Get social on social media

Monday, October 19, 2015

You made your bed, now lay in it

Tara’s fingers fumbled for the pen and paper she kept by the sink. She heard the truck pull up and ran to the kitchen window with hopes of writing down the licence plate number but it was too dark. They always waited until night fall to dump their garbage on the road behind her house.

She couldn’t understand it. The city dump was a five minute drive away. They accepted all garbage for free yet people continued to treat the road behind her Newfoundland Housing unit like a dumping ground.

It irritated her to no end. What really made her mad was it happened on a weekly basis. One day it was an old dishwasher. Another a box spring and mattress. Then a discarded TV.

Did they think they could throw their garbage in her back yard because she too was garbage?

She wasn’t having it. She pulled on her old sneakers and walked through the dewy grassy yard to where it met the road. It was an old couch this time.  She lifted the end and dragged it down towards a ditch. The legs of the couch were digging into the gravel next to the road making it harder to pull. She became more determined and tugged so hard it felt like her fingers would break. A tear snuck from her eye and slid down her cheek. She lifted her face to the cool wind to dry it.

Tara had made the decision a long time ago not to cry. She ran out of tears when her daughter was born. As she struggled to drag the couch toward the ditch a memory from the morning her mother found out came flooding back to her.

The urge to throw up came upon her so quickly that morning she barely made it to the toilet. One second she was fixing her hair with the new straightening iron she received for her 15th birthday. The next she was on her knees holding on to the toilet seat throwing up her breakfast. Her mother heard her choking up the vomit and came running in the bathroom. “Are you ok?” Her concern turned to disgust when Tara lifted her head. “For fuck sake Tara you’re pregnant aren’t you?”

Tara didn’t know what she was talking about. Her mother always thought the worst of her even though she was on the honour roll and excelled at everything she was in. A while ago she had gone a little too far with her boyfriend but when she refused to do it again the next night he broke up with her. Tara was relieved really because she wanted to break up with him but didn’t know how. Surely she couldn’t get pregnant the first time.

Her mother stormed back in the bathroom as she was wiping the puke from her face. “Get dressed. We’re going to the doctor.”

Two hours later the doctor confirmed she was six weeks pregnant. When she got home her mother slapped her across the face. It was the first time in her life she had been hit. Tara began to cry uncontrollable while her mother went into a tirade of name calling from “Whore” to “disgrace to your family.”  Soon her father came barging through the door. Screams and shouts were heard from the kitchen while Tara lay on the bed in her room curled up in a ball. She heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs. She was sure he would fix everything. He would protect his little baby girl as he always said he would. Her bedroom door flung open.

“You fucking little slut! What if the other lawyers in my office find out about this? I’ve worked my whole goddamn life to put this roof over your head and you thank me by laying on your back for some punk, ass boy.”

She sat up in shock. Her mother came running in the room behind him. “You’re getting an abortion. I have already called the doctor’s office to arrange it. We’ll say it was a rape.” She looked Tara square in the eye. “It was a rape wasn’t it?”

“No.” Was all Tara could get out. The appointment was made for the abortion and that morning Tara’s mother came into her room asking if she was ready like they were going to the dentist. Her father went back to work immediately so no one in his office would suspect he had family issues. It was very important to keep up the family fa├žade in order for him to make partner.

She refused to go. At first her mother stared at her in disbelieve. Then she tried pleading her case. She went through the whole “You’re ruining your life. You won’t finish school. Your friends will make fun of you.”

Tara refused the abortion. Her parents refused to accept their 15 year daughter being pregnant. It came to a head one night when her father grabbed clothes from her dresser, angrily stuffing them into a garbage bag and throwing it in to the back of his Mercedes. “You want to be a whore. You go live with the whores!” He drove her to the welfare office and parked the car in front. He grabbed the garbage bag and threw it on the sidewalk. He opened the passenger door and dragged a hysterical Tara out of the car. “This is what you want. This is what you got.” She watched him drive away waiting for her father to come back for his baby girl. He never did.

The next morning a social worker found her crying and shivering on the doorstep. They found her a boarding house first. After the baby was born she moved to a townhouse. She called home the day her daughter was born hoping her mother’s heart had softened. Her mother’s only words were “You made your bed. Now lay in it.” Then hung up the phone. No one came to visit. The social worker drove her and the baby to their new house. Before she left, the worker pulled a package wrapped in pink paper from her briefcase and gave it to Tara. It was a tiny pair of pink pajamas. She used the paper to line the bottom in the second hand dresser in her daughter’s room. It was still there.

She pushed the couch over the edge watching it roll down the embankment and disappear in the dark. Tomorrow when her daughter went out to play she would not see garbage in her back yard. She would not know that she had grandparents who considered themselves too respectable to acknowledge her.

That day started out with so much hope. Her high school diploma came in the mail. She had finished by correspondence and graduated with honours. It was the last document she needed to apply for a university grant. She was working on the application when she heard the truck. “I made my bed. Now I’ll lay in it” she said as she closed her backdoor and locked it. “But at least it’s my bed mom. At least its mine.” 

It’s a hairy situation

If I ever end up in a home for the bewildered, I have a pact with my daughter to pluck my chin hairs.

My greatest fear about growing old is not ending up in a home, or having to wear Depends, it’s that my eyes will get so bad I won’t notice my chin hairs are reaching my nipples. (Which will be dragging on the floor by then anyway!)

I know beauty is on the inside, yadda, yadda, yadda, but I can’t handle the facial hair thing.

Along with everything else menopause brings you can add excessive facial hair to the list.

This proves God is a man! Because if God was female, when women reached menopause their stomachs would get flatter, their breasts would get firmer and they would remember why they went upstairs and would only have to pee once per day.

