Filthy Yum

Boo!

2010-10-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

OK, so AMC is running horror flicks until Halloween, which is awesome. However, after watching the first few installments of the Friday the 13th franchise, I still can't get over how stupid sexually promiscuous teenagers are. Moreover, I can't understand why the powers that be insist on reopening Camp Crystal Lake every 5 years. Like, the parents won't remember? Is overnight camp for slutty teens really that much of a cash-grab?

I mean, can you imagine the letter the admin staff have to send home to the parents of those slaughtered teens?

"Hi there. Sorry to have to tell you this, but your teenager, actually, all of the camp staff, were murdered by a machete-wielding maniac. You might ask yourself "Why did I send my kid to a camp known for housing a machete-wielding maniac?" but I think the real question here is: "why was my teen having unprotected sex in the middle of the woods?" Anyhoo, don't beat yourself up about it. I'm sure Jason's bloodlust has been satiated for at least one more summer. Who knows, maybe this is the year Jason puts himself out there and gets an account on match.com. As my mother used to say "There's a lid for every pot." Sincerely, your idiot Camp Director. PS, No, we still haven't taken down his shack/shrine in the woods. The guy lost his mother, for chrissakes."

And yes, I do yell at the screen.

To top it off, I was wearing flats.

2010-09-23T15:13:00.000-07:00

So, I'm on the bus, on my way home. As I'm climbing on, I drop my bus pass on the floor of the bus. Here's where the magic happens. As I'm squatting to retrieve it (my new bulging stomach prohibits anything so graceful as bending over), the bus lurches forward (I know the goddamn bus driver was watching me) and I fall ass over tea kettle. In front of everyone.

Now, I could have recovered from that, except that I had my iPod on full blast. As I am particularly fond of (loud) music, I can never quite gauge how loud I am talking. So I let out an "Oh no" or something, but with the music blasting, I'm pretty sure I was yelling and I'm pretty sure it sounded like someone sucker-punched Marlee Matlin in the throat. I'm pretty sure it was "Ohhhh waaaah."

The bright side? They were giving out free ice cream bars at the corner of my street. FREE ICE CREAM!! Go f**k yourself, Gym.

Just So I'm Clear...

2010-09-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

So let me get this straight: Lady Gaga wears a meat dress to send the message that she's NOT a piece of meat?? Maybe I'll shove a tire up my a** and NOT be a unicycle. What a fartweasel (Thank you S.B. for my new catchphrase.)

I'm pretty sure God doesn't have a sales team

2010-08-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

After a long and laboured panel discussion weighing the pros vs. cons of keeping my car, I made the very dubious decision to sell it to a friend. The truth is, it costs too much to keep a car in the city and I'll save mucho buckos taking the transit. An additional pro is that I'll get some much (MUCH) needed exercise.

The obvious con is that I love (LOVE) my car and a 15 minute commute to work has now become an hour-long ride. I'm not lying when I say that I got a bit sniffly dropping it off at its new owner's house. I sat in the car for a bit, said my good-byes, and thanked it for being a great ride.

Fast forward to this morning.

I tried to make this morning's commute as cheerful as possible. I packed a lunch, bought a new backpack, wore comfy shoes and even made myself a "Going to Work" mix on my iPod. On my way to the subway, an older man passed me on the street. He said something (at least, his lips were moving.) I pulled out my earphone and he said "Do you accept Christ as your Savior?"

"Not lately," I replied. "Ever since he went and played for the other team, we've been more or less mutual acquaintances."

"Bless you," he said.

"I'm Jewish, but thanks," I replied, and promptly left a vapor trail.

On the one hand, it was nice to be blessed, I suppose. However, like pyramid schemes, outsourced telemarketers and Amway, I always have to ask myself who's doing the blessing. I mean, do you get a membership card form God allowing you to randomly bless people on his behalf? If someone was throwing my name all around town a-la "Do you know who I am?" I'd get pretty pissed. These guys are like the Fredo's of organized religion: the pesky younger brother screwing things up, and you know that ultimately you have to kill him, but you put it off as long as possible and give him a casino or a church to run in the interim.

Or, for a refreshing change of pace, perhaps I'm over-thinking this and he was just trying to be nice. You know what, old man? Bless you too.

www.mycatsaretryingtokillme.com

2010-07-26T10:40:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, while packing to move to the new condo, I wrote an open letter to my kittehs:

Dear kittehs: your efforts to thwart the move are valiant but futile. Please stop clawing the boxes and eating the tape.

Apparently, said minions of the damned took this as a challenge. The move went smoothly as far as boxes and furniture go. The cats were another issue. Joe, my dark grey barn cat, did not go gently into that good travel box. Ever try to wrestle a 20-pound cat? Think of a good old fashioned bitch fight in an Arkansas women's prison. Just replace shivs with claws and you'll get why I'm still wearing long sleeves. At one point, I managed to get them sequestered in the bathroom and Joe actually pounded on the door, all human and Rambo-like. That's some serious psych-ops training. Dude, you didn't have to pack, move or schedule anything. You don't pay rent, you're fed and clean and no one has ever laid so much as a finger on you in anger. Suck it up!

So move we did, and the cats have (grudgingly) gotten used to their new digs. Skip to Sunday morning. As I turned to dole out the treats (the only reason, I'm sure, as to why I am still alive), my little, innocent, female cat tripped me. Yes, that's right. She hunkered down by my feet and tripped me.

In an attempt not to crush her, I swiveled around, knocking into the table, and landing in what can only be described as a James Brown-worthy split. I landed hard. Had I nuts, they would have popped like fresh lingonberries. Then the hell cat reached into my palm and ate her treats. I guess that's what I get for moving them to a better address.

Well played, kittehs. Well played. Cats:1; Stupid Human:0.

If A Bitter Person Swallows A Bitter Pill, Do They Cancel Each Other Out?

2010-04-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

#1: I hate the gym.

OK, here's the thing: I hate the gym. Honestly guys, I've given it a fighting chance. I've attended (mostly) religiously for almost 3 months. In March I lost 8 pounds (yay me!)

Then...nothing. Not a pound, not an ounce, not a goddamn milligram.

I thought it was hormonal (that theory was dismissed. Certainly there is one size 2 woman out there with a raging case of PMS.)

I thought it was my diet (dismissed. I've been eating freaking salads every day. Short of a steady diet of cardboard and air pie, I don't know what else I can cut out.)

I thought that maybe it had something to do with the "plumbing" issues I'd been experiencing. I met with the endocrinologist to discuss my test results. After some hard news and a few tears, I asked him if my situation was related to my inability to lose any weight.

He said "No, you're just getting older and this seems to be where your body wants to stay."

I said: "I do not accept that."

#2: I'm a fat sack of shit.

So I've been keeping at it. Me and gym, gym and I. And still, not a blip on the scale. The only time that needle dipped was after I got sick for a week (I briefly considered flying to Mexico and drinking river water to keep the momentum going.)

And there's the wedding to consider. I remember my first wedding. I was 100lbs. One hundred pounds! A relative said I looked like a Holocaust survivor. And I was flattered. I used to refer to Karen Carpenter as "that skinny bitch."

