Mastering the Art of Pandemic Sourdoze

You know it’s been Covid Times long enough when you actually dream about your kindergarten teacher and she’s carrying a broomstick she’s about to beat you with it as per usual from decades of the same nightmare plots but now she’s not wearing a mask and you wake up with a jolt at 3 am and toss for the next 4 hours waiting for for the sour dough starter to bubble.

You are a negligent jack ass and thee foray into sour dough was a mishap base on your inability to read directions. In 2019 you would have said you would have used the word “disaster” to describe all the sticky white flour glue globs embedded in your kitchen crevices and the rock hard ball of gluten you baked. But it’s 2020 and mistakes are now just charming diversions. Lolz, as it were.

You cried the day it was really here in March of 2020. Although you knew it was coming from weeks of international news but the people stuck in quarantine on the cruise ships just seemed like fools on a modern reality show version of The Love Boat. It’s terrible to have the Schadenfraude gene but it will come in super satisfying in November of 2020. Grease your palms.

You called your family and friends that day they declared LOCKDOWN. Said hey in case they were dying and wished to tell them you loved them. You watched Tiger King but it didn’t sink in. Carole Baskin seems like a very nice lady though. You lay on the couch and the bed and back again. You threw up a once, standing up. You wondered if you’d get more fat or slightly thin? Spoiler Alert: Fat wins for 90 percent of the population. Let’s agree to laugh about this now because one day some Animal Crossing playing millennial will figure out how to turn all those carbon dioxide farts into fuel that propel us all to Mars to escape the mess.

You finally watched Godfather 1 and 2. Not 3 because you are not a completionist. But! You rewatched all 6 seasons of Sex and the City and the two movies for the upteenth time and finally after all these years, figured out Aiden really is The One. K period F period C period. Are you kidding me? Get in my bed, you fried chicken eating handy man.

You found a new path in the city to walk through, one where there were no locks on gates and the dogs could run free. There was beauty in the world and life is good. It really is lovely and quiet.

You woke up one day and it was April. The leaves were budding. The birds were chirping, they don’t fucking know it’s Covid Times. Suddenly, as if lightening struck, the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into a fog.

You got your haircut finally.

You grew it out again.

You lost your mojo but can’t pinpoint when.

You binge watched The Queen’s Gambit in November and masturbated.

You came when Biden won.

You also started a YouTube channel because the sour dough didn’t work out:

Mastering the Art of Surviving in Mercury in Retrograde

Mercury in Retrograde is definitely a thing. All this universal anxiety, we all feel it.  I don’t know what it is but I have the faith that when all things go awry, it’s probably in threes because! That’s what everyone in the astrology world says that about “bad things.” It must be true because it’s on the Internet. This is our Godly place now. Facebook is our Church. Memes are our preachings. Your friends on social media post black and white photos of Marilyn Monroe or Einstein with mumbo jumbo: “Show up late, keep them guessing, don’t do the same things over again,expecting things to happen or you’re the definition of insanity.”

I am a prompt, nut job, call me, seeking the same.

I have had two bad things happen the last year, waiting for the third, hoping it happens later rather than sooner, otherwise I will melt.

Good things happen everyday but we don’t really notice them. The sun comes up every morning much to our despair when we we hoping for a snow day, a certain impeachment, or best case scenario, a zombie-nerd-ass apocalypse where we can all just give it all up and forage the way we are meant to be truly human superstars. Our days are usually quite routine and boring that we can’t fucking wait for a diversion. And yet! The underwire from your best bra sprung free and has stabbed your armpit while you are driving on a narrow one way street in back of a recycling truck taking its sweet time and you have to pee and you squeezing yourself shut and hating life but yet fail to realize you are alive and life is actually good. The despair is actual gratitude! And it’s just pee. Slip some out. Your underpants are thick, they are the thick cotton man-brief kind from Aerie. Your outerpants can also take the moist heat, they are water wicking Adidas joggers.  Dude who is hauling the garbage into the truck is actually handsome and he has shoulders and is capable to throw 90 pounds of shite out of your way, driveway by driveway. Mercury might be in “Retrograde” (whatevs that is, Jesus Christ is laughing on his cross) but Venus is in Hunger Games, and I think you know what that means.

And why are you not in love with him? You could be. He is there.

I am looking at you, sweet sir.

Look back…..jerk.

These fucking diligent pricks never do. They just do their jobs. I’ve been invisible all this time. Yet! My winged eye-liner is so on point.

Tomorrow is another day however, and Saturn might be in Uranus, in which case, we’ll need lube. Ba-da-ba-tzzz. And that’s all I have to say about Mercury.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of the Irish Exit

Christ on a stick, muthahfuckahs, I’m trying to get back on-line and write on this blog thing but I’m hindered with technology. Please send thoughts and prayers my way so I can prolly upgrade this greasy sneeze and fecal matter speckled lap pad at some point so I can watch my shows. My lil portal into the interwebs will soon be outdated, I’ve been warned by the godz, not able to get Netflix on my crickety old Model T Ford of a browser AS OF MAY 15, hey hey bitches that’s 4 days after by birthday, let’s get a fundo mcstarter thing happening… just jokes, my hoes, I’m slightly concerned  but whatever! I’ll figure it out, fucking Apple, what scam. It’s a sign. Of what I don’t know. (I do know, I have a fantasies of living a simple life in a tiny house, but ironically I need the internet  with a kickass computer to validate #tinyhouse #lifestyle #FML) HASHTAGGAH!  (that’s how we pray these days, crossing our fingers and eyes at the same time)

Anyway, just saying hi after a long reprieve from here. My place of joy. Where typos can’t be Marie Kondo-ized. What an awesome cunt, right? Cheers, ho! What does not bring you joy, just toss! I do love that bitch’s philosophy bt-dubs but I do need things hanging around my house like that portable Dyson that gives me anxiety but picks up  dog floof by the door jams and I have to end up picking it out of the canister with my bare hands cuz it’s an actual piece of shit that I spent too much money on. HOWEVER, it does the job. Dyson and Apple are way over-rated. But I need both these dicks.

Breath, because I don’t think I can give up Apple.

Aaagh. My dad died in November. It was his time but he slipped away one day like an IRISH EXIT. It was so him. No one was in the hospital room with him that particular Tuesday afternoon even though they might have been but! I love that so much. He took his own time.

He’s not Irish but Icelandic so close enough by boat (ginger beards, wily white men types that like to drink and and climb trees). By the way, I adopt the credo of the Irish Exit as an Urban Lady who goes to those type of pyramid parties where another Urban Lady is trying to sell shit like candles and housewares, just go in, say hey, oh, Heather, I love your addition, amazing gas fireplace, eat bitch’s cheese platter and drink what you can of her boxed wine that she put in the decanter that she’s trying to sell you, great for Christmas gifts, and high tail out of there.

As for your death bed though, you prolly don’t have a choice. Doctor on duty gave some comfort to my mom and said some people to choose to go on purpose when no one is around. I believe that in my heart that is what he did and there is beauty to simply slink out of the room. Or the earth. Wispy, woosh, gone is your soul, whatever is that energy. No one is hanging on to your hand and weeping. Instead they find you there, just that gentle napping body, prolly snoring, and doing that wake up thing when you hear the snort but instead of coming conscious, you slip away. It’s pretty perfect. I think.