It has become an all out war between me and my hormones.

I wake up in the morning, turn on my magnifying makeup mirror and began the daily hunt-and-peck. I feel like an adolescent boy searching for those first signs of becoming a man, except, I am not a man. I am a middle aged woman going through menopause and giving Mother Nature the middle finger on a daily bases. I run my fingers under my chin, I can feel one but I just can’t find it. At least they are now coming in white now so I don’t notice them right away. A new trick I learned is to run my mascara lightly over the area then they are easy to find.

It’s so unfair. Hair on a man’s body denotes strength and sexiness. Hair on a woman’s body denotes old hag.  While I am plucking hair out, hubby is in the bathroom mirror wishing he could grow some back.

I wish he could go through menopause.

Let’s face it, no man dreams of Jeanie with the light brown hair…. On her upper lip and chin.

I tried laser hair removal at a fancy spa. $1500 later the over Botoxed, over face pulled lady told me “Oh, it doesn’t work on white or blond hair. You should try electrolysis.”


You couldn’t tell me that $1500 ago?

I spent weeks letting her zap me with a laser, which feels like someone snapping you with an elastic band, only to find out it doesn’t work on light hair! I would have grabbed her by the short and curlys but from the dark brown hair on her head I got the feeling she didn’t have any.

So I tracked down one of the few people in town who can do Electrolysis. Believe me, you don’t want to go to someone who doesn’t know what they are doing. For $20 and 15 minutes, Debbie at Samshara Spa solved my facial hair problem in 4 weeks. Now I just go back for a touch up every month or so. Keep in mind electrolysis is not pain free. She inserts a needle in the hair follicle and zaps it. It hurts a little more than plucking with tweezers but a lot less than being snapped with an elastic band. It also works on blond hair as well as dark. Now that Debbie has rid me of my chin hairs, she’s doing my eye brows and side burns. Apparently I am turning in to Chewbacca in my old age.

Now you know what they say, “A hair on the chin is worth two in the bush.” So Debbie introduced me to the Brazilian. (This is where men should stop reading. You wouldn’t be able to take the pain.)

The Brazilian proved to me that I could survive Guantanamo Bay while laughing in the face of my captors. She tells me some clients take an Ativan before a waxing, some have a few drinks and get their husbands to drop them off.

Not me. I go in drug and alcohol free and let this 5”2, 100 pound Ninja pour hot wax over my Who-Ha and rip the hair from my body. I am from Freshwater Road, so I am tough as nails.

It’s no longer uncomfortable now. We talk about our kids, vacations, she’s wearing rubber gloves while spreading hot wax with a pop-cycle stick.

We never talk about politics or religion. That would be weird.

I don’t want to split hairs but everyone has their own pain level.

 Let me describe the pain level… It’s a real hair raising experience.

Now, I’ve given birth twice and had a six hour back surgery. So I know pain.

The first rip is like being kicked in the Who-ha. I can’t lie.

The second one is like walking on a Lego block without socks on. By the time you’re half way through, the endorphins kick in and you can’t feel anything. By the time it’s over you just want to go home, roll up in a ball and rock for a while. The next day, you feel great and you book another appointment.

Ladies, this is something you do not want to try at home! The last thing you need is to be locked in your bathroom after pouring hot wax on yourself and chicken out. When that wax goes cold, it becomes sealing was and closes up all holes around it. You will have to call the Fire Department to help you out and ask them to bring the Jaws of Life.

 Although, Debbie tells me she does her own Brazilian. Now that’s a woman I would follow into a battle.

So menopause has thrown me another curve ball but Mother Nature is not winning this round. Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin. I won’t be letting my hair down anytime soon.

I’ve also made a pact with my Bestie, Nancy, when we end up in a senior’s home we will pluck each other’s chin hairs.

It’s a pinky promise that we will not see hide nor hair in our old age.

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Madonna's Rebel Heart Tour- and why I am never eating seafood tacos again

While Madonna and her flying nuns were pole dancing on Crucifix stripper poles, I was throwing up on a security guard in the lobby of the Air Canada Centre swearing to the EMS workers that I was not drunk!

I should start this story from the beginning….

Months and months ago I sat at my computer continuously typing my seat preference into the Air Canada Centre’s ticket screen to get Madonna tickets… the Holy Grail of all concert tickets. Her Rebel Heart Tour was crossing Canada and I wasn’t going to miss it. I sat there for about 20 minutes pressing the button like I was playing a Swinging Bell machine. Then, finally, Jackpot! Two tickets to see Madonna live in concert in Toronto on October 05th!

We talked about it for months. Counting down the weeks, then days, then hours till we were on a plane and on our way. The weekend was going to be perfect. We spent our first day at the outlet mall where I bought the most beautiful Michael Kors purse. Then we went to supper at the CN Tower 360 Restaurant. The next day we drove around Toronto anxiously waiting for 8 o’clock to go to the Air Canada Centre to see the Queen of Pop.

Around 6 o’clock we went to supper at Casey’s Pub near the Air Canada Centre. I was too excited to eat so I just had a salad and Shrimp tacos. At 7:00pm we got in the lineup waiting for the doors to open with all the other Material Girl fans and a homeless cat.

Seriously, the cat was homeless. It was sat on a pole with a sign that said he couldn’t make his rent. I have a picture and I’ll put it with this blog.

Finally the doors opened and after buying over $100 in merchandise to shut me up, hubby and I went to our excellent seats!

Turns out Madonna is not a fan of being on time and didn’t start until 9:45. Luckily, there were enough drag queens and characters in the audience to keep me occupied. The last time I saw that many sets of prayer beads in the same room, I was at Catholic school and they certainly didn’t wear them with cone bras and lace tops. I was the only one in my row not wearing a sequins gown and I was most likely the only one born a girl.