So last week, I went with my mother to Want boutique, a veritable Zion for girls who...um...want beautiful things. They have a gorgeous selection of beautiful dresses - a great place to start. Apparently, it was also a great place for prom dress shopping. Had I given it a modicum of thought, I would have realized that this is prom season, and I had inadvertently stepped into prom dress HELL. There was a waiting list for dressing rooms. There were moms shelling out thousands of dollars for strips of fabric. There were nubile young things weighing less than I eat, turning this way and that, in danger of being blown away by a small breeze.

More importantly, nothing fit me. I don't mean they didn't have my size, but nothing...fit. Here I was, surrounded by skinny little teens and tweens, and realized that I didn't have my old body anymore. I couldn't just starve myself down to a size 2, or do the bare minimum that passes for exercise. I couldn't use any of my old tricks. Want was dead. Long live Fairweather. That was a hard lesson to learn. So where's the incentive? I mean, if my weight isn't going to budge, why bother trying to beat it into submission?

They won't harpoon me at my own wedding, will they?

Dear Rogers Media:

2010-04-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

Thank you so much for taking the time to call me (at work and on my cell phone) to ask if I would like to renew my one-year subscription to my magazine. I was especially pleased to learn that you had already tried to auto-renew the subscription on my credit card, and were only courtesy-calling to get my new credit card information (because the old one had been declined.)

I mean, why bother calling me at all? Obviously, when I checked off "one year" I meant "...or so." Clearly, indicating a finite subscription time really means "please feel free to run amok with my line of credit. Hell, while you're at it, throw your kids' braces and a new pair of shoes on the bill too!"

So thank you, Rogers, for calling me to gauge my interest in my magazine after trying to use my card to renew it. I'm sure those lofty phrases such as "identity theft" and "credit card fraud" don't apply to YOU!

By the way, you know who also loves those phrases? My lawyer.

I'm a Walking Bio-Hazard

2010-04-19T12:02:00.000-07:00

For the past 2 months, I have been locked in a battle between me and my body.

Guess who's winning?

I am trying desperately to get myself into a good "wedding weight". I have been working out diligently, hitting the gym 4-5 times per week (except for the 2 weeks when I had a terrible cold and didn't want to pass germs onto the pretty, skinny, spandex-clad...wait a minute. What was my motivation again?) I have been eating lettuce, getting lots of fibre, eating plenty of fruits and veggies. And...nothing. I have lost a total of 8 pounds in 2 months.

Unacceptable.

So, I did what any non-stubborn, rational, healthy, clever woman would do. I bought a bottle of SlimQuick™ 7-Day Gentle Cleanse Pills.

I am on Day One. Here's what I've learned so far about jump-starting your metabolism, SlimQuick™ style:

1. The directions tell you to take 4 pills before lunch, and then another 4 before dinner. They advise drinking LOTS of water, or risk the pills swelling, lodging in your throat and becoming a choking hazard. A selling point if you're trying to cut calories, but really bad for ordinary, every day tasks such as breathing. This was a point I missed while skimming over the directions at the drugstore. Hey, I was on my way to the lip gloss aisle.

2. SlimQuick™ is advertised as "6 ways to jump start healthy weight loss". A more accurate description is "6 ways to have an apocalyptic bowel movement - 2 of which do not include your bowels."

3. Apparently, SlimQuick™ is "designed for women." Yeah, like Brazilians, porn, Botox™ and genital mutilation.

There will be no Day 2. Big.Fail.For.Pills.

Open Letter to the rude woman in the bar last night

2010-04-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

a) If it is so very important to banish my fiance to the end of the table because you don't want your baby to catch his cold, then perhaps you should not bring the baby to a bar. Surely there is some 15 year old who will be grateful to earn less than minimum wage for a few hours, no?

b) If I were you, I'd be more concerned about your baby catching "Rude Bitch" than a cold.

c) P.S. I found out that wasn't even your baby. Honey, you've got bigger problems. Nothing says "single and desperate" more than a woman holding someone else's baby in a bar. Try trolling the newborn ward at Toronto General.

XOXO

Waist Management

2010-01-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

OK guys. I gained weight this year.
No, really, I did.
I'm not talking about 5 or 10 pounds. I mean in less than 2 years, I gained close to 30 pounds. I am officially the heaviest I have ever been in my entire life.

I'll spare you the details as to how and why it happened. Surely, some of you watch Grey's Anatomy, House or ER and have earned enough TV-related medical expertise to surmise what happened. My friends and family have eyes in their head and can certainly see the change (a good friend of mine commented last night that during the run of my last show, in which I played a scantily-clad secretary, he thought I might be...pregnant. Yeah, enjoy your cheeseburger there, pal.) I believe the medical term for it is Love Weight. You know the condition: you're happy, he's happy, you're both happy together, everything is bliss (and brie and steak and creamy garlic mashed potatoes and chocolate and oh my.......)

You may also know it as "I-Can't-Stop-Eating-Anything-Not-Nailed-Down-Itis". Seriously, my impulse control is so bad, we should all be thanking our lucky stars that I don't hang too closely near subway platforms, crack dens or bell towers.

And so I have arrived here: happy, in love, and unable to fit into all but 3 pairs of pants (2 of which are yoga pants and mercifully contain enough lycra to accommodate the gravitational pull of my orbiting, ever-expanding ass.)

In my family, this is a no-win situation; I'm either "too skinny" or I'm "eating well."

The obvious solution would be eating right and exercising. The hurdle is that I treat gyms like the fourth circle of Hell. I have quit three gyms so far, and have no doubt that more will follow.

So now my BF (now the Fiance...oh yeah, a lot happened during the Holidays. Heretofore the BF is now known as the Big "F", but more on that later) and I stand at the crossroads of our physical and mental health. We're not sure where we're going or how the road to fitness will end, but we hope it comes with a side of curly fries.

Team Pregnancy

2010-01-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

Leave it to my mother to create a committee focused on my reproductive health.
Since making the decision to go off the Pill in August, I have yet to have my...monthly visitor. This was a cause for concern, as biology dictates that no period = no baby. I've peed on many sticks. I've had more blood tests than a Maury Povich paternity show. I've had ultrasounds (internal and external. By the way, when the technician is finished explaining how the internal portion is performed and asks you if you have any questions, the correct response is not "yeah, will it buy me dinner afterwards?") After my umpteenth negative pregnancy test, two things happened: I made an appointment to see an endocrinologist, and my mother created Team Pregnancy.

TP is an organization comprised of: my mother, her best friend, and her best friend's daughter and daughter-in-law. Between the lot of them, there is such a wealth or reproductive knowledge that my tiny (apparently ineffective) ovaries are in awe. My mother's BFF suggested that I purchase ovulation strips. Apparently, you can still be ovulating, even if you aren't menstruating (I know the men must find this fascinating.) When she asked if I had purchased them, I said "yes, but they taste terrible and every time I lick them, all I get is 'cherry/cherry/lemon'. What gives?"

She also suggested buying a thermometer (I'm assuming that this thermometer differs greatly from the under-the-tongue variety.) I told her I had a meat thermometer somewhere and that it should probably do the trick.

The endo appointment isn't until March, so I guess we'll wait and see what happens. In the meantime, there won't be too many turkey dinners in the near future. I am nothing if not frugal.

There Might Be A Light At The End Of The Tunnel (But That Doesn't Mean You Should Walk Towards It.)

2009-12-11T17:50:00.000-08:00

With the first night of Channukah at my heels, I take a moment to sit and reflect in (mostly) silence. The BF is fast asleep, his head filled with newfound lessons in Judaica (he asked if my menorah was an homage to Devil worship. Silly Christian boy. Of course it is.)