My dad. I loved him so much. And I am left with the grief which is cool.I can really relish in the memories I have about him. I’m good with that. He was 95 so godspeed. Aaaand so I ask….what is godspeed anyway?????

But! I as an earthly human am left with much freakoutedness. What is death? I know I am super old to be thinking these things and it with an immature mind that I ask the question, but where do we go? I had a routine doctor’s appointment for a follow-up something ominous which I will overshare at some other point and I asked her, mid-clamp, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE DIE? She was also rattled and had a terrible time finding my cervix which seemed to have her head in the sand as well.

NO ONE KNOWS, that’s what she said.

I’m posting this in the ether because I want more comfort and maybe clarity of what spirituality for someone like me who doesn’t follow a religion per se, even though I opened up this post with “Christ on a stick, muthahfuckas” which I think Modern Jesus would be all cool with using his name for the sake of a hashtag, I listened to a podcast about it, so there’s that. If there was a second coming of Jesus he would be on Instagram right now.

Ugh, it’s trippy. Living is very boring over a certain age (I’m getting there) and death is scary (I’m not at peace yet).

Let’s fuck things up. I want to do mushrooms. Hit me up.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Loneliness

I’m pretty sure we’ve covered this topic already but let’s have another go at it because who doesn’t love to beat up on oneself for sport? Lately, I haven’t been great at blog writing becuzzzz, ma bitches, I’ve been doing my dog business and feeling pretty good about things, turns out being happy is not a motivator to spilling out guts on the internet. But of course you need ebb and flow, thank Dog for nature, so you can’t be happy all of the time, all day, every waking moment, even though today I’m pretty fucking content laying around catching up on Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown on Netflix. Which, by the way, is the most amazing show and I love him so much and I’m watching it in the now and still with disbelief that he’s dead.

His life is my dream life and he’s so cool and seemingly self-contained so I wonder why would he kill himself? Maybe it’s not so much why as in who is your inner demon and how can you make friends with it? I don’t have the answer because I have my own devil hoe, that harrowing sense of loneliness, I don’t find it funny enough to personify it and give it a cute name, but I wrestle with it every day. Not all day, because I like to shit in private and I value my me-time to putter on the internet or in the drugstore like everybody else but it’s a shadow in the day and a howling wolf at night, full moon style. Trust, it’s not glamorous like the tshirt, it’s like being tied to a pole in front of Noah’s Ark and the flood is starting, and you’re like a poised Tundra wolverine with your posture all pro, eyebrows on point, and nice smile you force on and yet there are a blur of basic snaggle-toothed hunched backed coyotes with tufts on their shoulder blades filing in the proverbial Yacht of Life two-by-two because they filled out the right paperwork. That’s my best metaphor. What the fuck did I miss?

Basic human need is to couple up, I don’t know how deep it goes in our psyche but I read clickbait articles and have been around the block, and moseyed down the main street to the tracks, crossed the tracks, jumped over creek, found a dead body, came back, lathered, rinsed and now I’m spinning in circles. I am an emotional soldier with no medals. I’m not sure what I’ve learned or where my boundaries are or where I’m heading or even what I want. What I do know is that while being in a relationship is nice for appearance sake, and keeps everything normal, it doesn’t necessarily keep loneliness away. Being lonely in a couplehood is probably worse because then you’re doubly fucked up, being lonely in a crowd type thing, that displaced feeling that haunts you no matter what situation.

It’s assumed that being single is bad. Especially as a lady over say, 40, and over 50, pack it up and just enjoy your food because game over. Unless you have been widowed or something, then that is an elevated grade of tragic loneliness. But! Caveat! If you are a widower (man-widow, English language has weird semantics), no worries, within three months you’ll be hooked up with a barrage of Single Ladies from Beyonce’s closet, I don’t know who, what, or where, but they are all hot, kind of id you squint, and the world is now your oyster. Slurp away at that candida buffet, bruh, enjoy your second wind.

I don’t know what my lonely shadow bullshit is about because coupledom has never been a comfortable situation for me anyway. It’s not that I haven’t been with the right people, it’s the situation that I’ve chosen has been wrong, and timing is everything. But! When you’re old as fuck, time is not on your side so it’s best to get your demon, call him a he, give him a kind face, broad shoulders, a beard with silvers, imagine a hairy chest, a treasure trail, a nice peen if you’re going down that far, then look him in the mirror, call him Frank or whatever, and buy him a plaid flannel shirt and wear it yourself. Cuz being lonely is poetic.

*********************

That was the end of that post but here’s a bonus story that I didn’t know how to fit in that actually happened to my friend that write in a play style, changing the names, location. Here goes:

Sharon, a well-dressed self-possessed woman in her 50s, walks into her favourite neighbourhood gastro-pub where she can sit down at the end of a work day and order a gin martini and a plate of pickled herring, sweet onions, or whatever Anthony Bourdain ate in Norway. Normally the bar is her space to zone out and scroll through her reader on her phone, she’s a smart as fuck woman and interested in politics and social justice but! she is also funny and engaging. If you were ever lucky enough to be her friend, she makes a mean Caesar and will let you hang in her backyard for a whole afternoon even though she prolly has other things to do.

But! This day, the bar is full of fucks and Sharon has to wedge herself not in her normal spot but in an awkward spot beside some group of people, and another dude, who is apparently single so she is kind of forced to strike up a conversation. Said dude is in his 70s, SEVENTIES, like motherfucker would have had to have been born in the 1940s, he wretched but in a virile way, we’ll give him a hall pass for now. Ma girl, reminder, is rocking her 50s.

Sharon (super friendly): Oh, hello, blah blah blah

Wretched dude (friendly): Blah blah blah, I have a cottage in Muskoka, I’m turning it into an AirBnB

Sharon( still friendly: Oh! Nice blah

Wretched (in his own world now): Blah my ex decorated it blah my other ex blahed in it

Sharon (still engaging because polite): Blahed?

Wretched (anus prolapses and completely exposed): Blah this n that, me so rich etc, what about you?

Sharon: (trying to shut this down) Oh! Yeah have two daughters, blah, do you have a card because I might be interested in renting your place?

Wretched (with the line I’ll leave you with because it’s amazing and never be afraid to be lonely ever again:

HOW OLD ARE YOUR DAUGHTERS? BECAUSE I’M LOOKING FOR MY NEXT EX-GIRLFRIEND

I want to end it with Sharon’s vagine growing a long neck and gulping up his french fries but there really is no satisfying ending to this, except for in real life she told him to shut the fuck up and turned her back on him and I guess that’s all you can do.