Then the lights went down. The audience erupted. The drag queens cried and I was on my feet. The
most elaborate army of Chinese warriors carrying large Crosses appeared on stage from thin air. A cage was lowered to the stage and “Like a Virgin” out she strutted…. Madonna in the flesh.

Everyone was in awe. The 14 year old me had wished I had also wore my cone bra and lace top. My stomach was flip flopping with excitement.

The show was nothing short of phenomenal. You’ll never see another show like it.

An hour into the show I realized my stomach was not flip flopping with excitement, it was just flip flopping and I had to get to a bathroom quick. I looked at hubby and said “I got to use the bathroom” and ran across four drag queens while Madonna sang “Like a Prayer.”

This is when the night got interesting.

By the time I got to the bathroom I was sweating profusely and blacking out. And against all my Mother’s warnings, I sat on a public toilet seat without wiping it down first and then lost about five pounds.

The sweat was burning my eyes and I was screaming in my head “Not now! Not now! I need to get back to Madonna!” I tried to stand up but my legs were like rubber. I texted hubby and said “Woman down in the bathroom come quickly!”

A few moments later I heard him calling out my name. I managed to get myself together and stagger out of the bathroom. I could tell from the look on his face that I didn’t look like the Material Girl I once was.

The colour was drained from my face. Even my lips were white. My hair was soaking wet and I was dragging my coat behind me.

“Are you alright? You look like hell!” He grabbed me by the waist and dragged me to a side door. “You need some air.” A security guard opened the door and put a chair outside so I could sit down.

“I think I just got overcome with heat. I am alright now.” I told him and the security guard. I stood to walk back into the arena then a sudden urge to die came over me and I ran back to the door but the security guard was not as quick on his feet as hubby, who had moved out of the way, and while the Material Girl sang “Material Girl” I threw up all over my new fake snakeskin cowboy boots and the security guard.

I kept apologizing in between heaves and he kept saying it was ok but I knew he secretly hated me.

EMS responders showed up and took my vitals while asking me, then hubby, then me, then hubby, again and again how much I had to drink and what drugs I had been doing.

“Smell the vomit!” I told him. “I didn’t have anything but fish tacos!” But I knew from the look on
their faces they didn’t believe me.

If I had to know I was going to throw up on a security guard and pass out at a Madonna concert I would have drank a bottle of Vodka just to look cooler than I did at that moment, standing in a pile of puked up fish tacos!

After sizing up the mess and realizing I was completely sober they cleaned me up and gave me some water. “More than likely food poisoning” one EMS said.  I was determined to see the end of the concert so hubby tried to get me back to our seats. I got to the top of the stairs and knew if I threw up on the drag queens they would scratch my eyes out and I was in no shape to take on a queen in 5 inch heels and a micro mini. So hubby dragged me back to the hotel room.

While I got cleaned up for bed hubby went to get me some water. By the time he got back I was passed out, naked on the bathroom floor with my arms around the toilet and I woke up to him putting cold cloths on my forehead.

“Don’t move me, don’t move me” I protested, “I have to stay here tonight.”

Hubby sat on the edge of the bed waiting and trying to figure out what to do next, while I lay on the floor hugging the toilet. Then I remembered something….

“Remember the romantic evening we had planned?” I asked him.

“You smell like puke. I think that ship has sailed” He smiled back.

“Well. Actually the look on your face right now looks strangely familiar and I just remember where I’ve seen it to before…. Our first date!”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Our first date was a concert at MUN’s Student Center. I was hosting the concert and I was extremely nervous about being on a first date and bringing a cop, who actually looked like a cop, to the Thompson Student Center. So I drank too much to make myself look cooler. Then we went back to your place and just when you were about to kiss me I threw up and you spent the night holding my hair out of the toilet and putting cold cloths on my forehead!”

I was surprised at the accuracy of my memory at that moment.

“So this is romantic! It’s a total recreation of our first date. Except I am throwing up fish tacos instead of Labatt Lite and my hair is short so you don’t have to hold it out of the toilet.”

“It was red” he answered dully

“What was red?”

“What you were throwing up on our first date. You were drinking coolers…. And they didn’t make you any cooler.”

“Oh, I can’t believe you remembered, that’s so sweet!”

He picks my limp body off the floor, helps me get into bed and wipes the dried puke off my face. Then in a final act of true love, he moved my new Michael Kors purse to the other side of the room.

“Where are you going with that?” I asked.

“Moving it so you don’t throw up in it.”

“My God that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for me.” I choked back a tear, then realize it was actually more fish tacos and ran for the toilet.

So we may have missed the end of the Madonna Rebel Heart concert but my rebel heart was very content laying on the floor of a hotel bathroom watching hubby watch Sports desk while I sang “Crazy for You” in between heaves of fish tacos.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

A Game of Thongs!

So I just bought my first pair of black leggings or jeggings. I am not sure what they are called anymore. I am trying to have an option to wearing the same jeans everyday (even though I have fifty pairs in my closet).

All the Fall fashion magazines have models wearing comfy sweaters, huge scarfs tied around their necks and black leggings, usually in leather but that’s only because they don’t live in a Northern climate like me. Wearing leather leggings in our climate literally means you will freeze the ass off yourself.

Even with all that wool surrounding their bodies, they still look like they haven’t eaten in months. I can’t pull that off.

A good friend of mine told me Spandex is a privilege not a right and unless I’ve been doing a hundred squats a day, I should stick to breathable cotton.

So breathable cotton leggings it was.

Leggings are basically black pantyhose with no feet. It’s not like sliding on jeans. I have to sit down in a chair just to be able to pull them over my feet. Then I inch them up my legs, over my hips and to my waist. It’s a good 20 minute workout.

