passes and you watch a movie again that you thought you kinda hated and it's... better than you initially thought. I'm already predisposed to these films due to my long-standing vampire fetish but I was surprised at my new found enthusiasm for what is essentially a lame-ass retelling of vampire lore.

I still can't convince myself that Kristen Stewart can act. She's shit, any way you slice it, and to this day, I can't understand why Hollywood has convinced itself that she's a talented performer. Luckily, the rest of the cast picks up the slack, especially my beloved Anna Kendrick, scene-stealer extraordinaire. She's awesome, any way you slice it. So is Taylor Lautner's bare chest. It's a character in itself.

I did sorely miss Rachelle Lefevre, who was replaced in Eclipse due to a scheduling conflict by Bryce Dallas Howard. How those bastards at Summit Entertainment couldn't work around Rachelle's shooting schedule is beyond me, but if I had to choose between working with Dustin Hoffman and Paul Giamatti on a film based on a Mordechai Richler story and the campy Twilight saga, I'd ditch the latter as well.   

Note to Robert Pattinson: hit the gym 'yo! Taylor Lautner is wiping the floor with your pasty, non-defined, skinny-ass torso. I understand your skin has to look abnormally white due to the vampiric nature of your character but that's no excuse not to get some bulk and definition. When in doubt, consult photos of True Blood's male vampire cast, most notably Stephen Moyer and Alexander Skarsgard. You should bare some resemblance to that body type to convince us of your truly irresistible vampire charm.

After having immersed myself in about six hours of Twilight saga-ness, I find myself actually excited to see the next installment, mostly because I'm curious as to how they dealt with a vampire/human sex scene and what can only be described as an incredibly unusual, violent birth. Sex and violence, that's all it really takes to lure me in. I know, how typically bourgeois.

Of course, I'm expecting some Kristen Stewart-esque bad acting but after having made us wait this long, we're finally getting to the good stuff, and they better not have f*cked it up. Of course, Breaking Dawn won't hold a candle to True Blood's sexual content but that's like comparing apples to oranges - it's a fruitless endeavour.

It's all going to pot

I'm in Jamaica... odds are... 

Vacation re-post #3: Bad yogini!

I'm gonna drink the kool-aid...

So here's me, deciding that in 2011, I don't want to define "success" by outward accomplishments (psh!) and status symbols (lame!). I want to cultivate inner acceptance, a true and lasting source of self-esteem not dependent on outward circumstances... Uh-huh. What are we today? March 9th? Yeah, well, that plan isn't workin' out so good. 

I had vowed not to be one of those "keepin' up with the Jones' " kind of people, just "having to have" the latest version or the newest tech toy. I kept telling myself: "No, I'm happy with my seldomly used LG Rumor cellphone. Perfectly content. Don't need anything else." 

Yesterday, I got a letter in the mail from our cellphone service provider. "You are now eligible for a phone upgrade. You can choose a new phone OR why not one of our new Blackberry smartphones?" Waaaaaaaahhhhh? Of course, they included a pamphlet with photos and info on the very latest Blackberry models. Of course...

Oooooohhhhhh.... aaaahhhhhhh. Pretty. Shiny. Blackberry. Must have one. No, dammit, no! I will not be a victim of sales gimmicks! Shut up voice of reason! I want one! But you barely use the phone you have now! You vowed never to be a "Crackberry" user! I don't care! I want one! 

I was like a diabetic kid in a candy store, like a sex addict in a porn shop; the want so intense and overpowering, it eclipsed any sense of restraint. Who am I kidding? Trying to be all noble and shit, all anti-consumerism. I am failing miserably at this task. 

After being given a second-hand iPod, "Apple want" ignited within me. If we happened to be in an electronics store, I felt obliged to peruse the new iPod products, and the joy I felt at the prospect of owning one of these toys was akin to still believing in Santa Claus.

Before I had an iPod, I couldn't have cared less about them. I had no interest in owning one and didn't know the first thing about how they worked. I was not perturbed by this in the least. But then, like Adam enticed by Eve to take a bite of the apple, I did, and brought rabid desire upon my earnest attempts at moderation.