So. Dicks abound. Hold yourself close and remember, we are ALL lonely, don’t worry about it so much, forge through, change something, anything, pet a dog or fry an egg, then go watch tv. I’m still here.Call me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Stumbling Into The Next Situation With Dignity

I hate when I don’t write for a long time then I have a back log of things to say and I can’t form a single thought and then I continue not to write then I have nothing to say at all. I think a lot but the fingers don’t move with my brain jive. They do actually move but only to pick things out of my teeth while clicking on the remote control. You know what I mean? Also my trusty little lap top might have gotten a virus or an Apple pandemic because it’s slow right now, I perhaps watched too much low brow porn and click bait in the form of Tasty recipes,  and now it can’t load the Netflix properly so now I’m on my daughter’s laptop and I don’t really have the feel of the lay of the land right yet and my fingers need to stretch out farther which feels uncomfortable and yet necessary. That’s actually a lesson I learned recently, stretch your fingers out farther and you’ll be surprised at what itch you’ll scratch, if you know what I mean. Or not, I don’t know what I mean either, I’m just nervously typing right now. (Psst, I actually do know what I mean but we can talk about it on my Tumblr blog from the secret menu).

On a side note, I’ve been listening to a lot of Elton John these days, in my car with the windows down, thinking about his stubby-ass genius fingers on a piano. Levon and Tiny Dancer, bro. Why did I forget about him?  Ruhhhh-spect. And Mad Man Across the Water, hands down, his best song ever: “Ya better get ya coat, dear, it looks like RAAAAAAAIIIIIIN, I’LL COME AGAIN NEXT THURSDAY AFTERNOOOOOON….” Dem lyrics tho, Bernie. I can totally sing along to that 70s pitch, definitely my era. I myself have like old wrinkly fingers now, tap doodling on a keyboard, which I respect, my own witchy ancient integrity and chipped nail polish, I’m super cool with that, you can pull the skin up on my knuckles and watch it deflate back to normal for the amount of time for an 8-track tape ca-chunk over to the rest of I, Robot Track 3 or whatever. Only 70s kids would get that sentence and the rest of you can call me later. I can teach you things.

Anyhoo, yes, what I need to say is forming. Being inert is a bitch. Being inert when you know what you need to be doing is a disgrace. That is the trajectory of my life until now. I’m old as fuck and only getting older with the rest of y’all and I realize I should have been taking on the bull by the horns prolly a long time ago but no! That “people pleaser” mentality is too ingrained and I’m not sure how I got it but it needs to stop. I honestly don’t remember my own parents specifically instructing me to suck all the dick standing in my way so I’m assuming it’s from one of society’s longstanding mores which should be revised in today’s climate. My feeling is that the only dick that needs to be sucked is the one you want to suck. If you can suck your own dick, you are golden. That goes proverbially, obvi, you know what I mean, be your own boss. If you can suck your own dick, literally, and I saw that on the internet, some boney-assed dude just curling up like a cooked shrimp, turning into the snake that eats itself, which! is what prolly broke my computer, then that mo-fo needs a proper job. Or not. That’s the thing about finding your truth. You never know where that path will lead. We’ll talk about that at another time.

Ahoy, back to point, I quit my job a couple of months ago,  but not because I didn’t like it, I loved it, but circumstances changed. I wasn’t doing the quality of the job I wanted to do with the new situation and it seemed there was no other way out than to bail. In doing so, I had to take a leap of faith that things would work out but I also had to know that things would get fucked up quite a bit. Bombshell, bitches, here’s the thing, don’t take on a business for yourself that you can’t manage properly, listen to feedback, and that’s all I will say about that situation.

I know some of you come her for the dating stories but I haven’t really had the heart for anything except! The universe has thrown me some recycled bone from my Tinder days. Which is nice cuz I don’t have to fish for it, just shave my armpits and vacuum the hallway to the bedroom a bit. That kind of low maintenance is all I ask for. But! I am slightly lonely these days though, I won’t lie. I don’t what the calling is cuz I’m self-proclaimed dyed-in-the wool single lady. However! I had a really cool regular-normal-by-the rules-no-boning date last week  with a dude that I was messaging with from the old OkC dating website but! The caveat is that he lives in a whole other city that is a plane ride away because of course, 8 billion people in the world. It’s weird how hard it is to find one. Maybe soon though, I’ll keep the windows open.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Facing Your Fears

Isn’t that just best worst picture ever? It came up on my Facebook newsfeed a few weeks ago (thanks, T! Luv u!) and I saved it to my computer, I don’t what for, but occasionally I stare at it and feel things. It came from the National Geographic website, it’s a king cobra and a reticulated python in a skirmish of survival. The python squeezes the cobra to death as the cobra chomps into the python a lethal injection of its venom. Well done, nature. If that’s not a metaphor for the political climate on your Facebook newsfeed and its battle of wits in any given comment section, I don’t know what is. Anyway, at first after I got over the initial horror of this spectacle, I then became disgusted the all the litter on the pathway. Humans are the foulest beasts and we should be very afraid of each other.

On that note, I’m back on the blog! I’ve accumulated a sufficient amount of anxiety to fuel the fire that drives me to spread my thoughts out on the internet. How would you measure anxiety? On a Richter scale? Mine is hovering around 3.0 -3.9 where shaking of indoor objects may be visible. I would like something to take ending in “pam” but I just might need to go back to yoga. Haha, don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. For many years, I went to Bikram yoga and sweated and near barfed in a room full of almost naked people forced to look at themselves in the mirror while doing the same fucking series of poses in complete unison and utter silence. Keep your toes in line. Do not breathe through your mouth. You know what, Choudhury?  There’s more than one way to swing a cat. But no, there isn’t apparently, it had to be just so. If I heard them say “squeeze like you’re a Japanese Ham Sandwich” one more time, I was going to implode all my hidden rage, disguised under a thin veil of faux serenity, and scream NAMASTE? NAMA-FUCKING-OUTA-HERE BITCHES. So after 6 years I stopped going and never looked back. I’m looking up on google what is a Japanese ham sandwich and urban dictionary has a whole other meaning for it and it doesn’t involve lettuce and tomato, but may or may not involve mayo.  I really hate yoga, it’s soooooo boring, Meditation shmeditation, like what for? I’m alone with my thoughts all day, I know my inside dialogue so well, it doesn’t scare me anymore and it’s certainly no longer interesting. I need interaction. Even though other people scare me.

So I went back to my gym. Baby steps, my friends. I rolled on a ball for 10 minutes, almost getting hit in the head by a big dude swinging a kettle bell, then I trotted over to the inversion machine and hung like a bat for another two minutes. I’ve been a member for 21 years and joined for the fitness but stayed for the beer. What kind of gym has beer, you ask. Well it’s not just a gym, it’s a racquet club. Oooh, you fancy lady, you say. Not really. It’s a basic facility in the feral section of town where the highway ends in the east end of Toronto. You have to have a four wheel drive to make it through into the parking lot. The people are a motley bunch of old and not so old people. The latest is an influx of families with toddler types. There must have been nothing on tv in 2014-15. Let me tell you, helicopter parenting is alive and well in these parts. The best part of the gym, aside from the beer taps, is the hot tub in the ladies’ change room. Its jets are majestic. Fingers and peen in fluid form. Problems include sometimes it’s out of order, and other times it’s filled with toddlers LEARNING TO SWIM IN IT, and a hovering mom standing in front of the knob that turns the jets on. There’s an actual pool for that sort of thing but no, it’s “too cold.” I used to wait for their precious still water sessions to be over but now I just barge in, flick the switch, fling my towel over the rail, and step in all nekky, swinging tiddies and whatnot. Children don’t scare me as long as they keep their comments to themselves.