I finally got them on only to discover I have two big problems:
1. Camel toe (To save you the trouble of Googling it, Wikipedia says “Camel toe is a slang term that refers to the outline of a woman's labia majora, as seen through tightly fitting clothes. Due to a combination of anatomical factors and the tightness of the fabric covering it, the crotch and mons pubis may take on a resemblance to the forefoot of a camel. Camel toe commonly occurs as a result of wearing tight fitting clothes, such as shorts, hotpants or swimwear.”

Not sure when they updated that last but I haven’t worn “hotpants” in a long time.

2. I literally have my panties in a bunch. You can see the outline of my underwear through the leggings!

So I Googled “How do you hide your underwear when wearing leggings?” Google came back with a list of websites to help women hide VPLs (Visible Panty Lines). Yes, apparently that’s another thing we have to deal with.

The bottom line is, VPLs are best hidden by wearing thongs. That’s right ladies. Thongs.

Now, I’ve already invested $40 in a pair of leggings so I am going to have to check out the thongs.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am big fan of comfortable underwear. Not just any comfortable underwear but they also have to hide the fact that I’ve had two children (both fat babies), possible cellulite (caused by said fat babies), bought a gym membership but will never use it, loves to eat, hates sit ups and they have to make me look like a Victoria Secret Model.

But to wear these leggings I will participate in this “Game of Thongs.”

Off to Victoria Secret I go.

I take the leggings with me and show them to the teenage salesgirl. I educate her on camel toe and my panties being in a bunch and ask for her expert opinion as a Victoria Secret Salesgirl on recommending a thong for a 51 year old woman.

I know she is screaming “I make minimum wage! I shouldn’t have to deal with this crap!” in her head.

She politely takes me to the thong section of the store then picks out some of the “best sellers” for me to try on then says “Over your panties!”

So I go into the change room and put the thong on over my panties, then the leggings but that was stupid because now you can see the panties and the thong and it looks like I am wearing a diaper. I decide to give in and buy the thong so I can try it on at home. Apparently the smaller the underwear the more expensive they are because the thong was almost $10.

At home I decide to get ready for the Fall runway. I put on my new thong and the leggings. Google was right! There are no panty lines. I am happy that I can wear my leggings without the dreaded VPLs plaguing women kind.

Then I walk the dog.

Word of advice. Don’t walk the dog while wearing a thong!

Ten minutes into our walk I start to feel like I am flossing myself in half. Twenty minutes into the walk I feel like I have performed surgery on myself. By the time I got home it felt like I had given birth to a hippo.

It took another twenty minutes to find the thong and get it off. I may need stitches.

Who created the thong anyway? I could only imagine some French guy with weird bondage issues.

I went back to my comfortable underwear, spend another twenty minutes pulling the leggings back on and stared at the camel toe.

Then I had what Oprah would call a “A-ha moment.” I discovered the cure for VPLs…. Long sweaters. That’s how you get rid of VPLs, long sweaters!

I win the game of thongs!

Crack dealers in the hood!

So my doorbell rings one morning and my dog loses her mind as usual. I am not expecting anyone so I look out through the glass door to see a big, husky man standing there with a stack of paper in his hand.

Avoiding my inner voice that’s screaming “Don’t open the door! You’re home alone! You’re in a housecoat! You could be murdered!” I open the door to a complete stranger while standing there in my housecoat because that’s what polite women do. We would rather people say “Too bad she opened the door to a stranger and was murdered” than “She wouldn’t open the door and was SO rude!” We wouldn’t want to offend anyone. Especially by passing judgement on a big, husky man who could easily overpower us.

Turns out this big, husky man, who I could now see was dressed in painting clothes, was a crack dealer and wanted to know if I was interested in buying some crack from him. I politely told him no, that I already had a crack dealer I had been using for years. He then asked me to take a flyer just in case I became unhappy with my crack dealer and wanted a new one or had a friend who was looking for a good crack dealer. I told him sure and I politely took his crack flyer and closed the door, but waited until he got to the end of the driveway before I locked it because I didn’t want him to think I thought he was a murderer too.

Well actually, he wasn’t selling crack. He was selling home repairs.

When I opened the door my dog, who was losing her mind because a stranger was at the door and who obviously had better safety instincts than me, and didn’t care about being rude, ran out the door and circled the guy’s feet while barking loud enough to alert the neighbours that a killer was in the neighbourhood. The man, in a feeble attempt to prove that he was not a murderer bent down to rub my dog.

That’s when his true intent was exposed! The crack!

His paint covered jeans pulled all the way down to the bottom or his hairy crack and his too short T-shirt rose all the way up his waist. All I could do was stand there in my house coat, frozen, unable to look away and feeling my morning coffee rising in my throat until I realized I had just thrown up in my mouth!

Being a lady, who is never impolite, I politely swallowed the thrown up coffee and continued to have a conversation with this man about dealing crack, or home renovations, in my neighbourhood.

He started fast talking me on his expertise with drywall, plastering and painting but all I could think about was that crack! I knew that I could not spend weeks, days or even an hour knowing that every time he bent down to pick up a tool I would be exposed to crack.

Then I had to think of my poor dog. He does like to lick everything. I could never let him kiss me again! I mean sure, I don’t mind him smelling another dogs butt at the park but crack is wack! He may never go back!

I took the flyer and put it into the recycling can and figured that was the last of this crack dealer. That was until the next day when I was getting in my truck. The dog started losing her mind again. I had to chase her to the end of the driveway and grab her by the collar to settle her down. That’s when I noticed it… the crack was back! There it was across the street laying fence palings on my neighbour’s lawn. She had hired the crack dealer to fix her fence!

It was like driving past a car accident. I had to slow down and look. The crack was smiling back at me.