It's humbling to be actively aware of my status as a hapless peon on the wheel of consumption. Maybe I should do more yoga or meditate or something to mitigate the irrational beliefs programmed into my average brain by clever marketers about what I "need". Ooohhh, that might require a trip to Lululemon.... never mind.

The yoga of TV

A colleague of mine recently loaned me the first season of Three's Company on DVD. Watching this show once again instantly brought me back to my childhood, when re-runs would air Monday to Friday. Back then, most of the sexual innuendo went over my head but I loved it nonetheless. It was one of those programs that felt like a warm security blanket, that made everything better, if only for half an hour.

This could explain, in part, my addiction to television. Certain shows, at different times in my life, filled a need to escape, created a safe environment for however long the show lasted. Back in the eighties, shows like Three's Company, Family Ties and the Dukes of Hazard were among my faves. 

Every Friday night, I'd always try to sneak in Dallas which aired immediately after the Dukes of Hazard. I'd sit quietly in our rec room, which was downstairs, while my parents were milling about upstairs and hope my mother wouldn't notice it was past my bedtime. Sure enough, every time, as soon as she heard the Dallas theme song, she would call me up to bed. Damn, I would think, foiled once again!

When I got a little older, I was allowed to stay up later to watch Miami Vice, which led to my unhealthy obsession with Don Johnson and the disintegration of my promising acting career.

In the early nineties, when I was struggling with homesickness and low self-esteem during my first year of university, Beverly Hills 90210 was my saving grace. The kids on the show were also in their first year of university, albeit richer and in a warmer climate. I escaped into their college experience to momentarily forget my own which, although academically successful, was wrought with difficulties, not the least of which was contending with one of the coldest winters I can remember, an apt manifestation of how I was perceiving my environment at that time - cold and inhospitable.

I also had a fiery affair with a short-lived remake of a vampire program, Dark Shadows, starring Ben Cross. After only one season and one hell of a cliffhanger, it went off the air. I was incensed. This, of course, was an early harbinger of my later obsession with vampires, pre-Twilight. Don't get me started on that bullshit... When the spoof Vampires Suck is better than the actual movies, somethin's gotta give.

The mid to late nineties were peppered with great sitcoms: Seinfeld, Friends, Frasier, Roseanne. And, irony of ironies, my dad introduced me to Sex and the City in 1998. He was watching it one night and hollered: "You gotta come and see this!" And then I was hooked. 

These days I'm all about HBO and Showcase and shit. They're producing some of the best TV ever. And it just keeps getting better. Although I would be remiss if I didn't mention two of my network faves, 30 Rock and Modern Family.

Throughout my life, television programs have been there, like a faithful friend, momentarily suspending reality and allowing me to escape into some other universe. Not that my life was filled with hardship. Quite the opposite, actually. I was, however, struggling with what everyone faces in their lives: self-doubt, low self-esteem, perfectionism (my own), relationships with family, friends and boys, societal expectations, etc...

Say what you will about TV and, for the most part, its ever devolving content, it still provides a reprieve from reality, from fears and frustrations, demands and expectations, and simply allows me to be. It's the yoga of TV.

The Bachelor trumps romantic date on Valentine's Day

A Valentine's Day morning at our house:

The boyfriend: Hey, wanna go skating tonight?

Me: The Bachelor is on tonight.

The boyfriend (laughs hysterically): So this is what it's come to.

Me: It's a great way to celebrate Valentine's Day - I mean, it's about romance and finding love and stuff.

The boyfriend: Uh-huh.

You must understand, skating in Ottawa is a special event. The longest outdoor skating surface in the world, the Rideau Canal, is located in the heart of downtown Ottawa and it's "an experience" to skate on it what with the beautiful scenery, hot chocolate and scrumptious Beaver Tails. If you don't know what Beaver Tails are, come to Ottawa and find out. It'll be worth the trip, I promise.

So me saying no to what could have been a nice, romantic Valentine's Day skate, and opting instead to stay home and watch reality TV is really, well, sad. However, watching The Bachelor at our crib is a family affair. The boyfriend, the stepdaughter and I watch this show with great enthusiasm and running commentary, especially since we're noticing a trend with the male bachelors. 

