Dude Looks Like a Lady

This week has been abnormally busy.  And by busy, I mean douchey.

Work is testing my patience and this morning I came pretty close to hitting half a dozen people in the face with my umbrella… intentionally… because I hate the rain/snow and it turns me into a raging beast of fury.

Yesterday was no picnic either. Tuesdays are worst than Mondays, guys. They sneak in and pretend to be friendly with all of their “Cheap Tuesday!” promises, but don’t be fooled. They’re the devil, wrapped in discounts- much like Walmart… with fewer underwear faux-pas…maybe... depending on how your day goes.

People of Walmart.

All of this is to say that I’m probably not overly amusing today. I did, however, have a pretty incredible interaction the other day in the subway.

It was after midnight, I was far from home and the only other person in sight was a girl in neon tights that would put Bowie to shame.

I was minding my own business, trying not to fall asleep before the train arrived, when, from around the corner, walks a man.  He was in his late-sixties to early-seventies and he was sporting a tilley hat.

One of these...

 

Beneath the tilley hat, he wore large headphones, equipped with a microphone that extended a few inches away from his face. He wore cargo pants and an old, teal, zip-up jacket. He took one look at me and stopped in his tracks. We made eye contact. (Oh, the dreaded eye contact.)  He took a few steps towards me, now standing a few feet away, and muttered something under his breath.  Not wanting to instigate a conversation, I shot him a look that said ‘huh?’ and shifted my gaze in another direction.

Tilley man piped up and said: “Playing the video games, I see.”

I looked down, remembering that I had been playing some Hangman on my phone to kill time, and offered a silent nod, acknowledging his observation.

Tilley man: “Wait one second while I take this off.”

Alarmed by such a statement, I looked up, silently praying this be a nudity-free interaction. Thankfully, he reached for his hat. Whilst leaving his headphones and microphone in tact, he raised his hat above his head, and leaned down a little bit.

Tilley man: “Do I look like Mrs. Doubtfire?”

I stared blankly at him, taking a second to register the question, and trying to determine if this was a joke.  He took my silence as a cue to continue.

Tilley man: “I’m related to Mrs. Doubtfire, you know.  I was just going through my family tree…”  (He fires up his Scottish accent) “…turns out, I’m a Williams!  Also! I had family in Liverpool! That’s English!”  (His accent quickly changing from Scottish to English) “You know who was from Liverpool, don’t you? The Beatles! It’s true!”

I smiled reluctantly and said “Oh, that’s great”, attempting to sound as genuine and enthused as possible.

He placed his hat back on his head and in a tone that screamed ‘I’m pretty much famous’, he said “You’ll see me around”, as he sauntered off to a nearby bench.

… Still waiting for our next run-in.

The thing that pleases me most out of this interaction?  Out of all of the Robin William characters to choose from, he likened himself to Mrs. Doubtfire.

What a lady, she is.

Whip It, Whip It Good.

Lately, I’ve been noticing a lot of mention of Fetish Parties.   

I’ve been invited to many over the years, but have yet to attend one. I say ‘yet’ as if it’s on my ‘do to’ list, but I just can’t seem to get around to going to the latex store to get fitted for a custom onesie with all the fixin’s. 

Over the years, I’ve had a lot of random run-ins with these sorts of events, and admittedly have perused the likes of Facebook for a colourful depiction of the ongoings of these special nights. I’ve always been greatly amazed, and sometimes horrified, at the lengths at which the partygoers will go to ensure the authenticity of their outfits. They aren’t kidding around, folks.

So, why am talking about this today?  Well, I recently received an e-mail with regards to one of these soirées, and it reminded me of a job I once had.

Before you get your panties in a bunch, let me explain.

Back when I was in university, I took on a lot of random/shitty jobs during the summer months to support my raging alcohol dependency during the school year. One of those jobs was assisting Americans in writing grant proposals to the government- the American government. Naturally, a failing budding sociology student would be fully equipped to help the financially unstable get their ducks in a row. While we were generally ‘discouraged’ from providing ‘financial advice’ to our desperate callers, we were encouraged to charge them $400 to provide them with information already available to them for free through the glorious information highway called The Internet. (But shhhh! That last part was a secret.) 

You can imagine how fantastic I felt knowing I was ripping off these underprivileged individuals. If they hadn't been paying me in commission, I’d have done the bare minimum and skated by until September when I could say ‘Fuck You’, and go join the pothead  (seriously, spellcheck? That’s actually a word? Amazing.) upstairs, who so frequently filled our office with the glorious distinct smell of weed.  Did I mention that my bosses also lived in this loft, so if you showed up early for work, you’d likely be greeted by your employer in a bathrobe with questionable morning-sex hair?  Yep. It was awesome.