The crack was back and smack in my tracks!

I had hoped by the time I came home that day her fence would be fixed and the hood would be back to normal.

Turns out she was running a crack house across the street. After the fence, he painted her garage door, then there was work on the inside. Apparently my neighbour has a crack problem.

Every time I left my house or came home, I had a crack attack.

She must have eventually been forced in to rehab by her husband because the crack dealer was gone after a week.

I was leaving my house this morning when I heard her call out to me. She was leaving for work and was waving hello. I couldn’t help but ask “Got all your renovations finished?”

“Yes” she answered, “I hired a local handyman. He took a long time to get the job done and his work was kind of sloppy. I wouldn’t recommend him.”

“Good to know” I smiled back at her.

Turns out in the end, our crack dealer wasn’t all he was cracked up to be!

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Have you tried men’s razors on your legs?

My daughter asked me to buy men’s razors instead of women’s razors the next time we needed them. I told her “No” women’s razors are made for curves and men’s razors were made for more rugged terrain like beards. She informs me that she read an article on the internet that said there was very little difference and men’s razors were cheaper and more durable.

So I had to try.

I picked up the Gillette razor with the roller ball head and gave it a test run. WELL! Let me tell you, my legs have never been so soft! It cut the hair below the follicle and it stayed soft for about two days longer! The razor was also cheaper than the female equivalent and lasted about two weeks longer!

I couldn’t believe it. We have been lied to all these years. Marketers have been selling us pink plastic razors and charging us more for them. They have been keeping us away from the men’s section like it had some kind of taboo curse on it.

I started to do some research and found out that the main difference between a male and female razor is basically the colour. The blades themselves are made from the same material. The male razor is made to be more durable because a beard is obviously harsher than the hair on a female’s legs and the handles are stronger because a man’s hands are typically bigger and stronger.

But that’s a good thing! Some of us have big man hands and course hair.

The price is also different. A pack of four male razors are cheaper than four female razors.

I found the male razors lasted longer, were easier to use because the grip was better and gave me a much better shave. They are also easier to clean because it seems like the blades are spaced a little farther apart.

I also researched shave gels. Apparently the only difference between male and female shave gels are the smell and the price! Male gel is usually cheaper, comes in a bigger container and you need less of it.

So there you go! Don’t get sucked in by the pink, plastic, flower razors. Reach for the rugged, blue blade and give it a test run with your big man hands.

Be careful, both cause nicks that can bleed and feel like you’re dying. So take your time around the tender lady bits.

I am celebrating Canada Day by stocking up on tampons!

That’s right tampons. No red and white balloons and streamers for me. Just pure white tampons. I’ll make them Canadian at the end of the month.

The federal government is pulling the string on the GST on feminine hygiene products, including tampons, starting July 1st.

That’s right. No more bleeding us dry.

Fill up the cart ladies because it’s estimated that removing the tax will cost the government around $36 million! Who’s bleeding now?

And it’s not just tampons! We won’t be paying the tax on sanitary napkins, sanitary belts or menstrual cups (Who the hell sticks that in them and empties it? That’s taking being environmentally friendly to the extreme).

And who do we have to thank for tax free periods? NDP MP Irene Mathyssen. Ms. Mathyssen sponsored a private member's bill that pulled the plug on taxing tampons.  She was quoted as saying, “This is a victory for all women.”

Yes! Damn the vote and equal pay for equal work. I am padding my pension with the tax savings from bleeding for free. Well tax free anyway.

Except for one thing. I am in menopause. I don’t bleed anymore. So do I get a tax rebate for years of bleeding without dying? Do I at least get a break on my income tax for almost 40 years of bloating and cramps?


Well Stephen Harper can take his tax free tampons and stick it where men should never attempt to put a tampon but we know they have thought about it.

That’s right! Right up his nose.

Hey Steve, if you want the female vote, give us tax free Vodka or wine. God knows I’d have to be drunk to vote for you anyway.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Supermodels can’t really fly

While flipping through my favourite fashion magazine I began to notice some weird trends

1.       Someone shot all the supermodels with a Taser gun and knocked them out!

2.       Women who model purses never look inside them

3.       Models have horrible posture

4.       Madonna has bad cramps

5.       Why do women have to be naked to sell jewellery?

6.       Fashion has just gotten silly.

Like, I am an 80’s girl. I grew up with supermodels who were beautiful… Christy Brinkley, Cindy Crawford, Elle Macpherson. All stunning, and glowy and bright.

My latest issue of Vogue features models that look strung out, passed out and just out! Half the time I don’t know what they are selling.

Look at this ad of a model laying across the bed. It’s for a purse, but when was the last time you got in bed with your purse? I mean I love my purses as much as the next gal and I often dream of them when I am in bed but take one to bed. I don’t think so. It’s just not realistic. Why does she look passed out? I just want to shake her and say “Don’t fall asleep with that much makeup on you’ll get zits.” Why don’t models ever look in the purse? If you’re going to sell me a purse show me how much junk it can hold. I want to see a model looking through the purse with her iPhone in her mouth, her makeup bag under her arm, her wallet in one hand while she is looking for her keys with the other but pulls out the TV remote instead. Now I would buy that purse!

Then there is the Madonna Versace ads. Now like I said, I am an 80’s girl and I loved Madonna all through the whole crucifix phase, the wearing her bras on the outside, the freedom of expression but there’s something off about these pictures.

Is the purse too heavy? Is her back out from dancing? Is she taking a quick fart break in between photos? Is it period cramps? Is she tired? What’s up? I don’t get it. If I was wearing a Versace dress and carrying a Versace purse I would be standing proud with that thing slung over my shoulder like a boss.