When I first joined the gym, I was big into group fitness and coming every day because there was a daycare there for my own toddler situation and I got the Me Time that was scarce back then. Also I always had a gym crush. Gym crushes are healthy in the way in that they get you to the gym and putting forth your best Lululemon camel toe. The golden rule of a gym crush is never EVER talk to a gym crush. You must admire from afar even though your first instinct is to find out his name, what car he drives, where he lives, and zodiac sign. My first gym crush was a dude I aptly named Sweaty Man. He always wore a grey tshirt and blue shorts and he would go on the never ending staircase for a full 45 minutes and I would hang back on some reclining leg machine thingy and watch his tshirt get soaked in sweat. It was like watching paint dry but in reverse and instead of a wall, it was a burly dude who looked kind of like Channing Tatum. By the end of his sesh, he would make a giant puddle on the floor that he would bend over and clean it up with a towel. This was the best part of my day. After he would leave for the iron room, I would go to his machine and climb in his balmy after-aura. I could only last about 10 minutes on that machine but that’s equivalent to climbing 25 flights which more than I would do otherwise. I found out at one point he was a cop, not a beat cop but a special Spiderman type cop who had to scale buildings and things, which was kind of hot, right? The girl at the front desk looked up his membership and found out also he was a Taurus like me. Total deal breaker, two sets of horns makes for an awkward tango. Also he left the gym after a few months, I prolly scared the shit out of him.

Other gym crushes were less pheromonal but they still got me motivated to go and try new things. I even did tennis for a while. The outfits were also super fun but in reality, I hated tennis. I used to play round robins with these horrible wretched women who would hate playing with me because I was a novice. “Can she even see?” I overheard one say in the locker room. Yes, bitch, I can see your old as fuck tits are fake and they’ve hardened into two petrified spherules pointing down to your mid-century C-section scar. I am the venomous snake of animal kingdom. As it turns out, when I went to the optometrist, she told me I have difficulty judging distance which would definitely make me a bad tennis player. So there, cunty tennis ladies. But! I didn’t have a tennis crush per se, I had special Friday afternoon one -on-one stroke tutorials, if you will, with the tennis pro. This lasted some months and then I found out he was dating one of the swimming instructors who was like, half my age, which was cool but awkward. But! That whole experience unleashed the cougar in me and I haven’t looked back. Scroll back to 2015 blog posts if you dare, those were the days, my friend. *sighs, rips open a bag of Cheetos*

So! Have been lately thinking it might be time to settle down. Maybe? I’m not sure how things work. Can a person take this into their own hands or do they have to wait for lightening to strike? I’m looking through my ol’ trusty OkCupid dating site and all the age appropriate menfolk I find interesting live far away. Most of them have those types of profiles where they list in the negative, like the ubiquitous: NO DRAMA. Okay, here’s the thing: if you are trying to sell yourself and write stuff like “no drama” that means you have experienced so much drama that you must include it in your profile. And why have you experienced so much drama? RED FLAG! BECAUSE YOU ARE A MOTHERFUCKING GASLIGHTER! That means in all your relationships, you, sir, have been the one who pokes the sweet baby angel bear and manipulate the situation so she seems like the crazy one. I’ve seen that episode of Grey’s Anatomy with the dude from Glee on it. Swipe left, ladies. My daughter thinks I should make a more serious profile but I’m not even going to bother making it normal because what for? I’m a mermaid and they are the same pool of fish. One guy wrote on his list of wants was “hygiene”, wut?  Like what sewage system have you been deep sea diving in, sir? The internet is one scary place. Also I’ve been listening to a lot of serial killer podcasts and now every middle aged dude’s profile picture looks like Ed Gein’s mug shot. Sinister as fuck.

So that brings me back to the gym. One of my single g-friends thinks the gym is not the place to meet men which I vehemently disagree. Take those buds out of your ears, m’lady. Get out of that weird work out zone that has you staring into a monitor while you glide on the elliptical machine. Get off that useless pony and hit the mats and sit on one of those giant ass balls, bounce them titties and swivel your hips. Look around. Make eye contact. Smell the air. Pheromones are out there.  As I write this,  I’m here right now and for the past couple of hours I’ve been looking around and while there is currently one cute dude, seemingly NOT a brow-beaten father of a toddler, I have terrible gaydar. Let me describe him: He has one of those trim beards and fade hair cuts like from Hastings Barbershop (could be straight or gay) and is wearing a tight top with nipple protrusion and sleek pants with high water booty (gay and gay), I know he drives a Mazda hatchback thingy (straight?) what do you think? Never mind, he’s too young anyway, I have to get over that. Probably. Can’t lie. Don’t really want to though. But probably should. I will. No more young uns. Unless a full moon. Then I can haz 2.

Yesterday I saw a dude, who I had never seen before, he was maybe even older than me with slightly disheveled hair, and beard with silvers in it (ooof!  *does a Kiegel*). He had a crumpled, wizened but pleasant face, the kind that doesn’t knock you out at first but grows on you. Maybe his celebrity lookalike is an older Shia LaBeouf if you can imagine. You probably think gross, he’s a dirtball. I like that. MORE FOR ME. Hygiene or lack thereof is not my concern. Definite pheromones. No ring by the way, not that means anything but it’s more promising than if he had a ring on, right?  Key here is not to  elevate him into the status of a god-like gym crush otherwise I’ll be collecting DNA samples and licking them. So!  Game plan: Must be pro-active and approach with caution. Hopefully he is not a Taurus. He could very well be a reticulated python to my king cobra and then what? That would be so hot. Right?

Mastering the Art of Cleaning Your Closet and Buying More Shit

Aren’t I just the worst? But this was hanging around my desktop and where else to put it. Adult Jesus, not the sweet baby one, so it’s cool and consensual. So yeah, hey y’all,  merry hoes and jolly log rolling, seasonal greetings, and whatnot, whatever jizzes on your tits or lights your candlestick! Kisses!

I’m a social awkward at this time of year and even getting back to the blog thing is weird as fuck. I’m a hermit by nature, would love my own planet but with access to Sephora and Foodora and maybe once in a blue moon, Dickora (can someone make that an app?). But! Was very cute and encouraging when I went to my gym Xmas party and was asked where I was and why no write and most importantly HOW GOOD MY HAIR LOOKED. More on that later, or not, depending on the tangent I go on.

So I’ve been super happy job-wise but no time to do stuff really, like get my hair did, or get other stuff taken care of like doctor’s appointments. ugh, it’s such a fucking chore and a half. There’s no way I can fit stuff like that in my day and I’m not hypochondriac enough to give a shit. I have the weirdest lump that I can feel growing out of my sternum (Question mark? not even sure, but that body part when you put your hands down between the tits under the bra line)  that could be either a bone configuration gone awry or I’m pregnant with an alien chile which would explain some of my dreams lately. But most probably the thing is. I’m not inclined to get it checked out. It’s a slippery slope to a bunch of other things to get worried about.