I knew my bosses were a little eccentric.  There were indications of that all over their house/our office; but during business hours, they were usually pretty professional and we got shit done. And by ‘got shit done’, I mean we successfully took money from poor people.  When September rolled around, I knew my working days were coming to an end.  I gave my notice, and said my farewell to the loft, the office cat and the couple who employed me and brought me one step closer to the gates of hell.

Towards the late fall, I was in the eye of the shitstorm called exams, and I received an e-mail.  The sender was unfamiliar, but I’m a badass and still open e-mails from people I don’t know (viruses got nothin’ on me, foo.) Up pops some pretty explicit photos of women and men in bondage gear, people dressed up as giant stuffed animals, whips, chains, and all that good stuff.  At first, I assumed this was sent to me in error. “I probably signed up for some mailing list at the bar last weekend. I’ve got to stop signing up for things when I’m drunk.” I told myself- until I saw the names in small print at the bottom. My former bosses.

A light bulb went off in my brain faster than a hooker can say “that’s $100 extra” and I started experiencing flashbacks to Monday mornings in the office. I suddenly remembered all of the ‘unexpected number of guests’ they’d received that weekend and what a mess it had been to clean up. There was mention of moving the furniture, of changing the lights, of covering the giant, loft windows.

It. all. made. sense.

A deep urge to bathe washed over me as I considered the surfaces I had touched over the previous months. I thought about my desk, and my chair. I thought about my telephone receiver. I thought about my stapler. In the world of fetish parties, nothing is off-limits. (Isn’t that the nature of fetishes?)  My entire summer suddenly had a different sheen to it- maybe if I hadn’t been drunk the whole time, I would have picked up on their ‘hobby’ earlier. But we can’t always blame the booze, can we?

The moral of this story is: when you get a job on Craigslist, assume the employer also hosts fetish parties. And then see how you can get an employee discount on admission, because fuck that shit costs a lot. 

Does This Frostbite Make Me Look Fat?

I’m going to have to take a moment to acknowledge the recent change in temperature my fellow Canadians are experiencing. While I’m sure you northern Americans are also reaching for your heavier sweaters, my sympathy runs very shallow for y’all- because this morning, in addition to nearly losing a nipple, I could see my breath. 

At first, I was confused. Am I smoking right now? Am I a dragon and my fire has been extinguished? Did I take up flame spitting in my free time?  As I pondered the possibilities, I huffed and huffed, watching the steady stream’o’steam leave my body. As soon as I walked around the corner, and into the windy motherfucking street of death, it was clear to me that winter had arrived to bite me in the ass. 

To those of you into ‘winter sports’, I’m giving you the middle finger right now. Even if you can’t see me, just know that it’s happening.

I believe that winter exists for the sole purpose of making people lazy and unhappy. If I want to go anywhere in the winter, it means I am going to need to plan out exactly how to execute my trip from point A to point B, ensuring minimal outdoor exposure.  This means that if you don’t live near a subway, chances are we won’t be friends for the next couple of months. Well, we can be friends, but I’m not coming to your house. As awesome as you may be, I value my skin more than I like you, and I’m not putting up with the impending frostbite just so we can get hammed-à-la-house.  The promise of liquor only holds so much weight, and when the cold runs so deep that I can feel goosebumps in my buttcrack, you’re on your own, my friend.

While I’ll admit that my pain threshold for withstanding the cold is very near non-existent, I have a few suggestions on how to prepare for the approaching cold weather.

Tricks to Staying Warm When Mother Nature Decides to be a Cu  Bitch

1.      Stop dieting- Everybody knows that body fat keeps you warmer than any fleece sweater and/or Snuggie.  Put down the lettuce, and pick up the croissants. If your meal involves butter and cheese, you’re doing it right. 

1. (b) While we’re on that note, also hide/bury/destroy your scale and/or full-length mirror. This way you can appreciate your newfound warmth without all the messy crying and shameful, fat, naked mirror dances.

2.      Grab that bottle- The quickest way to warm your body is through your liver. In other words: take up drinking.  I recommend whiskey for the colder days. Whiskey is like a giant Fuck You to winter, because it says “Your efforts to make me miserable and frozen are lost on me! My nose would be this red even if it weren’t below zero. Let’s go tobogganing without coats! HUZZAH!”

3.      Stop shaving- If ‘sexiness’ is your concern, let us revisit #1.  If you’re going to let yourself go, why not fully commit? This way, you’ll have your very own personal fleece blanket… in the form of hair… all over your body. 