What was going through the photographer’s head? “Madonna, bend over like you’re trying to fart through two pairs of Spanx and we will put a concrete block in the purse so your arms will look even more toned when you try to pick it up. Now work it Material Girl. Work that gas out.”

I think the look on Madonna’s face says it all. “I’ll crack your head with the cheeks of my ass it you say that one more time bitch.” I think Madonna would say that. I would if I had her arms.

Then there’s the posture thing. When did slouching become a model pose?

The model in this ad looks scary thin which is probably why it looks like she can barely hold the purse but her back is so rounded she looks like she should be in a brace.

I can hear the Nuns at Our Lady of Mercy in my head saying “You’re going to end up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame if you don’t straighten up.” Then I would snap to attention and straighten my spine.

I guess this model wasn’t raised Catholic.

It took me a while to figure out these models were selling shoes and accessories.

I just don’t know why they have to be naked to do it. Wouldn’t the jewellery look better with clothes?

When I buy jewellery I like to see how it looks with what I am wearing or plan on wearing. Maybe I am doing it wrong.

The next time I am in a jewellery store I am going to take my top off and try on a necklace then ask the salesperson how I look. If they say “Stunning! Model like!” Then I am going to buy it. If they call the cops they won’t make a sale from me. I’ll let you know if it works.

I noticed this dress advertised as Haute Couture. Maybe I am missing something. Maybe art is in the eye of the beholder but to me this model looks like she ran through a wall, made a dress from the broken pieces, and may have hurt herself badly because she is obviously bleeding to death.

Where would you wear this? I imagine myself walking into a huge ballroom and a waiter coming over with soda water and a napkin to help take the bloodstain out my dress. Or the police showing up questioning me about where my husband is. Or my Mother coming back from the dead to ask “You’re not really going to wear that are you?”

Am I missing something? This dress is just plain silly to me. Is it a case of the Emperor’s New Clothes?

I know the 80’s had its faults but it also had its glamour. You just don’t see glamour in fashion anymore. I think the grunge years did it in and it just never recovered.

Having said that, I won’t be cancelling my subscription to Vogue anytime soon either. I’ve loved that magazine all through years, I even turned a blind eye when they put a Kardashian on the cover.

Maybe I have fallen out of fashion’s target market.

Maybe my Carrie Bradshaw days ended with the TV series.

Maybe I am too old to understand it anymore. Maybe Madonna is slouched over because the weight of being a fashion icon is too much for her to carry?

I am going to have to sleep on it. I am going to take my favourite purse to bed with me tonight and see if I am missing something, and my black stilettoes.

No, maybe not the stilettoes, that would only get hubby excited… but it would give me more time to think about my purse collection.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Breaking news: Cats speak out against City’s Regulations

Felines throughout North America’s oldest city are up on their hind legs this week.

In a catty move, the City of St. John’s announced their new “Regulations for Cats living in the City of St. John’s.”

While the Mayor and City Councillors think this is the Cat’s Pyjamas for solving the problem of cat roaming, over population and damage control, feline’s are calling foul.

Sylvester Escott is a 15 year old Tabby, that’s almost 80 in human years. He says the Mayor may be grinning like a Cheshire Cat over this one but Mousers everywhere are mad. He has agreed to sit down, or lay down, for an exclusive one-on-one interview with me about what he refers to as the “Ratty Regulations.”

Reporter: Thank you Sylvester for taking the time to speak to me and give your side of the story.

Sylvester: You’re welcome. I feel someone had to speak up. These new regulations has left us as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Reporter: How did you first hear about the new regulations? Were you or your community consulted in anyway?

Sylvester: Well Thomasina down the road was using her litterbox Saturday afternoon. Her human had just cleaned it and laid down a new lining of newspaper and Kitty litter.  After doing her business she proceeded to bury it as all good cats do. Well to put it in Thomasina’s own words “I just finished burying one pile of crap when I dug up another!” She called a neighbourhood watch meeting on her back fence and read out the new regulations. It was the first we heard of them.

Reporter: So the ad in the newspaper was when they let the cat out of the bag?

Sylvester: That’s right. You know what they say “When the Cat's away the mice will play” and play they did with these ridiculous regulations. Banning cats from roaming the City of St. John’s! Who do they think will control the rat and mouse population now? City Council? Really, the pot holes up by Stavanger Drive have been there that long Shannie Duff has declared them a heritage hole now! How the hell are they going to do our job? Then to set up live humane cat traps. That’s just a Cat-o-nine-tails form of punishment for helping keep the city clean.

Reporter: You have to admit that cats do cause damage to property and are a nuisance to neighbours by leaving droppings around their yards.

Sylvester: Then I ask you. When will the City of St. John’s ban humans from roaming?

Reporter: Why would they want to?

Sylvester: Well Spring has sprung in the City of Legends. Try walking five feet without seeing a discarded Tim Horton’s cup, a McDonald’s bag, or Pepsi tin. Every parking lot, school ground, lawn and trail is full of human garbage! It’s not cats throwing old fridges in the bushes on the Rennie’s Mill Trail. It’s not cats that clean out their cars in parking lots. It’s not cats that throw their cigarette butts out the windows. Humans create a 100 times more garbage than cats do.

Reporter: (Pause) Sorry the cat had my tongue there for a minute. But you do urinate and do #2 outside on peoples lawns and flower beds sometimes.

Sylvester: Well Hey diddle diddle, the Cat and Fiddle. We do have to go when nature calls. It’s called fertilizer.  At least we are discrete about it. Try walking down George Street, Duckworth Street or Water Street on a weekend night. Are you telling me that it is cats who are pissing up against all those clubs, restaurants and businesses? Like, I know a Tomcat that’s pretty proud of the length of his tail if you know what I mean, but even he can’t write his name in the snow like a drunk staggering on George Street.