Sitting, typing, watching the Christmas lights on my Channukah Bush twinkle, watching one cat throw up bits of said bush, while the other cat flees in terror from a plastic bag (in hot pursuit, because it is wrapped around his leg.)

(Brief pause while I disengage said cat from big bad bag.)

Deciding whom to sue when I slip and break my freaking neck in the building's parking lot because our slumlord can't be bothered to get up in the morning and salt it.

Sipping red wine, watching my neighbour's backyard, which is alight with no less than 6 inflatable snowglobes (with music. And lights. And motion. All day. All night.) I doubt very much that Noriega endured such psych ops during the invasion of Panama. The jiving Santas along his fence remind me of my first, and last, acid trip.

All in all? Not so much a Winter Wonderland, as Hell officially frozen over, with Santa (Satan?) at the helm.

And that's OK.

You see, a friend recently told me that feeling sorry for myself positions me as a victim, with little or no control over my environment. So what if I'm up to my neck in debt and have to sell off anything of value? So what if my friends and family will be getting holiday wishes and Channukah dreams instead of gifts from me this year? Or if some days at work might as well end with "before turning the gun on herself"? Or if I sometimes wake up, crushed under the weight of a sadness so intense that all I can do is moan like a wounded animal?

Instead of being a victim, I can put myself in a position of power by trying (really, really hard) to keep a positive outlook:

I may be divorced, but I am now in an awesome relationship with a guy who would, literally, take a bullet for me (given the neighbourhood, he may be called to duty.)

I may not have kids now, but boy is the trying fun!

I may have gained some weight this year, but I'm fed (As an aside, they shouldn't make brie taste like heaven.)

I may have zero disposable income, but I'm also not stuck in some snow squall outside of a loser club trying to hail a cab that will only drive me 2 blocks because I blew $200 on booze and have no more money.

I may be drinking a lot, but...well, at least I'm drinking a lot!

While this is not necessarily how I pictured my life turning out, it's still a pretty damned good one.

The Festival of Cellulites

2009-12-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

A big shout-out to all the members of The Tribe! Here's a quintessential Channukah recipe. As an aside, my Mom sometimes makes these with sweet potatoes, which are pretty damn awesome.
Enjoy! And thanks to my Mom in advance for my ever-expanding Holiday Ass.

1 pound potatoes
1/2 cup finely chopped onion
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 to 3/4 cup olive oil

Accompaniments: sour cream and applesauce

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 250 degrees (F)
Peel potatoes and coarsely grate by hand, transferring to a large bowl of cold water as grated. Soak potatoes 1 to 2 minutes after last batch is added to water, then drain well in a colander.

Spread grated potatoes and onion on a kitchen towel and roll up, jelly-roll style. Twist towel lightly to wring out as much liquid as possible. Transfer potato mixture to a bowl and stir in egg and salt.

Heat 1/4 cup oil in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over moderately high heat until hot, but not smoking. Working in batches of 4 latkes, spoon 2 tablespoons potato mixture per latke into skillet, spreading into 3-inch rounds with a fork. Reduce heat to moderate and cook until undersides are browned, about 5 minutes. Turn latkes over and cook until undersides are browned, about 5 minutes more. Transfer to paper towels to drain and season with salt. Add more oil to skillet as needed. Keep latkes warm on a wire rack set up in a shallow baking pan in oven.

Mildly Tolerate Thy Neighbour

2009-11-28T14:46:00.000-08:00

I was getting ready this morning to go to High Tea at the Four Seasons (as I often do) and was running a bit behind (as I often am), when there was a knock on the door. Normally, I don't answer my door. In the first place, no one that I know would stop in to visit. No one has ever said to me "I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I'd stop by. You know, in between visiting your recession shopping centre and stocking up on ammo." In the second place, we have a "security system" whereby you have to buzz our intercom in order for us to let you in. And I was not expecting company at 10:30 on a Saturday morning.

So of course, yours truly opens the door. It was midday and I knew it couldn't be the drunken, all-night revellers popping in to say "hi" after a drug deal or slice of 'za. I cracked the door open and saw a young, well-dressed man and his blonde, blue-eyed girlfriend. His name was Jonathan, and he wanted to know if I'd heard the Good Word.

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Johnny Boy. I'm Jewish."

"Oh great!" he said "So you know all about the 6 Books of Moses!"

(Long pause. I went through all the book series I had ever read.)

"Oh yeah, of course," I replied. "I read books one through three. But after he battles Apollo Creed in the third book, the storyline kinda jumps the shark."

(Long pause on his part. At which point my BF, sensing my growing impatience, yells from the top of the stairs:)

"Hey honey! Are we gonna fuck, or what?"

It's funny, after the divorce, starting up with a non-Jewish actor and my penchant for bacon double cheeseburgers, I thought I could safely cross G-d off my Christmas card list. After that experience, I think he and his minions will leave me alone.

Adventures In Babysitting

2009-11-27T06:29:00.000-08:00

My friend Randy texted me last night:

- Randy: Hey, how are we doing tonight?
- Me: Would you believe I'm babysitting? Like, someone actually trusted me with their kids?? I'm going to, like, totally get my BF to, like, come over with a 24 and a bag of weed!

My BF's best friend trusted me to stay home with their youngest. She's adorable: tiny, cherubic and funny (case in point: I thought she had separation anxiety because she kept saying "mummy mummy mummy mummy." Then I realized that she calls everything "mummy". The table is mummy, the broom is mummy. I am mummy. Everything is mummy, except for "squishy", which is "wiggee".) I haven't watched anyone's kids since I was around 17. It was an illustrious, if not brief, career. In any event, some things have remained the same:

- Kids love fart noises. Period.
- They also tend to have OCD when it comes to certain things. In this baby's case, she loves pink. As in, pink towel, pink blanket, pink pajamas. There is no derailing this child. I can deal with it. In my day, I was obsessed with Luke Skywalker.
- Children's programming still freaks me right out.

We settled in, she with her bottle, and I with my...nothing, and I turned to the Treehouse channel, a veritable Zion for kid's TV shows. The kid's favourite? "In The Night Garden" where, ironically, most of the character's activities take place during the day. Further fueling my belief that the creators of this show were high on acid:

OK, so what the hell is a "Macca Pacca"?

And just WHAT is an "Iggle Piggle?"

These guys looks like rejects from Pink Floyd's "The Wall" tour.

Freaked.Me.Out. As it turns out, kid's programming is WAY trippy, even if you're sober. You just don't ask as many questions.

It reminded me of my first Teletubbies experience. I woke up one morning at a boyfriend's place after a night of partying. VERY hungover, I wandered into the living room, where his roommate was watching TV. The Teletubbies, to be precise. I stared at the screen for a few moments.

- Me: What is it?

- Him: I dunno. It's been on for hours.

- Me: Well it's freaking me out. Either I'm still wasted, or that sun looks like a baby's freaking head.

- Him: Yeah, hard to say.

Signs that I may not be ready to become a parent

2009-11-26T12:59:00.000-08:00

1. A friend's child ran into my boyfriend, hitting him at knee-level, and knocked herself out. I was less concerned for her safety than I was about my pants, which I almost wet from laughing so hard.