I’m not worried about my own death, but am freaked out by others, My dad is in the hospital now and my lovely sister is taking care of him daily and in doing so, she is glowing, she is luminous, a true caregiver with her calling. I am so thankful for her and I am paralyzed by what is going on with my dad. He’s slipping away daily with Alzheimer’s which is a fucked up disease and please, let’s make a cure, because his body is still super fit. For a 94 year old. I’m sure I’ll be dead in my 70s because I’m giving birth to ET and his cousins from Mars.  Ugh, but my sweet dad, aka Papa-don’t-preach-I’m-love-with-him, as I used to sing to him in the 80’s when we had to roll up the garage door to  drive together for my summer job at his company. The only reason to love Madonna really. We’d laugh. He got me and my humour. But now. I don’t hate to visit him because he is in a nice place but it makes me feel me fear and dread. And I’m pretty much sure I have the gene. I’ll break open the pearl on that necklace with with hidden cyanide if I can remember where I put it. Muddled thoughts. It begins there.

But anyhoo! Lighter notes. I am loving my job. I adore my puppers and each and every day cannot wait to see them. Is it weird that I actually love them as much as my own dogs?  I didn’t think that would be possible but it is. There is not a dog that I take care of that I wouldn’t want to hang with for a weekend. Most of them I would have for over for a week or two. And three of them I would keep forever, in case of emergency, and they know who they are. *Ear Kisses*:  Shmiles, Costco, Leonardo. Ugh, and you too Derby, Blanka,  Hubba, and Mephisto…I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH IT HURTS.

The only shite part of my job is intense driving, which is a bummer with my stupid stick shift situation. HOWEVER! I feel like my first generation ScionXB is in great shape. It works like a hot old school bitch, I feel like it’s the Jane Fonda of cars which is a compliment to Jane Fonda. Who is 80 by the way. And who am I kidding is way better than my car. So forget that comparison. My car is more like a first generation Pokemon. It’s antiquated,  like from 2006, but shows no problems. One day things might fuck up but for now, all is good. I’m wary of new cars and all the bells and whistles of “keyless” like what the fuck is that? More potential problems. Everyone I know with new car is always going back to the dealership with issues, like electronic gall stones. My car doesn’t get such things because it’s basically a golf cart. As long as Jane Fonda is breathing, my car is alright and I don’t need a new one. Praise Auto Jesus.

Do you ever hope for more things? I haven’t in awhile. Up until recently. I have been living frugally, not buying anything new for 3-4 years. There’s something to be said about that kind of righteousness but after awhile it feels oppressive, when you can’t afford stuff. And stuff can bring great joy. Like a handheld Dyson vacuum cleaner.

Jesus Motherfucking Christ, what a game changer. I have a vacuum, a Miele snort machine, a small elephant I have to drag out from that gross sun room off the kitchen I hate so much because it contains a filing system with all the horrors of daily living. Also! Inevitably some dog laid a fecal egg there so clean that up, haul the machine out, wrestle with its nozzle, wrangle out the chord from its intestines, find a plug (over the stove, where the toaster is) plug its ass in, vacuum around, move a little bit to far and the slat and pepper shakers will fall off into the dog dishes. Vacuuming is a chore and disaster until NOW.

I’ve been shopping on-line a lot lately. I hate stores, except for Loblaws and Costco. I didn’t used to be like this, but the on-line experience is amazing. Order up some shit, forget about it, then come home to a present, it’s amazing. I have no fucking time anymore to spend in stores as much as I love a tactile experience. Also I have no fucking time to go to the vacuum thing at the gas station to get the doggy hairs out of my car. I NEED MY OWN DEVICE.

Last Sunday I cleaned out my closet. What a shite show AND! dust bunny colony. I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore. I used to wear all the skirts and high heels but now my feet are like oak tree roots (at least I don’t have bunions? Again, thanks the Jesuses, especially the foot fetish one) so I have to wear a size bigger now. Fuck yes. Your feet grow and your heart shrinks as you age. Hardly any of my shoes fit anymore. Toss. Also skirts. The fuck. Who was I? That’s a whole other blog post and maybe even a novel.  She’s dead to me now and I’d feel bad but I’ve hardened my heart.  I’m a pant wearing lady now. Also dumped anything woolen. Christ on a stick, I’d rather be hung on a cross than itch all day. I threw out out 8 bags of my old identity. Buh-byeeeee.

But what a mess!!! And dust balls!  Sneeze-aroo, achoozapoolaz! But also, I couldn’t do it proper because I had a hair appointment on a Sunday, weird I know, but it was a cut-a-thon for mental health downtown. I could have done more, like gone through my drawers and purged a bunch of fucking pyjamas, and workout wear (oy, what’s wrong with me) I’m pretty sure, but got my hair did. Haven’t had a cut in months. I hate getting my hair cut, not because I’m attached to my hair but I hate sitting in a spot for that long. The fanfare makes me crazy. Do. Not. Blow. Dry. I am not a newscaster. However! This place I went was awesome and the dude who cut my hair was my kind of peeps, totally got my vibe and I loooove my hair. Sometimes I wonder why I resist things? Should I go back on Tinder? Instead I went on Amazon.

So I got the hand held Dyson something-6. I’m not here to sell you on something but I’m telling you not to die in a frugal fire. Buy some shit once in awhile that makes you happy. Also I got a pair of my dream Doc Marten Silver Kiltie Leather Loafers and a back scrubber.  Let Jesus come on your tits. Merry Christmas, bitches.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Labor Day Anxiety

 

I’m a 54 year old woman who had a dream last night whereby I forgot I was enrolled in a class and had to read Madame Bovary* and write some paper about it and it was due last Friday and not only did I forget I was in the class, I hadn’t read the book and I fucking woke up in a meat sweat panic and it took me a bout 15 minutes to figure out that I haven’t been in school since 1985. Holy Patron Saint of Labor* Day Telethon RIP Jerry Lewis, when will this end? I STILL FEEL THE SCHOOLS!

(*Madame Bovary, I know right? What does THAT mean?)

(*American spelling, so sue me)

Anyway, it’s only Freddy in the household who still goes school and I spent the entire morning on Saturday getting his shit together whilst he slept off his hangover. This is fine, he’s my baby, his summer job was the night shift and I move better when I’m alone. He goes to Ottawa U but he’s in his third year so he just needs to replenish his food pantry. So I went to No Frills thinking I could get deals because I’d be doing a big stock up shop and people always tell me what a goddamn fool I am to shop at Loblaws. Big lesson learned that day, you cheap bitches:  By the time it took me to unlock a fucking cart with a stupid quarter and wrangling its wide rattling ass into the goddamn store, I could have watched an episode of something/anything on Netflix, which I’m sure you’ll agree is time better wasted. Also No Frills has nothing. Fuck-Doodle nada. It’s like going into that dream I had where I forgot I was enrolled in that class. Where is the Ibuprofen? Why is there no White Cheddar Mac n Cheese? Cavernous holes in every shelf. If you ever worked in retail, those holes are the portal to hell. Face them up bitches,, it’s not that hard. And where are even the toilets? I have to take a slash mid-shop no matter where I am. Also nobody is good looking there, just a bunch of bargain hunting fug butts and their snot gobbling spawn in grotesque lighting who don’t know the rules of the road apply to the aisles of a groshop unless you are in the UK where you can slide up any which way.  If you could go to my Loblaws on any given Friday night, you would think you were in Rio De Janeiro. Like on the beach when Antonio Carolos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes were inspired to write “The Girl from Ipanema.” My Loblaws is THAT magical.