Reporter: The City says that it’s for your own protection. Every year they see hundreds of cats die due to cars, predators, cat fights and exposure to disease. So for your own safety owners should not let their cats outdoors unattended.

Sylvester: Let’s get something straight first. Cats do not have owners. We own humans. So don’t play cat and mouse with me. Let me ask you a question. How many humans die each year because of cars, predators, cat fights, and exposure to disease in St. John’s alone? Thousands! You are the number one cause of global warming. The number one cause of spreading diseases. You are the only animal that will abandon their young before they can fend for themselves. You are the only animal that will kill your own kind for no reason other than you don’t like each other. Let’s not pussyfoot around here. Instead of these high paid city councillors wasting their valuable time creating regulations for cats, how about they spend some time creating shelters for homeless youth we see sleeping in alleyways downtown? How about cleaning up the graffiti off historic buildings? How about filling a few potholes!!!!! I want answers to these questions!

Reporter: Well curiosity is obviously killing the cat so to speak. How are you going to fight this?

Sylvester: We are mobilizing as we speak. I’ve contact Pussy Galore in our national office and she is hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof. She told us to get every feline in the city to attend City Hall’s next meeting. There won’t be enough room to swing a cat when we unite.

Reporter: So you will be attending the next City Council meeting?

Sylvester: No, we’re not “attending” the meeting we’re going to piss on their cars in the parking lot. Try getting the smell of cat piss out. Talk about your new car smell. They’ll get our Cat-Calling Card.

Reporter: All City Council is trying to do is please City residents who don’t like cats and who have complained about them on their property. Is that so wrong?

Sylvester: People who don’t like cats? What is this the Salem witch hunt? It’s bad enough you humans put Halloween costumes on us. Next you’re want us to walk upright and wear pants. Did you not watch the Lion King? It’s called the circle of life. Humans create garbage, garbage brings rats and mice, and cats kill rats and mice. Unless the City is advertising for a Pied Piper position I don’t see how this is going to work. Why don’t they regulate the birds? When was the last time a cat shit on your windshield or head? We’re so upset over this, we are never bringing our musical back to this city!

Reporter: That’s all the time we have. Thank you Sylvester Escott for taking the time to speak to me….(weird sound comes from cat) Excuse me did you have something you wanted to add before we end?

Sylvester: No, just a fur ball. Sorry.

Reporter: There you have it. City councillors have dragged the feline population into a cat fight. It is unclear if the new regulations apply to cats visiting other areas around the City. The City also can’t say how the Animal Surveillance Security Enforcement Section (Asses) will be able to tell St. John’s cats from Mount Pearl cats.
The Mayor of Mount Pearl says he will have nothing to do with a Pussy Patrol and that Mayor O’Keefe better keep his hands off Mount Pearl pussies.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Don’t talk to your teenaged daughter like I do. It doesn’t work!

I can’t remember the last time my teenaged daughter asked for advice.

Advice on anything! I think I’ve been replaced by Google.

I think back on all the good advice my Mother shared with me and now I have a dory load of good advice to share.

Like, don’t sit on the seat in a public washroom and if you do have to sit, put toilet paper down first. Then hold the fork of your underwear out with one hand while you’re using it so your underwear don’t touch the toilet.

This info has to be shared.

Not everyone knows to hold the fork of their underwear away from the bowl!

So I Googled “How to talk to your teenage daughter” and came up with some great tips.


Start Talking to Your Daughter Early:
Great tip. I sat on her bed at 6:30 AM and started telling her about my day ahead. She wasn’t open to it at all. She literally kicked me off the bed and threw me out of her room and I am not that light so it was a huge chore for her to get me off the floor. Those dance lessons are really paying off.

Be Open When You Talk With Your Daughter:
I started with “I was 21 the first time I had sex. How old were you?” She ran away from me so fast the salesgirl at Garage thought she was a shoplifter and called security to chase her. They found her in the parking lot hiding behind a van but I told them she was just trying to get away from me.

Find the Balance Between Friend and Mother:
I thought this one was going to be easy. I showed up at her school dance in my Tina Turner black leather mini skirt and matching boob-tube. Snuck up behind her and said “Let’s ask those two cuties over there to dance.” She called Child Protective Services herself and asked if any foster homes were available.

Be Detailed in Talks With Your Daughter:
So I started the conversation with “We haven’t discussed yeast infections yet have we?” I followed it up with close up, detailed pictures that we could discuss but she spent so much time with her head in the toilet throwing up I gave up on the conversation.

Use Everyday Media to Trigger Conversations With Your Daughter:
I sincerely asked, “Do you think Kim’s ass really broke the internet? Because I think those screaming goats did a better job.” Now she has installed a lock on the inside of her bedroom door and a cat door so her father can slide food in.

In the end, I don’t think Mothers or daughters should trust Google to help them communicate or for advice.

Finally God intercepted. She yelled out “Mom, I think I have a fever.” I ran upstairs, into the bathroom, grabbed the thermometer (not the rectal one), Vicks Vapour Rup, Tylenol Cold and the Hall’s cough drops.

She allowed me to take care of her for a whole 20 minutes before kicking me out of the room. I was in heaven. I was needed.

Google may be good but it can’t comfort a sick child… or use a rectal thermometer with love.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Hiding evidence in plain sight

I have hubby trained to call me when he is on the way home from work each day. Not because I really care if he has left work or not, or because I miss the sound of his voice when we’re apart, but because I need time to hide the evidence.

What evidence?

ALL evidence! Evidence that may convict me in divorce court one day if he ever drags me there.