2. I once asked a friend if it was ok (hypothetically) to leave a newborn with my parents so I could go to Cabo (her response? A resounding "no" with that look I sometimes get from people. You know the one; I call it "outpatient on a day pass."

3. I once considered calling pest control to take care of the Village of the Damned that reside in my building. I came to realize that this would not foster good will between myself and my neighbours.

4. I flew to Calgary once, and wound up sitting beside a little girl who was without adult supervision. This would usually wrench sympathy from my cold, dead heart - except that this little girl was annoying. I mean, seriously in-bred. She pressed the attendant's light no less than 5 times before we had even taken off (my personal favourite was when she requested a flight attendant's attention because her doodle-pad toy wasn't working.) So when she complained of a headache, what else would a good samaritan do? I offered her pills! (I have since been told that it is illegal to offer a minor, especially one that does not belong to me, any kind of drugs or medication. Go figure.)

5. I once told someone that her baby had better be really smart when he grew up (he looked kind of like a Sharpei, but without the "cute" factor.)

6. I once borrowed someone's baby for a photo opp. True story.

7. One year at Passover, I taught my three-year old cousin to say "You're wasted!"

8. I once referred to someone's kid as "The Mistake", prompting a premature "birds & bees" discussion at the tender age of five.

UPDATE: Upon re-reading this post, it may be less of a question of "Am I ready to be a parent?" and more a question of "Am I disturbed?"

My 15 minutes, condensed into 1 minute and 15 Seconds

2009-11-23T06:53:00.000-08:00

Imagine a call from your agent, and she tells you, without a hint of irony, that you're booked on Cox. Yeah, I had the same response.

An Open Letter To The TTC Douchebag:

2009-11-20T07:14:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to the latest addition on my s**t list:

A few weeks ago, a very dear friend of mine was traveling on the subway with her infant. As all good mothers do, she had packed the requisite toys and snacks to keep her gorgeous beh-beh content. Unbeknownst to her mother, a piece of beh-beh's banana wound up on the floor. When my friend went to leave the subway car, a man called her actions "f---ing reprehensible" and then called mommy a "moron".

So...

I'll keep this short. Sir, I understand that you were likely having a bad day. Perhaps your boss yelled at you for not making your quota because, well, let's face it, nobody buys anything from a douchebag. Likely you didn't get any hugs as a child, and maybe you have a hate-on for bananas. You couldn't possibly understand what it feels like to have any emotional connections to anything, let alone to a piece of your genetic code. You don't know what it feels like to usher that love into this world, a feeling described by Bill Cosby as "taking your bottom lip and pulling it over your head." You couldn't understand the ferocity with which a mother...or friend of that mother... will protect that love. Simply put: to understand this post, you would have to love something more than yourself and your own petty, insignificant crap.

So to you, I say: I pity you. And if I ever find you on the TTC, you will be removing your head from your ass.

New Jew City

2009-11-10T11:00:00.000-08:00

I suppose I knew what I was getting into when I left my cushy apartment in Forest Hill for the wilds of Etobicoke. I was following Love, and Love happened to rent a townhouse in the west end.

The complex is not without its charm. I'm sure you have read by now the stories of the Village of the Damned; a marauding gang of destructive school children left to their own devices by witless parents, young minds headed for bright futures filled with pumping gas, McJobs and, in some cases, the odd McJohn.

There's a man I call Gold Digger Jack, an entrepreneur who spends his day pawing through the dumpster in the parking lot, scavenging for furniture, beer bottles and anything saleable. He reminds me of a young Honest Ed.

I haven't really taken the time to get to know my neighbours. Mostly because they are prone to eviction, keep odd hours and seem to communicate via an intricate series of whistles, hoots and hollahs. I am not immune to "roughing it". I used to live in Kensington Market, beside a halfway home with a cokehead ex-stripper. My saving grace was that everyone managed to live within the cacaphony in relative peace and privacy. This is why I was so pissed off at the conversation the landlord had with my boyfriend.

First off, I understand that our landlord keeps a very busy schedule. When he is not (not) fixing our empty mailbox (that doesn't close), not (not) fixing the name on said mailbox (we have been the Valdez's since April), not (not) fixing the plumbing so that our daily showers do not alternate between scalding hot and freezing cold with alarming frequency, not (not) fixing the ant problem that originated in one of the other homes (and are plotting our execution) and not (not) fixing the hole in the wall (courtesy of the Village of the Damned), he is away on vacation. That said, he did have the time to tell my boyfriend that our neighbours think we have a grow-op in our home.

Um...what?

Let me preface: we were promised blinds from one of the BF's best buddies. As we are in the market to save money, this was a very generous gesture. In the interim, we taped up some garbage bags over the bedroom windows so as not to be awoken at the crack of ass of dawn by blinding sunlight. We are not alone in this practice. There are so many windows with garbage bags, it looks like we're all tagging our homes in some unspoken turf war. L.A. had the Bloods vs the Crips, our complex has Glad vs. Hefty. In fact, one guy has the Confederate flag stuck to his window. It matches his Dukes of Hazard truck (seriously, Bo or Luke or whatever you go by - the South lost. There was no stalemate. Deal with it, y'all.)

On what planet does this constitute a grow-op? How exactly has the double-income couple lowered the property value of our neighbourhood? How did we lessen our curb appeal by using actual store-bought furniture, instead of something scavenged from the eviction dumpster? I was floored. The neighbours are talking about us?

To put it simply: I lost my shit. I told the BF to go home, take down the garbage bags, put up a giant, neon flag with a great big honkin' marijuana leaf that reads "I'm not as think as you stoned I am", plaster Jerry Bear decals all over the living room, and stick a name tag over "Valdez" that reads "We smoke dope here."

And to our neighbours: I know you're not reading this because a) you're too busy watching us and b) because you likely can't read. In the meantime, I am paying the taxes that fuel your U.I. and Welfare. In the strictest sense, I am paying your salary. So the next time you want to point a finger, I suggest you curl that hand back into a fist, and punch yourself in the face. Because messing with me would be a serious career-limiting move.

I'm a Halloweenie

2009-11-01T13:08:00.000-08:00

So I woke up this morning naked, with half my carefully applied Greek Goddess makeup smeared down my face. I looked and smelled like something freshly melted. Cash - gone.

And there's puke in my purse. Not sure if it's mine or not.

So I checked my camera and was able to piece together the events of the evening. I went to a kick-ass Halloween bash with my man and a mutual friend. His brother was the DJ and played awesome 80's tunes all night. The venue was small and the bar even smaller and run by two girls who were more interested in matching the patrons shot for shot than actually making drinks. It was so crowded that we ordered drinks two at a time. I'll file that under That's Where My Money Went.

Needless to say, the result of eating nothing but salads for the past month is that a) I dropped 10 pounds (yay) and that b) my tolerance is zilch (boo). So that's what turned up in my purse. Even at my most inebriated, I didn't want to puke in the cab and upset the driver. Having said that, when my boyfriend made him pull over, I suppose I could have continued the drunken hurly-hues outside instead of saying "Naw, it's ok man, I got this." I'll even forgive him for sharing a humourous rant with the driver about how women need to be kept in line. (I know he was kidding because he values the simple things in life like his nuts and walking upright.)