They swear they're in it to find true love but end up thinking only with their penis. How do we know this? Because they keep the crazy bitches and eliminate the nice girls. Don't get me wrong, the nice girls are just as pretty as the manipulative wack jobs, except they seem emotionally stable. I guess that's not appealing.

That's exactly what the current Bachelor, Brad Womack, is doing. Sometimes, he appears to be thinking clearly, and makes logical decisions. But most of the time, the three of us are incensed by his incomprehensible attraction to nasty ass, sometimes abusive women. 

What's the deal Brad? One of them is outright crazy, with fairytale-like delusions that she was "meant to be" on the show and thus Brad should pick her. Another confessed that she purposely sabotages relationships because she feels no one can deal with her past baggage. 

And yet, there are a couple of women who are genuinely interesting, attractive and not constantly thinking about themselves but about Brad, and how he's feeling throughout this arduous process of picking a mate for life. Kudos to Brad for keeping some of them but why he's kept the crazies and booted off the other nice girls is beyond my comprehension.

I'm quite aware of the fact that the extent to which this enrages me is disturbing in itself. It's a goddamn reality show, for Christ's sake! Why do I even care! And yet, I do, dammit. I want Brad to be happy. I want him to find a suitable partner. But he's f*cking it up big time. I wish I could have a little sit down with him, tell him he's gone astray and who my picks would be. 

Then again, maybe that's my wish to exert control over him, and then I'd be no better than the bitches I claim are intolerable. 

 Chris Harrison, why do you do this to me! Why do you subject me to these mind games! They're f*ckin' me up man!

Wanna be my best friend?

Not too long ago, I unearthed a diary I wrote when I was 12 years old. So far, it's explained why I'm not a famous actress. It's a veritable treasure trove of insights into my young, still forming psyche. Today, I thought I'd share with you what I found out about my friendships back then, that is, in 1986.

Apparently, the "best friend" bond was taken very seriously in 6th grade, as seriously as a monogamous, exclusive relationship. No joke. Check out this excerpt from January 29, 1986. (Names have been altered to protect the innocent.)

Dear Diary,

I had an interesting day today. I was playing with Joanna and so Darlene thought that I was her best friend. But I told her we weren't. But she doesn't trust me so she didn't believe me and I'm never going to be her best friend again. Then Darlene called Christine and told her that Nadine and Savannah were B.F.'s which wasn't true. Nadine and Christine were good B.F.'s. But Christine believed Darlene and now she's Darlene's best friend. Then, we played with the boys a little and we got in trouble by the principal but it wasn't too serious. Well, I had a great day.

I'm trying to determine if I was simply much more emotionally healthy back then or in total denial. After all that drama, I declare I had a great day. What exactly constituted a bad day in 1986 for 12-year-old me? Getting gang raped and shanked in a dark alley? Not that that actually happened but I'm trying to imagine the severity necessary for me to have declared: " You know, today wasn't so great."

What is becoming apparent in this excerpt, however, is my future sluttiness - playing with the boys and getting in trouble - my innocence was already compromised, there was no turning back. 

Also, note my use of abbreviations, i.e. B.F. I was clearly ahead of my time, heralding the day when writing in abbreviations would become the norm. LOL. 

Here's another excerpt, dated February 12, 1986, which vividly demonstrates the apparently dysfunctional, toxic friendships I was involved in:

Dear Diary,

We had a little fight today. Darlene asked me if I was Joanna's best friend and I got mad so at 4:20 that afternoon I became Christine's but I'm Darlene's now. Anyways, Darlene called me five times and she was crying four times. She ripped her Corey Hart poster because of me. Joanna called her twice for me. Besides that not much happened. We got our picture taken and I think everybody took a nice picture. Well, that's it.

I'm amazed at the precision of my memory when it comes to the exact time that I became Christine's BF. These days, I'm lucky if I can remember what happened an hour ago. 

Also noteworthy, Darlene's severe distress over my defection from our exclusive friendship. I don't think any man has ever cried over me or ripped a Corey Hart poster in broken-hearted despair. 

You must understand, back then Corey was the shit and he had a hit album out, possibly his only hit album, but whatever... He was DA MAN. Ripping a Corey Hart poster would have been akin to... oh, I don't know, to boycotting iTunes or something. (How am I supposed to know what matters to kids these days?; teenage stepdaughters notwithstanding.)