When I got home I was so crabby, I didn’t even know myself. Did you get salami? Was all he asked before I took his head off. Not really, but even a little snap will put a damper on the final days and I said WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT SALAMI YOU KNEW I WAS SHOPPING HOLY GOD I’M NOT A MIND READER. Okay, so it was a big snap but still, I’m not a mind reader. Also I know that was one of those disengaging tactics one goes through when someone is leaving. I’ve just watched it on “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” when dude left. Don’t ask me which dude or when, they are playing them in random order as a marathon. It’s hilarious, I watch it ironically but I’m really learning so much about human behaviour. Not really, yes really. It’s super weird watching the old episodes when Bruce was Bruce and they had no clue. His eyebrows were so on point, how could they miss it?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I cried when Freddy left today and I’m also feeling weird anxiety. I also adopted another dog over the summer. It wasn’t really an impulsive thing to adopt another dog as I work with dogs, have other dogs occasionally in my house besides Betty, enjoy a two dog dynamic, even three dogs is fun, but this dog kind of came quickly, like a Tinder swipe. Woosh, bang. I was perusing the ole Internet, as I am wont to do, and came across a dog from a rescue site that I thought was cute. His name was Pancake and he he was from Mexico and had ears like tortilla chips, so cute!!! Freddy thought he was adorable also so I applied to adopt. Waited and whatnot. Days went by and no response.  Meanwhile, found another little Chihuahua pooch named Louie, who Evangeline took a shine to, and applied. Heard from the Louie people first and filled out an application longer than it would take to adopt a child from China and then got approved for a “primary” interview to visit him out in Kitchener. So we drove out there thinking: Jesus Christ, are we just driving there only to go all the way back? What the hell? When we adopted Betty from a rescue lady in Mississauga, she couldn’t wait to get rid of her. TAKE HER GODDAM ASS, we won’t cash the cheque for two week because everyone keeps bringing her back tho, like I’m going to go all the way back to return her in Mississauga, how much of an asshole can she be? Turns out a HUGE asshole and also turns out I’m really lazy. Kept her ass and haven’t looked back 12 years later.

Well I guess the new adoption process is maximum due diligence these days and it’s admirable. First impression: Louie looks like a squirrel/bat/wretched P0meranian that fell through a chimney, he’s kind of black but black coated, not black from the root but like a white haired Hispanic lady who died her hair with boxed Clairol and let it go for a few months because she went on a bender. He literally does not look like a dog. He’s a being, of an animal variety, but possibly mythical. He’s enchanting though, cute in the face, but mangled up in the body. Limps likes he has been carrying a back pack filled with nuts and roadkill for his forest friends (apparently he was a stray from Ohio). SHY AS FUCK. HIDES UNDER A TABLE. We said yes though. But only because we were in Kitchener and wanted to leave because a total Dorothy in Kansas storm was brewing and we were starving so we left but without real thought because I’m sure if we had real thought, we wouldn’t haven’t even been on the internet swiping right to rescue dogs in the first place.

Anyway, Louie’s rescue had another step and that was a home interview which we were sure, phewwww, we would totally fail because Betty is such a bitch and the home visit would entail a visit from another rescue dog who lived close by. I don’t why I feel relieved by the onset of rejection but I do…. HOWEVER! We passed our home visit with flying colours and Betty was adorable to this random Black Lab who she will never see again (she obviously takes after to her mother). So Freddy and Evangeline went off to Kitchener to pick up Louie whilst I was at work, which you would think would be a good way for him to bond with them so I wouldn’t have to so much. I’ve bonded with so many dogs in the last few months I feel to chill in the bottom of the pack for a bit, yet I’m still obsessed with dogs so that’s where I’m at with my mindset. But it was as though he knew I was the one who cut the cheque for his adoption fee because I am the only one he stares at, wants, loves. He looks at me like he thinks I’m pretty, so I’m cool with it.

So Louie has a flaw or two, according to the rescue: He’s afraid of a leash (who isn’t?) but most importantly he hates men apparently. His previous adoptees, a couple, sent him back because the dude claimed he chased him around the house barking his high pitched bark, which I rarely hear, scaring him to death. It’s pretty standard issue where rescue dogs hate men and have been traumatized by them in some way. Chill, Bill, grow a pair. But! There goes my Tinder game. Sigh, however! If he’s a cock block, then I will deal and be relieved if he scares them away. Fuck the men folk anyway, I am kind of put out by them these days, that last dude I thought was cool turned out to be a gaslighter, long story, I’d love to go into it but I won’t now because I’m saving it for my Ted Talks/screen play/other blog where I really tell my secrets. So if this furry little dude is guarding the gateway to ma pussy, then coolio, woof woof, enter at your own risk. CAVE CANEM, motherfuckers.

When Louie first came to the house he hid under a table for the first couple of hours. My fear was that he was one of those timid dogs that end up living under the bed who you forget about just like that dream where you forget about that class but this time there is a life on the line and you forget to feed him and he dies you end up with a bad smell that you nonchalantly attribute to peri-post-menopausal fartaciousness but it’s only when you vacuum a million years later that your Miele swivel head gets caught on a ploof of floof with skeleton attached that you realize holy god, it’s that freakish Louie dog I forgot I adopted!  Worst nightmare ever! BUT! Then we started watching Jeopardy and as soon as he heard the beginning theme song, he ran up to the couch and curled up on a pillow and basically called it his spot. His other spot in on my boobs. I can literally walk around with free hands while he clings to my upper tittage area like a 1950s mink stole. He’s fucking awesome and I am his glamourous lady.

We changed his name from Louie to Pablo though because I read somewhere that you should change a rescue dog’s name so they don’t associate it with their shitty past life. Makes sense. Pablo seems to have a good life now. Feeding him raw food like the wolf that he is. He sleeps on my bed by my head, smartest spot in the house. He also comes with me to work and hangs out with the coolest dogs in town.

Betty is jealous and is acting like a toddler dog but I just think she needs to chill. I don’t believe in cow towing to anybody else’s emotional issues, even the house pets. We can all learn to get along. Pablo makes me nervous also, as I have taken on a new responsibility when the kids are about the fly the coop and Betty is old and cranky as fuck but I guess that is what change is about, adaptation and giving your own ego a kick in the ass.

In he meantime, the first dog, Pancake with tortilla ears is still up for adoption, they just took a long time to get back to me! Go here, get a pupper! Don’t be scared:  http://saveourscruff.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hey Yes, Hello Again, Mastering the Art of Waking Up from a Coma

Long time, no write on this internet highway. I miss you folks. I have lots to say! But I’m stunted with writer’s block or laziness or lack of nutrients or something. Please, let me warm up: Blah blah ahem coff coff coff. Red leather, yellow leather. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.  Qwerty you a pointy long ass dick. *wiggles fingers* let’s go:

So I’ve been pretty busy with my job which is like my 10 year-old self’s dream of heaven, taking care of dogs all day. It’s also my 54 year-old’s self’s salvation, who would have known? It’s a pretty sweet way of spending the days and after 6 months, I’m still in the honeymoon phase. I CANNOT GET OVER THE FACT I GET PAID TO DO THIS. In the morning, I pile a pack of dogs in my car and drive them to a park, play, later rinse repeat in the afternoon. Every time I stick my head in my doggofied-seats down hatchback to load up a woofer, another ploofo-bear will ram my head with his/her tongue into my ear or whatever. I will lean in and my heart will just explode with joy as tails wag and flog my face. Plus I love the doggy smell. Corn chips and low note farts. Whatever, the nose is an olfactory mystery of wants and desires.