Here's where I also learned some very valuable points on relationships. A good boyfriend will chew out the drunken loser who steps on your Grecian sandal-clad feet. A great boyfriend will sucker-punch that ass-hat in the spleen. A good boyfriend will hold your hair back for you when you're sick. A great boyfriend will set up shop in the bathroom and make sure you have water and a blanket. And offer to make you a grilled cheese sandwich (even though you might be so deep in the can it looks like you are bobbing for apples.)

Finally, a great, great boyfriend will not begrudge you for sleeping until 2 p.m. while he had to go to the theatre and build the set for his next production at 9 a.m. If I can drag my hungover butt to the kitchen, he's getting a special dinner. Or take-out. I managed to find a $20 in my bra. Don't ask.

Taint What You Do

2009-10-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

WARNING: If you can't stomach body waxing and lady parts, read no further!
At the risk of admitting way more about myself than you would ever want to know, I like to invest in certain...esthetics. Manicures are lost on me; I'm a clumsy knuckle-dragger who chips her nails before she even leaves the salon. I like to space out my hair cuts (every 1.5 years or so. Always leave them wanting more), and why on earth would you bother getting a pedicure during the winter months? (I prefer my feet au naturelle. So what if my boyfriend calls me The Yeti? And by the way, honey? I can climb trees to avoid predators. What's your super-power?)

However, I do wax. Which is to say, I pay people good money to wax me. I tried those at-home recession wax kits. Nothing says "ghetto" quite like trying to rip out your own body hair while producing vocal pitches that only dogs and whales can hear. Then I used to go to a wonderful woman who was five feet tall, South African, and suffered from Alopecia as a child. The irony of a bald woman who removed hair for a living was not lost on me. I called her the "Hair Nazi". She waxed until you told her to stop, which was hard to do through the screeching. So I wound up looking like a 10 year old girl from the waist down for about a year.

In any event, the ladies at The Village Spa went to school to learn the ins and outs of professional waxing, so I trust their judgment. My regular lady was unavailable last week, so I was booked with Farah.

Farah.

There is a certain unspoken etiquette when you are getting a bikini wax. It is understood that this woman is going to see parts you generally reserve for strip joint patrons, partners and gynecologists. There will be no cuddling, no dinner. She will not call you at 11:00 p.m. "just 'cuz." There will, however, be gymnastics, low pain threshold and possibly some screaming. And your job as the client is to hand over your cash and suck it up.

So there I was on the table, ready to endure yet another gruelling session of hair removal. Farah began applying the wax, and I noticed that it was much warmer than usual. Like, hot. Not wanting to be a whiner, I chalked it up to the fact that I hadn't been there in nearly two months and she was just getting down to business. The first strips came off.

Then she reapplied the wax. Right.Over.The.Spot.She.Just.Worked.On.

A cat can jump straight up from a full standing position, with no warm up. Limber little guys. Your blogger had to be peeled off the friggin ceiling. Once she had calmed me down, she went to work on the...rest of it (you women know of which I speak so I will spare my readers the gory details.) I had mentioned to her that there wouldn't be any reason to visit the...rest of it but, true to her craft, she paid her due diligence and kept going.

And then it happened.

Farah got to the back of my...back...side...and slapped a wad of scalding hot wax right on the old starfish. My body's inclination was to clench. Hard. Yes, dear readers, in essence, Farah the She-Devil with a popsicle stick full of molten lava waxed my butt closed. To add injury to injury, said wax still had to be removed, but at that point I think I blacked out.

For this privilege, I paid $40.00. Let's just say that there is a special place in Hell reserved for Farah.

48 Things You Don't Know About Me

2009-10-08T07:05:00.000-07:00

This was a list submitted to me on Facebook. I thought it might be pertinent to know exactly who you're dealing with:

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Yes. Can't remember who offhand, but I'm sure he/she was more than a passing acquaintance because my name is not "Bathroom Stall".

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
This morning. I only got 3 hours of sleep and then I cut my lip at 5:00 a.m.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Hells no. I failed handwriting in grade school. I wrote my teacher a note telling her that I would type everything out from now on, but I'm sure it read something like "pffft....blrrrrb..."

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Pastrami.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Shut up.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Not only would I be friends with myself, but I would wine and dine myself, followed by some sweet, sweet love.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?
Um...really?

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yes.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
I have enough cause to earn a Darwin Award, thank you very much. I own a helmet. And I don't play sports.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Golden Grahams.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Yes, even the ones without laces.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Whether or not they laugh at my jokes. A nice ass doesn't hurt either.

15. RED OR PINK?
Red.

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
It's a tie between being judgmental, being moody, and being indecisive.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
My grandfather.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?
Like I have time to worry about anyone else.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Wow, stalk much?

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
My fan and one howling cat.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Clear.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
My mom's cooking, suntan lotion, hair.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
The sushi delivery dude. He didn't know what an Eglinton was.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
Like, tolerate, it all falls under the same umbrella.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH
TV marathons.

27. HAIR COLOR
Brown.

28. EYE COLOR?
Brown.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
And cover these puppies? No.

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Macaroni & cheese (any pasta, really), creme brulee, steak, garlic mashed potatoes, really, whatever I can stuff in my craw.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Scary movies, fo sho.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
The 40 Year Old Virgin

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Blue.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Categorically, undeniably summer.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Kisses.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
My Daddy.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Whoever I did not send this list to.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Reading my script for rehearsal - The Amorous Ambassador!

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Um...my mouse? Is this really a question?

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
Family Guy

42. FAVORITE SOUND(S).
Laughter, my cats purring, my mom singing.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
I guess the Middle East (?)

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Where to start? I can curl my tongue, dislocate my thumb, imitate anyone...and I can sing. But you'll never hear it.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Mount Sinai Hospital, Toronto.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
I guess my dad's? He's the only person more demented than I am.

48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE/SIGNIFICANT OTHER?
Don't really feel like answering this one, so I'll make up my own question: IF YOU WOKE UP ONE MORNING WITH THE GENITALIA OF THE OPPOSITE SEX, WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
Pee standing up, take over a small country, force my beliefs on others, spit, drink beer and sleep with a really hot chick.

My Pet Peeves List

2009-10-02T06:17:00.000-07:00

Because it's Friday, and how better to kick-start the weekend than with a list of things that make me ape-shit psychotic. You can keep it as a reminder, as a warning, or as a post-op list of what went wrong:

1. Traffic. This means every car on the road that is not being driven by me.

2. People who say they'll call you back and then disappear off the face of the earth for a month. Double bonus points when they finally DO call you back and open with "Where have you been?!" I've been here, plotting your execution, sending out search parties, not eating, not sleeping, daring not even a breath until I got your phone call. It's passive aggressive and it's just shit.

3. People who condescend or otherwise talk down to me. You want to witness a psychotic episode? Call me "honey" when we're on a business call. I dare you.

4. People who end phone conversations with "Ciao". I happen to know that you live in Pickering, so don't pretend you're from the goddamned Amalfi Coast.

5. People who try to top you. If you ask me how I'm doing, and I tell you that I've got a bit of a cold, don't start in with "Don't even talk to me about colds. Last week, my head exploded. No joke. The whole thing just went 'splat'."

6. Perfect people. I don't care what you say. They exist and they make me feel like crap.

7. Intentional cruelty. I know, I know. This coming from a woman who would trip someone to get closer in the buffet line, but I can't abide mean for mean's sake. I always try to make my snide comments to people's faces, not behind their backs. And I also believe there is a special place in hell for people who abuse children, animals and the elderly.