Following all this intense drama, is my ever so nonchalant statement that "Besides that not much happened". Dude, the whole day sounds like a total washout - chalk full of crying, destroying personal property and gnashing of teeth. 

I'm not sure what the equivalent of that would be in 2011, but you can bet your ass I would be finishing off the day nursing a potent drink and declaring what an atrociously awful day it was. 

Perhaps there's something to learn from my 12-year-old self who could so easily brush aside personal slights and fights with loved ones, and go on to declare that "everybody took a nice picture". I don't recognize this part of myself anymore because the 36-year-old me holds on to a grudge like a crack addict to a pipe. 

I have a hard time remembering most of the pleasant, beautiful moments in my life but ask me what someone said in November 1998 that pissed me off and I'll be able to tell you in two seconds flat. Sad, I know. 

I haven't yet begun to delve into the other volumes of personal diaries I found, the next one starting in 1991 at the tender age of 16 but I suspect, given my present self, that it's a slow and steady downward spiral. 

"But Sassy", you may be thinking, "why are you so hard on yourself? We've all made mistakes." (Pause) You know what, you're right. I f*cking ROCK, diaries notwithstanding...

Why I'm the Bridget Jones of business travel

When I travel for fun, I'm not too concerned about how I present myself. I wear my comfy traveling clothes and my carry-on bags usually consist of backpacks or large purses bursting with trashy magazines and snacks. However, when traveling for business, I like to think I'm a professional, and I try to present myself as such.

Yesterday, I made my way from Ottawa to Atlanta and demonstrated, on numerous occasions, why I'm the Bridget Jones of business travel. It all started out well. I got to the airport, checked in, and my colleague and I made our way to the lounge to wait for our flight. I even bought an "intellectual" magazine, Lapham's Quarterly, instead of my usual People or US. 

Leaving the lounge, I almost left my very business-like carry-on bag behind which my colleague kindly pointed out. Then, on an hour-long flight from Ottawa to Toronto, I managed to read all of three pages of my "smarty-pants" magazine, which was quite fascinating indeed - it's a historical, cultural and intellectual analysis of celebrity. It's the smart person's People. But my God, it was so much more demanding to read than my usual gossip rags. 

I think I'm becoming dumber with age. I came across proof of this not too long ago when I found some dissertations I wrote in university, attempted to read them, and realized I could barely understand what I myself had written. Apparently, at one time, I was quite the intellectual. Of course, that was before The Bachelor, America's Next Top Model and Wipeout. But I digress.

Then we arrive in Toronto for a connecting flight to Atlanta. For some reason, my fairly sleek carry-on bag on wheels manages to collide with or get stuck on every post, wall, elevator door and escalator stair I pass by or come in contact with. This does not jive with my cool business travel persona which evidently, only exists in my head, not in reality.

Boarding the plane to Atlanta, I realize there is no room for said carry-on bag in the overhead compartment over my seat. So, I decide to walk back a few rows to find a spot for it. I managed to find some free space only to discover that my carry-on would not fit into the overhead compartment on this smaller plane. Sweet Jesus.

Imagine, if you will, a salmon swimming upstream, against the current. This was me, trying to get back to my seat, against the tide of passengers still boarding the plane, in a too narrow aisle, with a small suitcase in my hands. I decide to shove it with all my might under the seat in front of me and rest my feet on the still protruding portion of my bag. I also had my very business-like attache bag with me. 

At one point, the flight attendant noticed the small mountain of luggage under my feet and told me this was unacceptable. I explained that my suitcase did not fit overhead, so she very politely took it away. Luckily, she was quite nice, or sympathetic to my plight, and found a spot for it somewhere else on the plane. 

Of course, when we landed, this meant I had to wait for everyone to get off the plane before a flight attendant could retrieve my bag and I could head into the airport. Good times.

Imagine, if you will, a girl trying to act casual but ending up running, arms flailing, scarf flying about, shoulder bag slipping off occasionally, and tugging on a piece of luggage on wheels that always seems to get stuck on something.

Yep, that's me, trying to be a professional business person.