Speaking of which.

I am in a constant state of needing to shower, pretending I showered, not showered, just air-dried on top of my bed at the end of the day. Under boob sweat smells like expensive French cheese from unpasteurized milk FYI. I’m like totally savage these days. I have never felt hotter. And yet I’ve been a lazy hunter.

My excessive dating has died down exponentially from last year since who needs such things when you can let a Weimaraner head butt you in the ovaries. Or a muzzled mutt try to pry his metal trap open between your legs and hammer-head your upper thighs til they’re a flank steak ready to fry straight up on a George Foreman grill, ho. Bitch, I am bruised and scratched and all of that tactile energy seems to feel that need. Or did I ever really have a need? Not knowing, it’s currently a learning curve. All I have to say is I have never felt so alive.

But! In my two month comma from this bloggo, some shit went down which has been a processing exercise. I’m super bad at reacting to things straight away, a thing I learned about myself, I have to marinate and stare at walls or tv screens. Been watching “The Bachelorette” for the first time since that desperate doe-faced Trista married that Frankenstein cro-magnon looking firefighter Ryan back in the early aughts, oh my god, I remember watching that in a bar waaaaay back when my kids were little and I was sneaking out just to save my sanity. I don’t want to google how they’re doing because it’s not like I don’t care, it’s like I care too much.  I sincerely hope they are happy-ish. Ish because most people don’t even get that. I feel sad for the couples of the modern world because they bought into society’s ideals which I revere and mock at the same time. It’s a real dichotomy of emotions I feel on any given moment. Sometimes I pretend my pillow is hairy bearded Jesus looking man with a long nose and nimble fingers who can make me achieve a mighty orgasm, sweet motherfucking Christ, and help me fix things around the house. Other times my pillow is just a pillow, prop, prop, fluff, fluff, let me watch Seinfeld on Peachtree, and I need to wash the case in the morning because I’m getting chin zits.

Anyway, my pops has gone to live in Sunnybrook Veteran’s Hospital to live out the rest of his life. It’s sad, yes, but it’s not really. In his case it’s actually idyllic and well planned. He has Alzheimer’s, a terrible disease for anyone to have and for everyone around him. Going through the stages is a roller coaster at first. There’s the grumpy, angry period, where they know it’s happening, and by the way, the best time to make sure they stop driving. I get this, sometimes I forget how to shift and let my wispy mind wander into an existential overdrive that I feel like I’m going to start to fly out of traffic like an aeroplane, spelled the British way, wheee! I’m pretty sure if they don’t have cure in the next 10-20 years, my brain will petrify into a rock hard blob of no return. Crosswords don’t help really.

So, going to see my poppadom has been a mixed bag of stuff. First and foremost, my second oldest sister has taken over this whole thing and has gone every single day. She is the MVP of the family these days and she has seen her calling in taking care of our dad. She is actually glowing and they are good together, being a caregiver is her calling. My dad doesn’t know our names but he recognizes us as familiar people. In his current state, he’s like a toddler. His once brilliant mind, that had designed airplane engines in his heyday, is now enthralled by a fidget spinner. BUT HE SAYS THE CUTEST THINGS. I love you, to my mom who he has known for over 60 years, but what’s your name again? I would just swoon if someone said that me. I wouldn’t even be insulted because the fact that they still love you but kind of forget you is tantamount everything that romance stands for.

 

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So that.

Got Shingles in the spring. Was shocked when I went to the clinic and that’s what dude-somewhat-handsome-and debonair-probably-gay doctor said it was. Thought I had poison ivy because it was on my butt and I pee outside nowadays. “Let me see your bum-bum,’ he said, that’s gay, right? It’s not a big deal but it’s painful as fuck but I don’t think it’s worth spending money to get the vaccine. Life is full of shit in general so a bout of shingles is just a slap in the face that any adult should be able to deal with. Still have the rash tho :(. On my butt crack.

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Then a very tragic death happened. Won’t discuss that here but just to say life is precious and let’s watch out for each other.

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Dating: I know that’s why you read this. I have been involuntarily monogamous with my foot fetish friend! Dude from the previous post post, in goddam April, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve blarffed up a blog. I totally love his personality, he’s the chillest, most easy-going human being I have ever met. You know when people self-describe themselves as “easy-going?” They are not really. They get fucking mad at things and you never know when, it’s like walking on a land mine. I have examples but I’m too ashamed to report them. “I”M EASY GOING BUT YOU ARE A RACIST FOR SAYING MY EX-GIRLFRIEND HAS NEWSCASTER HAIR!” Okay that was just one example from the past. This dude gets mad at nothing, ever. Also, he’s is totally cool with my Shingles butt rash. He’s so quirky though, it’s like peeling an onion of kink layers. I thought the foot fetish out was something but turns out, there’s more! When someone tells you who they are, believe them, is that a Maya Angelou quote? Don”t just fucking believe them, but times it by 100, cuz that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have a foot fetish! But I also like a lot of other things! Gather your big ol’ Home Depot 10 gallon bucket because I’m going to fill it with a list you didn’t even know you had! How lucky am I? More to follow I guess.

And yeah, I’ll just leave this here for now and thank ye for reading this far…. Summer time, let’s enjoy:

 

 

Mastering the Art of Dating Foot Fetishist or How I Learned to Wrangle an Eel Between My Toes

Sweet Kittens, it’s been a long winter for us all and the Netflix is now on the actual chill mode, if you know what I mean. Ugh, I hate it too, I’m such a lazy ass bear but! I do not want to miss out on what could be the next great adventure. Life is short and yet soooo long so let’s make it messy now and clean it up later.

First things first, protip: It’s time to exfoliate all the skin and fluff up the hairs, trim only the nose ones because all the other hairs are hot (says me). Hoes, real talk, let’s go on a Groupon spa weekend in Muskoka and get steamed up and whipped with Venik branches from Russia, we deserve it. I have been perusing all the sites for some such deals for us all to go on but so far everything looks kind of dodgy. This could be all DIY stuff with a loofah at home but I think getting out of the comfort zone is a good thing. Other people doing weird stuff to you when you’re buck naked is where it’s at. You know I’m right.

Winter has been quiet for me on the dating front. Phew, says some of you, clutching your pearls, and boo, says another lot, hands down your pants. Whatevs, I live for myself at this point. I spend all the live long day outside all out in the elements with the dogs and I love them so much that they are enough emotionally, physically, and philosophically to keep me satisfied as a whole person BUT! I still have the love of bone. I am a dog person after all.