8. Skinny people in food commercials. Are we to believe they actually eat??

9. Doctors who insist you address them as "Doctor So-And-S0" outside of their practice. I know they've earned their phD's, but you don't see me going around demanding to be addressed as Alexis Nicols, BBAwesome Tits.

10. People who read pet peeve lists and then try to be clever by performing at least 3 things on this list the next time they see me. Let me head you off at the pass: Ha ha, I get it, you can read. Ha ha, you're being ironic.

An Open Letter To My Friend's Douchebag Ex-Neighbour

2009-09-30T06:07:00.000-07:00

Dearest Douchebag,

While we were very sad to see you go, my friend would like to thank you for your generosity. How many douchebag ex-neighbours would leave his old lawnmower for her to use and share with her new neighbours? The lawnmower you left in your garage surely compensates for the years you spent pursuing her, then rejecting her advances. After all, it wouldn't be fair to your girlfriend in BC if you actually followed through on your romantic promises, would it? She is such a lucky lady!

Thank you for engaging my friend and her new neighbours in a rousing game of "find the missing wheel that renders the lawnmower a useless piece of shit." What genius to hide the wheel in the deepest recesses of the garage (what a great hiding place! No one thought to look there!)

Thank you for showing my friend what it means to be a good neighbour. Who else could she count on for a 3:00 a.m. booty call the minute your girlfriend leaves for the airport, or to allow his two teenage kids to throw crazy parties all weekend when he is out of town visiting his girlfriend (and calling my friend whenever he can get away). Sure, her new neighbours paid to have said useless piece of shit lawnmower removed from the property (fools!) What do they know about being friendly? Thank you for showing her the true meaning of friendship.

And please, please refrain from showing her the true meaning of Christmas, lest there be a dead Tiny Tim found mangled on her doorstep, beaten to death with his own, tiny crutches.

I Can Haz Bum Hare Kulerd?

2009-09-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

I was driving north on Dufferin street, near Davenport, when I saw a sign in front of a salon, listing their services. It was handwritten, itemizing the usual sort of fare: hair cut, manicure, etc. It wasn't my sort of salon to begin with; I don't have esthetic services performed from any place that substitutes professional tools with household items (case in point, when the Jolly Nails employee pulls out a popsicle stick to push back your cuticles, run, don't walk.)

The last item on the list?

• Man Hair Colour

Like...all kinds of man hair? What about that tuft of hair between every guys' butt cheeks that look like his ass is trying to eat a troll doll? What about Yeti back hair? Cro-Magnon chest hair, or even those Hobbit-like toe tufts?

The possibilities are so endless, I don't even notice that I have sailed right by my office.

I am SO ready to be a mother!

2009-09-16T07:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a portion of an email I sent to my Mom this morning:

I chased the entire Village of the Damned out of the hallway in our building last night. I don't quite understand a parents' inclination to let children run around in marauding gangs, Lord of the Flies-style. Kids, left to their own devices, always get into trouble, and that is precisely what happened last night.

Either the little urchins had punched a hole in the wall beside my door or were very busy making said hole worse. Anyhoo, I couldn't figure out why I kept hearing gentle knocking sounds on my door, but when I looked through the peephole, saw nothing. I believe the knocking sound was them digging into plaster, or perhaps kicking away at it. Regardless, I flung the door open and the following ensued:

Me: Hey! Did you kids do that to the wall?

VOD: Naw, we didn't do nothing.

Me: Nice grammar. Good to know that your parents have taken time out of their busy unemployment schedule to undo all of the hard work our public school system has tried to instill. Did your mommies actually put down their beers and remote controls to teach you that?

(Blank stares.)

Me: Just stop doing that.

VOD: We didn't do it! You can't blame us for something we didn't do!

Me: I don't care who did and who did not "do nothing". I want all of you to stop whatever nothing you done did!

VOD: But we didn't -

Me: Listen kiddies. I know all of your parents, OK? I have seen them in the dumpster looking for bottles to recycle, walking to Money Mart and waiting for their "friends" to show up at the corner. I know where you live. And, judging from the Spongebob Square Pants/Hannah Montana/Jonas Brothers posters in your bedroom windows, I can pretty much figure out where you all sleep. Got that?

Remarkably, no problems after that.

I'm going to be the Best.Mommy.Ever.

Hugs and puppies, XO

Thank You, Come Again.

2009-09-14T06:03:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, I am a nicer person once I have had my morning coffee. I don't know if it's psychosomatic, learned behaviour, or the result of good, old-fashioned misanthropy. I don't really care. Bottom line: you don't want to know me before I've had that coffee.

Saturday was errand day. My wonderful boyfriend and I are like-minded on many things: we both like to get things done, we both love getting a great deal, and we both understand how important it is that I start my day off with Tim Horton's. The closest Timmy's to my place is only a brief block away, a perfect stop-over on my way to buy an air purifier, shelving and eggs.

While the official name is Tim Horton's, I have come to call that particular location Tim Stupid's. The line up is always a mile long, and the Think Tank that calls itself staff are usually dispersed thusly: 7 staff:

- No one behind either of the two cash registers

- 2 people making sandwiches

- 2 people pouring coffee

- 2 staff talking about how loaded they got the night before

- 1 lonely staff member, sweeping, impervious to the impatient rage forming a line behind two empty cash registers.

While I understand that different organizations have different leadership styles, while it is customary in any organization to have one person doing all the work while everyone else stands around and talks about it, and while yes, in some distant part of the world, large double double could be interpreted as an extra large black coffee, none of this is my problem. Give me my damn coffee, I got shit to do.

And so, (wrong) coffee in hand (I would have sucked the back of a car's exhaust to get a buzz at that point), we were off to Wal-Mart to get said shit done. We had a few things to source out, but what I was really looking for was a spice rack big enough to hold almost 30 jars. I just wanted the rack, difficult to find because they all seem to come with their own jars, which, if you have ever tried to fill them, seem to be in cahoots with the spice making companies. There seems to be no industry standard, and I always wind up having leftover nutmeg, pepper, bay leaves, etc. after filling those jars. As they cost $4.00 each, I am NOT throwing away 1/8 of a jar of anything. So, I have almost 30 jars and nowhere to put them. Seems the spice rack people only sell 8-12 jars per set. Seems the spice rack people are all up in this spice racket, but I am on to them...

Wal-Mart is like Lowe's without the street cred. They have tried so desperately to recreate the American big box store model, where everything is discounted, easy to find, organized and sold by knowledgeable, trained staff who would rather sacrifice their first born than make you wait in a line longer than three people. And they fall so very, very short. Wal-Mart is like the little sibling of Lowe's, always in the shadow of a business model that is more successful because it tries harder. Simply put, Lowe's staff are to Wal-Mart staff what Stephen Hawkings is to that Cro-Magnon Neanderthal at Tim Stupid's who thinks that two creams and two sweetners really means two sweetners and two sugars. What do I know? I'm just the customer.

Anyhoo, my darling boyfriend approaches one of the sales staff, who is busy staring at a vacuum in a box. I'm not going to cast any aspersions on her character (what's the opposite of MENSA?), culture (part of the vast, wide, cultural mixing pot that is the Wal-Mart family), or ability to use English as a first (nope), second (nuh-huh) or even third (no way) language. That wouldn't be kind nor would it be politically correct. I only hear this conversation, because 10 seconds into it, I am doubled over at the other end of the aisle:

BF: Hi there, I'm looking for a spice rack. Could you please tell me which aisle they're in?