  

4.      Take up arson- Some of us don’t live lives of luxury. Some of us can’t afford ‘fireplaces’ or ‘fire pits’ or ‘heat lamps’. Some of us still deserve the warmth of fire. Having trouble rationalizing? The entire Christmas music industry supports arson if you listen closely enough (…Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? Please! More like: Chestnuts roasting on an illegal, gasoline-ignited fire). But! Be mindful of what you’re burning down… it’s best if it belongs to an asshole. We’re nearing holiday times, folks, no need to get on Santa’s naughty list!

5.      Forget the concept of personal space- It’s a well-known fact that body heat is the biggest player in the game of staying warm.  While the odd cuddlefest may be nice when you’re at home snookuming with your honeybuns (pardon me while I puke in my mouth a little bit…), chances are, if you’re a productive member of society, you have to leave your bed/couch sometimes. When you’re out and about, make sure to take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate other people’s bodies and the warmth that they provide. Snuggle up to a stranger in the subway/at a bus stop/while you’re waiting to cross the street/wherever there are people and it’s cold. They’ll appreciate your body heat as much as you’ll appreciate theirs. It just may take them a few moments/court hearings to realize it.

Do you have any tips on staying warm in the late fall/winter?

Lettuce Forget How Much You Suck.

Today, I have beef. 

I’m not saying, “I’ve got a baggie full of ground beef in my purse right now, guys”, I’m saying “I’ve got a bone to pick, and I’m going to yell it from a motherfucking rooftop.”

Let’s pretend this blog is a rooftop, shall we?

Perfect.

An Open Letter to Lettuce (and Other Leafy Greens.)  

Dear Lettuce,

You make your way into my fridge, and before I can remember that I purchased you, you sit in my vegetable ‘crisper’, wilting away, generating a mysterious liquid, and plotting your absolute domination over the other, less douchey produce items in your general vicinity.  Leave the apples alone, arugula, they did nothing except be delicious.

I understand that you’re likely envious of their crunchy, juicy, delightful ability to satisfy one’s piehole, but back the fuck off. If I do pick you up, consider not leaking all over me. I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe if you were more likeable and less like an unpotty-trained chihuahua, I’d consider picking you up and ingesting you more often.  

Why did I buy you and not let a more avid leaf-eater purchase and consume you in my place? 

The answer is simple: your enchanting green hue tricked me. It always tricks me.

I see you sitting in your mountain of well-misted glory, and think “Maybe this week, I’ll make a salad every day and bring it to work. I could totally do that. I’m going to kick ass at being healthy. I’m a health MACHINE!”  So, I pick you up, place you in a bag that will inevitably become your eternal resting place, and mosey along- purchasing other healthy, boring items on my quest for the healthy lifestyle I have been hearing so much about lately.  

Chances are, in the throes of post-grocery shopping bliss, I will make that salad. I will throw your luxuriant, green leaves into a bowl with your vegetable crisper nemeses, and ingest it like a champ. I will pat myself on the back and think “Damn, I ate the fuck out of that healthy meal. I’m the healthiest bitch in the room.” And then I’ll do a little dance, because I’m the only bitch in the room, while I fantasize about the chocolate I’ll eat later to reward myself for eating so well.

The thing is, lettuce, you just aren’t satisfying at all. While I may momentarily bathe in your healthy, leafy glow, you never truly eliminate my hunger, you never kill a craving, and you, more often than not, get stuck in my teeth, making me look like a doofus all after-fucking-noon.  Your seasonal ‘mixed greens’ resemble something I’d find in my mom’s bag’o’weeds after she’s done with her afternoon gardening, and I’ve had enough of your pretention.

So, leafy greens, for the love of god, next time we meet in the produce aisle, why don’t you just act like your weepy, droopy, poopy self, so we can avoid the awkward “Oh right…you’re in my fridge, aren’t you… I guess I should probably throw you out… WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LEAKING ON ME” moment.

Thank you,

Britt

Xoxoxo

P.S. Why can’t you be more like cheese.  Cheese is awesome. 

P.P.S. I hope you caught the brilliant 'play on words' in the title. I'm here all week, folks. 

Better Than a High-Class Hooker

It's Friday.

If you hadn't already realized that, I'm very glad to have enlightened you. (You should probably lay off the weed, though, because even I can keep track of my days...)
If you had realized that, then you're probably like me and counting down the minutes until you can GTFO of work/school/prison... 

My attention span is pretty much non-existant today, but that doesn't mean I haven't had time to browse ye ol' Craigslist.

Today, I bring you my dream job.
If it weren't across the country, I'd be sending my letter of interest along with a picture proving I can definitely "pretend" eat someone's face.