One of my old Tinder fuckboys had been messaging me a lot recently. I am sure he also missed “Cuffing Season.”  What is that internet lingo, you ask, and is it available on Amazon Prime? No, it is not .  Here’s the thing: During the winter months people tend to create false relationships because it’s cold outside and they don’t even want walk out the door to crawl into an Uber to get to a booty call so they strategize. Some people are more ambitious than others and they actually hook up with someone they met on New Year’s Eve (I’m looking at you, Bob) and others just deflate and give up and wear sweatpants (I’m looking in the mirror now). Peeps, I’m NEVER going to have a relationship so I’m basically like a snake that wakes up in the spring and doesn’t know quite what to do but goes with the flow of the other snakes and slithers into to the Shoppers Drug Mart mid-March for Magnums “just in case.”

So my old Tinder fuckboy, let’s call him TFB for short, is a young gentleman I hooked up with in early January after last year’s gluttony of bone that ended with a couple of weird encounters, with one that I STILL need therapy over but neither here nor there, I’m a grown up, I will own it, et cetera, but seriously what the fuck is my problem. Question mark. Help. Exclamation mark.

But TFB is a lovely man. Very sweet, good-looking, suave, skilled, we had a fun time and I was super comfortable with him but hibernation calls and it’s January and I am a bear so I shut him down for a while. At one point he texted me that he does a kind of self-imposed Lent-like thing before his birthday where he doesn’t have sex for an entire month (I know right? Times that by 100 million and welcome to an entire decade of my forties) but apparently he has a Foot Fetish I was not aware of in our first encounter. Can I send a pic?

OF MY FEET… Lol what?  Anyone who has dared touched my phone knows it’s a landmine of Listeria, bacteria, tits, and now doggie fecal matter so yes, my sweet TFB, I will send not only a pic of my feet but a video of them rubbing together. How much fun is this? So much! Next time we get together it will be about my feet! I’m so down with it!

So I send him a video of my raw, just pulled my socks off feet rubbing together and I’m like all grooving but at the same time disappointed with how dry and diabeetuz they look and no polish yet on the toes but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m not picky,” he says, “Thank you, I’m dying here.” Oh yeah, apparently he doesn’t even jack off during his personal lent so I’m not sure if he’s just trolling me or what but who cares, life is short and long at the same time, might as well fill it with weird shit. Right? I’ve never had a dude who cared about my feet before. One guy once looked down at them and said: “Wow, how weird that your feet are veiny and anorexic but the rest of you is not.” Of course he had male pattern balding and hair on his back but I held my tongue but haha, it’s all seeping out now.

A couple of weeks pass.  TFB has his birthday, he sends me a pic of him slamming back a bottle of Hennessy (of course). He’s 27. Hoo hah. Meet up soon? And I’m very cool with that, it’s been awhile and he’s nice and I’ll get a foot massage on top of it all. We set a date and he wants me to come to his house. I hate that, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate that…going to another location for this type of thing EXCEPT that he says he has a Pomeranian. He spells it “Palmeranian” and its his roommate’s but it’s still a floofy dog I want to meet. How weird is it that I work with dogs all day and am dying to drive across town to meet a “Palmeranian” in a dodgy neighbourhood? And obviously because I am driving, I am sober as a judge when I get there. Which makes some of you say, are you ever really sober as a judge, Kristin? What kind of old fucking lady drives across town to a Tinder fuckboy’s house to see his dog and get a foot rub?

A lady that loves to live and then tell the stories, bruh. You’re welcome. I do these things so you don’t have to.

So. I get to his house and it turns out he lives in one of those shared accommodation type scenarios which I did when I very first moved to Toronto. Mine was a hilarious group of strangers  and 30 years later, I’m still friends with one of my housemates. His house was similar, probably, but the people were all holed up in their rooms. Where’s the dog? I asked. And he’s like oh, prolly out for a walk. And I’m super disappointed but also extra nervous because the main floor of this house looks like a hoarding situation. But he calls the dog’s name: “GOLIATH!” and lo and behold, a tiny little ploof of floof comes running out from under some stack of income tax papers and goes woof woof and I pet his soft furry head and I’m okay with it all. Goliath wiggles around a bit then goes back in the portal of domestic disorganization which he came from and I kick off my shoes in the door way and go upstairs to the dude’s room.

His boudoir is on the third floor. Hot with radiant electric heat. Only old women would get this, I tear off my clothing down to my undies because it’s like a like a tropical jungle. and I just want to get it all done before my parking situation expires. But he’s all coolio and says “I got wine” and pours me a cup of pale pink juice. I guess rosé? It’s sweet and he’s so sweet. Also he has his Netflix on pause on the tv that takes up the whole wall beside his bed. I’m like “Cool, what are we watching?” and he says “Dave Chappelle” because of course. I’ve actually never seen any Dave Chappelle but I am aware of who he is and that he has a comeback and so I’m down with drinking some pink juice and watching some Netflix but I’m an impatient woman with this type of dating so make things happen, dude, or I’m going to fly in ten minutes. I’m a Nervous Nellie, kind of like the Palmeranian downstairs under the hoarding cave.

Well. Turns out there are two Dave Chappelle specials. I certainly didn’t have to fly during the first one, nor did I even get to finish half of my pink juice. My feet were rubbed and tugged and toes licked…I am not doing this back, by the way, dude kept his socks on the whole time, and other regular stuff happened and I’m all good and satisfied and ready to go home BUT! There is another yet hour of Dave Chappelle and he says, don’t go! Aren’t you ready for Round Two? Oh! Okay, it’s Friday. I love stand up comedy on Netflix more than anything and Dave Chappelle is funny as fuck. So. Another cup of pink juice. Second episode and he says: “Do you want to give me a foot job?” I’m not sure what a “foot job”is but kind of guessing what that entails (entoes lololol) and I’m so down with it. I can lay back, starfish, watch the actual tv with my face and breathe through my nose. Yes, I will give you a foot job, my dude. So he brings out the baby oil. Hello, when was the last time you saw a bottle of baby oil? For me, like the 197os when certain people used to use it as tanning oil, I didn’t even put baby oil on my babies. Baby oil, people, the answer to dry diabeetuz feet, I have since been applying it nightly. Then he instructs me of what to do. At first it’s good, I’m concentrating a bit, making sure the balls of my feet are tight together whilst his greasy long ass member slides through in and out. It goes on a while, am I bored? No Dave Chappelle is my new comedy hero. Things are slithering around and I look at my situation and it literally looks like I’m wrestling with an eel in between my feet.

“Use one to anchor it and get it in between your toes!” he says, pouring more baby oil on down. Twenty minutes, my thighs are burning, no joke, my upper thighs are shaking like that time I gave birth for 14 plus hours.  It’s then I realize that a dude with a foot fetish is not a 60-year-old British gentleman named Alistair whose only desire is  to paint your toenails a subtle shade like “Pink in the Afternoon.” A true foot fetishist isn’t about what he can do for your feet, it’s more about what your feet can do for his dick. Jesus Christ. If I wasn’t all about cross-training and shaking up the work-outs I would have stopped at the 10 minute mark but instead I forged through and serendipitously during Dave Chappelle’s stand up he talks about his foot fetish, I’m just going to leave this here and say good night, sweet dreams:

 

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