Wal-Mart Staff: (blank, slack-mouthed stare.)

BF: Um, a spice rack? You know, a rack that you put your...um...spices on?

(Yours truly is snorting in the background, shoulders heaving. Because at this point, the staff member MUST know what he's talking about?)

Wal-Mart Staff: I...uhhh..wha?

BF: (Incredulous) You know...spices? Like what you...uh...I don't know...spice your food with? You put spices on food?

(I am full out guffawing, and I know he's silently cursing me, but I'm beyond the point of bladder control.)

Wal-Mart Staff: Oh! Oh yes, oh ok....I don't know....we don't....have....maybe this?

(She takes him over to the next aisle, and shows him, quite triumphantly, a set of mixing bowls.)

BF: Yes...that's close enough. Thank you.

Random Customer Who Happens To Be Listening: They're in this aisle, at the end.

After being berated for leaving the love of my life to flounder, lost in translation, we find most of what we're after, except for his razor blades (probably a good thing), which are locked up in a glass cabinet, with no staff likely to know how to use a key, much less have one. I suggest he ask a staff member how to get the razor blades. You know, razor blades? Those small, metal items you contemplate late on a Saturday night while watching reruns of The Real World, not once grasping the irony of staying at home to watch reality TV, no dates, no prospects, no life to speak of, other than the small, insignificant pairings you might have made in the ever-shrinking bio-dome of subculture known as the Wal-Mart family, while eating food that is suspiciously bland and taseteless, but you can't think of anything to add to it, so you seek out the one thing you can find, the one thing you know is there, and you walk all the way to the cupboard and pull out...your mixing bowls? Yeah, those razor blades.

The boyfriend punches me in the arm.

Cat Scratch Fever

2009-09-08T09:47:00.000-07:00

Being a dutiful pet owner, I brought my cats to Renforth Veterinary Clinic for a checkup. While both my cats are indoors, and the only communicable diseases in my household are the flu and boredom, I wanted to make sure that their recent wailing and skittishness were the result of my move to the West End, and not something more serious.

Smitten, my black and white female, was in perfect health. The doctor said she could lose 1 or 2 pounds, but I refrained from mentioning this to her because she knows she has let herself go, and I didn't want to be the kind of Jewish, neurotic, passive-aggressive pet owner who made comments to her cat like "Oy, I see you're eating well."

Joe, my grey male cat, was another issue altogether. "He has plaque and gingivitis," the vet said, grabbing Joe by the scruff after his third attempt to bolt (the escape plan works every time but, like his mummy, Joe never plans too far ahead). "You're going to have to brush his teeth."

You would think that spending extra money on special indoor dietary food, special treats and special...everything...would have prevented this.

You would be wrong.

"So, like, what, every week?" I ask.

He gives me the look I so often get: outpatient at Disneyland. "No, like, every day."

Of course.

He goes to get me a toothbrush and sample tube of toothpaste. I can do this, I think. No sweat. I expect a long brush, attached to an even longer handle, secured by a leather gauntlet-type glove. He brings back a tiny, rubber finger brush, similar to what you would use to sort mail. I make a mental note to book a doctors appointment for myself.

So the day finally arrives when the Boyfriend and I have set aside enough time to brush Joe's teeth. We don't have to be anywhere that evening that requires us to show even an inch of skin, and I am prepared to wear long sleeves for the rest of Fall. The Boyfriend comes trudging down the stairs and announces "OK, let's do this."

You don't know laugh-till-you-pee until you see your significant other in jammie pants and a leather motorcycle jacket, done all the way up.

He manages to wrestle Joe (18 pounds of solid muscle) into a sitting position. I squeeze some of the toothpaste onto that damn tiny brush (chicken flavoured. Good. More reason for him to chew my hand off) and go in for the kill. Needless to say, we all wound up wearing more of the paste than using it. Joe thrashed around so much he had a full moustache. It dripped down his chin. It dripped off his whiskers. But I am equally stubborn and, needless to say, managed to brush a few of his sharp little teeth. Gold star for Joe, who returned to his seat in front of the sliding glass door. His big-screen TV. He didn't seem nearly as pissed off as when the Boyfriend tries to teach him to dance, or when he feels slighted (FYI - cats NEVER get enough attention, and they'll let you know every minute of every day).

"Maybe he'll learn to like the stuff," says the Boyfriend.

"Yeah, and maybe he'll learn to floss too," I suggest.

Kristen Kvells

2009-08-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

My coworker was delighted to receive a letter from her sponsored child this morning. Little What's-His-Puss-As-Of-Yet-Unadopted-By-Angelina-Jolie from Cambodia has decided that he's going to become a Buddhist monk.

"Can you believe it?" she squeals "That's so exciting!"

"What?" I replied. "He took all those donations for his education and decided he's too good to become a doctor or a lawyer?"

Seriously, I can picture all the other sponsor moms on the block talking about how their sponsored kid resisted the allure of Ox tipping and beer bongs in straw huts to buckle down and study. Becoming a teacher would be fine. I could even accept village shaman. But this shmendrick decides on Buddhist monk? That's like having a double major in Art History and Philosophy, a one-two punch for any parent shelling out hard-earned cash for their child's education. Granted, $35 per month won't guarantee you a Rhodes scholar, but still, there's nothing wrong with demanding a return on your investment. As a wise Buddhist monk once said: man cannot warm himself in the glow of Enlightenment alone.

"I hope you ask for your string and stickers back," I suggest.

Jewish Gelt

2009-01-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

As I sit and type under the pleasant haze of last night's Lorazepam (it's how I turn my brain off), I reflect upon a recent conversation I had with my mother via email. It went something like this:

"Hey Mom! Just wanted to say we had a lovely time at the party yesterday. It was good to see everyone. So...um...are you okay? I noticed you were very...short yesterday. Were you just stressed, or is there something else? XO"

Her response:

"Hi Sweetie. Yes, got your email and have created a tome, a mini series response. Never ask a writer how she's feeling unless you have oodles of time. I will respond with that email once I've reviewed and tried to shorten it to a short story narrative."

And there you have it. The call and response of the animal kingdom, transcribed into Jewish Mother/Daughter-nese. Quintessential passive-aggressive idiom. What is said, and what is implied.

I'm not gaining weight, I'm "eating well".

I'm not going makeup-free, I "look tired".

I'm not a monumental disappointment, I just haven't "found my way yet."

I believe Jewish guilt originated from the German/Yiddish word "gelt", meaning "money", which, as my sister and I were routinely reminded, we were not made of.

I have always maintained that children are born to fail their parents, that adults reproduce not only to continue the blood line, but to forge on in the pursuit of their own dreams, believing that where they have fallen short, their progeny will pick up the baton and continue the gauntlet. One need look no further than Dina Lohan, Patricia Ramsey or Mama Rose for examples. By being born as separate entities, with dreams and ambitions of our own, we are pre-disposed to disappoint.

So you see Mom, whatever I did isn't really my fault.