I say, "Potato", you say, "Let's run the world with pigeons."

I’ve hit a wall.

I keep staring at the blank screen, trying to think of something that might make you chuckle or, at the very least, huff loudly through your nostrils, but the proverbial crickets be chirpin’.  

This is all your fault.

If you weren’t so intent on being amused when you read my blog, I could just write about how much I love potatoes and that would be that. I wouldn’t need to think up clever anecdotes and new ways to say the word ‘tit’. I could just be all “Yum. POTATOES. Nom nom nom” and you would take it like a champ.  

Actually, can we take a moment to pause and appreciate the potato, folks. I mean, for serious. The possibilities are endless with those little delicious fuckers. Starchy, adaptable vegetable FTW.)

If I had an online store, I would sell T-shirts that say:

Since y’all aren’t here to read about produce, you’ve left me up shitcreek without a paddle. Nothing overly interesting has happened in my life lately.  I mean, I could tell you about last weekend and how I got so drunk I nearly picked up a cougar by accident, or about the time my landlord locked me out of my apartment and I reluctantly donated my bananas to raccoons, but those stories would probably compromise my ‘cool shit’ reputation, and we can’t have that, now, can we?

So instead, I’m going to enlighten you with a brief story that outlines why my roommate may eventually take over the world.

One quiet evening, I sat in the living room of our little apartment. The television may have been on. This is not relevant to the story. My roommate was in the kitchen, probably doing something with food and/or drink (so far, this story is going really well…), and suddenly came hurtling into the room.

Roommate: “Okay, think about this:  If you were telepathic with pigeons… like, if you were all ‘Dr. Doolittle’ with them, you could totally take over the world. With pigeons.”

Me: “What exactly would you accomplish by communicating with pigeons? Tell them where to poop, and to swoop down near people’s heads when they aren’t paying attention to scare the shit out of them*?”

Roommate: “They were used in the war!”

Me: “Well then.”

Roommate: “Think about it!”

So, if she starts acting strangely more strangely and engages in bizarre one-on-one interactions with pigeons, I’ll know to watch my back- because bitch be taking over the world, Dr. Doolittle style. 

(P.S. I still think you're crazy, roomie. And I've thought about it.)

 

* I’m 90% sure that pigeons exist for the sole purpose of fucking with me when I’m drinking wine in a park.

Nothing is Quite as Fabulous as a Man in a Dress (Alt. Title: Protect Your Nipples)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from frequenting gay bars, it’s that dragqueens can do “diva” better than any vagina-sporting bitch I know.

They’re six-foot-something, looming beasts, armed with a concept of ‘femininity’ that could leave Nicki Minaj perplexed.  The bigger the hair- the better. The smaller the dress- the better. The longer the lashes-the better. The smaller the bulge- the better.

Watching performances, it often appears they’re in a competition of “Who can flail their arms around the most”, while proving that they can own the shit out of a classic Celine Dion chest-pound.  

Now, I don’t want this to come across as an “I hate dragqueens” post, because I feel quite the contrary.  I think they are fabulous and I gurgle with joy when I see a man in a dress. What I’m most bamboozled by (yes, that’s a word! It means baffled! The world is an exciting place!) is the abundance of titty-grabbing that occurs when a man is dressed as a woman.

Let me explain.

On more than one occasion, I have been minding my own business in the ladies’ room at a bar when suddenly a towering vision of glitter and weave appears behind me in the mirror.  There is something about a 6’7” ‘woman’ that makes me both excited and terrified.  So, let’s assume for the sake of this story that I was drunk. I know it’s a long shot, but try to imagine it, folks.  So there I am, fixing my face and practicing my “I’m not drunk, I’m just sassy” face, when this superfab tower of glam approaches me.  I smile, contemplate throwing a ‘love the outfit, girl!”, or a simple “WORK”, her way, but decide I’m not fabulous enough to pull it off.  She begins adjusting herself and I took this as my cue to leave. Sooner than I could say “Where’s my drink?” the queen spins around, looks me in the face and grabs my nipples.

Had this man not been head to toe in glitter, sequins, and eau-de-hoe, I would have thrown a slapbomb so hard he would’ve been a she for realz. But the combination of hair and glamour threw me for a loop.  She exhaled and let out some loud, enthusiastic variation of “honk honk” and I just stood there- nipples pinched and wide-eyed, still sporting my drunken smile.  I leaned over, picked up my purse and let out possibly the most awkward laugh of all time.  I stumbled out of that bathroom shamed, confused and a little aroused.

So, next time you’re alone in the bathroom with a dragqueen, remember to guard your nipples- or she’ll come a-honkin’.

These are life lessons, people.