For example, the Tiffany Style Wisteria Table Lamp I ordered from the Home Shopping Channel. It was 60% off for two days only. I had to have it.,N:2043879,E:11814797&nav=n%3a0

Up to five years ago I didn’t know what a Tiffany Style lamp was, then my sister showed me hers, and now I am obsessed with them. I have a dragonfly lamp, a butterfly lamp, a chicken, Aladdin Lamp and now a Wisteria table lamp.

I have a deal with the mailman. If he sees my husband’s truck he cannot deliver any bag or box. He does it too... I think he is afraid of me.

I put my new lamp on top of the piano and strategically placed dust and cat fur around it. This makes the lamp look like it has been there for years. Then I cut the box up and put it in the recycling bin and shred the bill. I chop up the Styrofoam and burry in the bottom of the garbage bucket and throw the contents of the kitchen garbage bucket on top of it.

It is all executed with the precision of a Navy Seal operation.

My ring from Ebay came today. The mailman always delivers the mail before three o’clock so the kids don’t see anything either.

The ring is beautiful. It’s big and gold coloured with cubic zirconias all over it. I’ll look like Joan Collins on the set of Dynasty when I wear it. It was only $10.  I don’t know where I will wear it. Maybe out walking the dog.

The box is already hid in the recycling bin and the paperwork already shredded.

The mailman and I have worked out a system. He checks for hubby’s truck. I watch for him from the kitchen window. We give each other the signal. If he has a box or parcel, he rings the bell twice to let me know there’s a package in the mailbox. Why? Because the Postman always rings twice.

I get enough time to admire my latest acquisition and discard the evidence before hubby comes home.

If I get caught up admiring my latest adventure, hubby calls to warn me, or tell me “I am on the way home.” Sometimes he’ll say “Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me? What are you up to?”

And I’ll brush him off and say “Don’t be so foolish.”

As soon as I hang up the phone I go into Ninja mode. Chopping up boxes, shredding paper faster than a White House intern, hiding evidence.

For the record, the best place to hide evidence…. Is in plain sight.

People always look under couches, in drawers, on top of closet shelves. No one ever sees what is in front of their face.

Then fifteen minutes later he comes through the door. “Something looks different. It’s brighter in here. What did you do?”

“Oh, I moved the Wisteria lamp from the table in the basement upstairs and put it on the piano. I think it looks nicer there.”

He stares at it for a few minutes. “It does look nicer there. I never noticed it in the basement.”

Evidence has blended in nicely. Operation … complete. 

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Oh no! Say it can’t be so! The Dowager has announced her departure from Downton Abby.

Maggie Smith, the Dowager Countess Violet Crawley and Lady Grantham all in one, has announced she will leave the Abby at the end of Season Six. By death I would imagine as there’s no other way to get her out. Ask Cora. God knows she’s tried.

The unfortunate part of that announcement is she is the one character I truly love. I look forward to spending my Sunday nights having tea with the Dowager and rewinding her best zingers until I have committed them to memory. Then I spend my week looking for opportunities to zing them at other unsuspecting people, or commoners as she would say.

Why do we love Violet so much? I know… because she reminds us of our Mothers, grandmothers, Mother-in-law, favourite aunt or older sister. You know the one?

She’s the one that can think out loud without fear of reprisal because everyone’s either afraid of her or is not sure how to take her. She delivers her lines with such careful precision that one is not sure if it is a compliment or an insult.

Lady Grantham reminds me of so many women in my life. You just have to translate her best zingers into your own family’s dialect to hear the voice of someone you know.

Lady Grantham: “I will applaud your discretion when you leave.” Or as my Mother would say, “Don’t let the door hit you in the arse on the way out.”

“Everyone goes down the aisle with half the story hidden.” Or as Mother would say, “That long white dress is hiding more than her virtue.”

“Mary won’t take Matthew Crawley, so we better get her settled before the bloom is quite gone off the rose” Or translated by a favourite Aunt, “You’re not going to be young forever girl. Pick one!”

Cora Crawley: “Are we to be friends then?” Countess Violet: “We are allies my dear which can be a good deal more effective.” You’ll have to hit the ten year mark before you hear your Mother-in-law say that.

“Why do you always have to pretend to be nicer than the rest of us?” My Mother pinching me at any given wedding or funeral when I give her the “stop doing that” eye.

“I do hope I’m interrupting something.” My Mother on any given night.

Cora: “I hate to go behind Robert’s back.” Countess Violet: “That is a scruple no successful wife can afford.” We pretty much heard this one from all our Mother.

Mrs. Crawley: “I take that as a compliment.” Countess Violet: “I must’ve said it wrong.” …Ok that’s pretty much me on any given day.

“It’s the job of grandmothers to interfere.” My Mother used this one all the time.

“Wars have been waged with less fervour.” My Mother describing the relationship between me and my siblings.

“There’s nothing simpler than avoiding people you don’t like. Avoiding one’s friends, that’s the real test.” We have all heard that from some lady in our life.

“Principles are like prayers. Noble of course. But awkward at a party.” I’ll be using this one whenever I get the chance to talk about principles, which is not that often.

Oh how I will miss my tea with the Dowager and her “I am old I can say anything I want” ways. Her death will bring me to tears I am sure. The worst part is she won’t be able to make fun of her own funeral which I know would be hilarious.

What will her parting zingers be while she lays upon her English lace deathbed? Will she finally tell Lady Edith to stop being so desperate then she might get a man? Will she finally call Lady Mary a big fat whore? Will she thank Cora for saving Downton Abby from bankruptcy with her dirty American money? Will she admit she has a crush on Tom, even when he was the chauffer? Will she finally tell Lord Grantham to grow a set?

Oh what will she say? We will wait with baited breath until January 2016 to finally see season six of Downton Abby. That is unless Maggie Smith decides she is tired of playing Maggie Smith. After all she is 80 years old.