While other nice, Jewish girls my age were grooming themselves for nice, Jewish princes from the holy doctor/lawyer/accountant trifecta, I was dragging my Doc-wearing, Smiths-loving, alterna-butt all over clubs and bars in the GTA, accepting recreational drugs from beautiful gay boys and waking up, from time to time, in parts unknown. All the while, I never missed a Sunday night dinner.

I know full well that my choice in boyfriends was...questionable (all but one. I married that guy.) My mother believed, as all parents should, that I deserved better. She wanted someone who would "take care of me."

If one were to briefly review my life, one might notice that I have an active social life (weather permitting), I don't do hard drugs (anymore), I own property (February 2010) and I pay all my bills on time (...)

In short, I take care of me. If I am a huge disappointment, or fall short in any way, I sincerely apologize. But I already took one pass down the aisle - for the time being, I ain't grasping at any more brass rings. Or gold ones, for that matter.

2008, From The Sublime To The Ridiculous

2009-01-12T11:43:00.000-08:00

There was just too much to choose from this year, folks. Here are some gentle musings from yours truly about the stories that affected MY life (when you get your own blog, you can muse yourself until your palms get hairy.)

• Whitney Port gets her own spinoff of The Hills, entitled (what else?) The City. Now teens and tweens everywhere can get their fill of "virtual" reality TV bobble heads, complete with vapid stares and clever quips such as "A day without light is like...night."

• Supermodel Karolina Kurkova annouces that she has no bellybutton. Mattel regrets the error and is issuing recalls.

• Angelina Jolie delivers twins. I guess the Pottery Barn catalogue didn't have the colour she wanted. Basic white is always a safe alternative.

• Alaska Governor Sarah Palin announces that she can see Russia from her house. Across the street, Russians were heard whispering "We've been compromised!"

• President-elect Barack Obama is planning his move into the White House. This week, George W. Bush was seen flying over the White House, rejoining the other Three Horsemen.

• Travis Barker and DJ AM were seriously injured in a plane crash. In the hospital, they received a conference call from Ashton Kutcher, who yelled "You got Punk'd, bitches!"

• OJ Simpson was FINALLY sentenced to 9 years for armed robbery and kidnapping. Apparently, murder charges are fleeting, but stupid is forever.

• Mickey Rourke makes a startling comeback in The Wrestler, proving once again that AA is for quitters.

Remember kiddies: When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane!

New Years Resolutions

2008-12-30T06:24:00.000-08:00

In the last few years, I have relentlessly pursued a state of Zen: quiet, calm, introspective, peaceful self-awareness. I wish I believed that life followed a pattern of synchronicity, where every event falls blissfully into place. Every year, I pledge to be more calm, less angry, more patient, less impulsive, kinder and less verbally abusive. In a word: nicer. And every year I fall short.

I'm not going to end 2008 by pointing fingers. While it is typically my fashion to lash out and eviscerate people who piss me off, I really, really do know that no one makes you do things. You control your response system, you control how you feel, you are in control, blah, blah, blah. All pseudo-psychology aside, I could accomplish more personal goals if people didn't always get in the way and fuck it all up.

For example, could you really blame a girl for trying to give sleeping pills to a little girl who spends a 5-hour flight kicking your chair, whining and pressing the flight attendant button TEN TIMES? (Once because her Doodle Pad toy thingie wasn't working.)

Or cast aspersions on a woman who chases some dumb broad down the street with a beer bottle because said broad was blatantly, maliciously hitting on her husband? (And then had the nerve to shake my hand at a party one month later.)

And could you really fault someone for getting in the face of some mutant ass-hat because he called her a "Woman Driver"?

Seriously, am I being unreasonable??

I would like to be the bigger person. I would like to turn all kinds of cheeks and let things slide. I would like to take the last words of a man who was the epitome of Zen and make them stick: Be Kind, Be Gentle, Be Patient. Maybe it's not a question of being more positive - maybe I just need to be less negative. Maybe I need to assume that not all men are cheaters. Perhaps there are smart models and maybe, just maybe, not every rich, blonde soccer mom in an SUV has a fake spray-on-tan. Maybe I need to leave the past where it is and stop blaming others - and myself - for past transgressions.

So, with baby steps, I tread eagerly on the precipice of 2009. Happy New Year, and let's hope I stay out of the news.

The Buh-Buh-Bahamas Thank You/Fuck You List

2008-12-24T07:03:00.001-08:00

I just came back from a brief 4-day vacay in Nassau. Before sounding utterly ungrateful, let me just say that a brief respite from the mountains of snow and bitter cold was welcome. This is the first trip in over 7 years that I have taken with a significant other where I wasn't visiting family or friends. I swear the X has them planted across the free world. The plan was simple: Beach, Booze and Bed.

Well, the best laid plans, as they say... So here is my Thank You/Fuck You list for my brief stay in the Bahamas:

Thank you, TD Travel Rewards, for helping me book an all-inclusive trip that required next to no thinking or planning.

Fuck You TD Visa card, for being in my top dresser drawer when you should have been in my wallet when I checked into the hotel.

Thank you Breezes Bahamas for the lovely stay at your wonderful resort located right on the beach.

Fuck you for making us wait for 5 hours before we could check into our hotel room (technically, we had to check in twice...at 30 minutes wait each time. Seriously, I could carry a baby to term in the time it took us to get our hotel keys. I am on vacation - you are not.)

Thank you Conquest for comping us for an extra night when our flight was cancelled.

Fuck you airport for making us wait 2 hours after we were supposed to depart the SECOND time (you know you're in trouble when the airport employee is excited that they actually found the plane.)

And finally...

Thank you Bahamas for an amazing getaway...

...and Fuck You for sending me home!

The gentle art of submission, or, Yes I do have PMS

2008-12-17T11:35:00.000-08:00

As a (non) working actor in Toronto, I have not yet achieved the kind of personal fame or notoriety that follows those actors who no longer audition. The kind who actually have a demo reel and avoid the embarrassment of the cattle call through reputation and sheer recognition of their talent.

That is why I'm still in the unfortunate position of having to audition. When I get auditions. Which is pretty much never. I am highly skilled in the art of submission: submitting resumes, submitting head shots and submitting my self-esteem and dignity (when called upon.)

I have several strikes against me: I am short, Semitic and funny. People want friendly, thin and beautiful. I have no niche, no marketable feature that would make me saleable to such industries as cars, beer and beauty. Since I fall into neither the reliable, doting mother or the young, hot ingenue type, I fall into "funny". That's it. I.Am.Funny. I am a funny little dwarf who refuses to diet herself into obscurity. And if I see one more tall/skinny/blonde/Aryan bitch in a commercial I auditioned for, I am quite literally going to buy a sterling silver salad fork and stab myself in the eye.

Here's a note for clients and directors: I am your audience. If I'm watching a commercial for food products, wouldn't I want to see someone who...oh...I dunno...looks like she has eaten food in the last millenium? What's with the starve-off? Are we waiting to be adopted by Angelina Jolie?

I say forget little Click-Click in Insert-Third-World-Country-Here and feed an actress. Click-Click's steady diet of Malaria and Dengue Fever keep him looking Faaabu! If it weren't for the distended belly, he'd be making the cover of People without breaking a sweat.

So basically, unless I drop about 10 lbs. or join a worthy cause, I will continue to be replaced by people I am competing with, but bear no resemblance to. Maybe I'll adopt a goat in Cambodia, or send Nicole Richie a hot dog. I hear charity makes you look thinner...