Sexual Chairs and Dumb Faces

I’ve been a very bad blogger.

No, that wasn’t a cue for you to get out your paddle and punish me for being neglectful and lazy. Ok, maybe it was, but you’re all the way over on the other side of the internet, so I’ll have to punish myself.

(Side note: Dear god, ‘punish’ sounds so sexual. Much like the words ‘penetrate’ and ‘rub’. I dare you to use all three in a sentence. GO!)

I’ll admit that summer takes away a lot of my normal ‘free time’ that I spend blogging. (read: I actually get off the couch to go outside when it’s nice outside, so I’m not on the computer all the goddamn day.)  I thank you for putting up with my unreliable blogging behaviour. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, tequila shots are on me. If you show me your boobs.

It will come as no shock to you to hear that I’ve been steadily shaving years off of my liver.  Toronto Pride happened a couple weekends ago, and I think I heard my insides crying while I made sweet love to the porcelain gods and I prayed for sweet salvation. (In other words, I spent a day throwing up street meat and vodka. It was dreamy. I can tell you’re jealous.)

Lots has happened in my world as of late, and I thought I’d make a little list of important mentionables.  Think of this as our personal little update huddle time. No farting please. (Oh god, did I just make a fart joke? I must be rusty.)

10 Things Worth Mentioning (In No Particular Order)

1)      Technology is not indestructible, despite what you may have heard from Arnold Schwarzenegger. While my Blackberry put up a good fight, it eventually had to accept defeat.  (I dropped my Blackberry off of my balcony on the 24^th floor. Suffice it to say, it did not survive the fall. WHADDUP iPhone.)

2)      Eating almost an entire carrot cake before bed, will make you have crazy dreams about tremendous poops and breakdancing. Not necessarily in that order.

3)      Instagram brings out your inner hipster, even if you don’t want it to. It’s like the STI of apps. You didn’t want to admit you’re a goddamn whore, but the warts are there, slutpup, so embrace it and move along.

4)      I spend a lot of time in the sun, but I’m still really pasty with the exception of my feet. Fact: Tanned feet will bring all the boys to your yard.

5)      If you tell a Starbucks barista that your name is Brittany, there is a high likeliness she will decide you’re better suited to another name.

6)      Channing Tatum has the dumbest face of all the faces.

7)      In related dumb face news: Someone decided that Anne Hathaway could sing and pull off a buzzed head. As far as I’m concerned, it was probably dumb Channing’s face who made that call. Regardless, she shat all over my favourite musical of all time. Seriously guys, the world might be over.  Stay tuned.

8)      Shopping in the USA is ridiculous. All of the allegations of Target’s almighty power were not even remotely hyperbolized. I was so tantalized by the deals I may or may not have purchased a solar-activated waiving Queen. Don’t judge.

9)      Don’t tell your dental hygienist you work in investments. You will have to sit there and hear about her investment decisions and you can’t do a goddamn thing about it because the bitch has her hands so far in your mouth, she may as well be filming it to make a profit.  In related news: investments are boring, but dentist chairs are very sexual. Who knew?

10)  Banana popsicles were sent to earth by the Gods of Mouthgasms.  Now I just need to find a way to add vodka to them. Please provide suggestions below.

I have lots of catching up to do on your wonderful blogs. I hope that you will remain patient with me and my douchebaggery. I promise to be much more reliable in the near future. There is just far too much sangria to be consumed and not nearly enough hours in the day to do so.

A small piece of advice: Vodkarade is your friend. Until it’s not.

CHEERS!

Your Mom is Organic.

Eating healthy is fucking dumb.

Before you healthnuts start reaming factoids down my throat about the importance of treating our bodies well and how kale is going to make me glow like an orgasmic, pregnant unicorn, I’m going to have to stop you. You can roll around in your wheatgrass, organic flaxseeds and daily probiotics all you fucking want, but don’t even try to convince me to take part in your cult’o’douche.  Just hearing the word organic makes me want to vomit all over the 15 year old grocery clerk in the produce aisle.

Recently, while gallivanting around local a grocery store with a friend, it was brought to our attention that the store did not sell ‘regular’ celery or zucchini (and probably other fruits and veggies, but I didn’t break into a full investigation. Something for another day, folks). The only option was ‘organic’, which essentially means that the amount you’re paying for a handful of zucchinis is equivalent to sending little Eduardo, the Ecuadorian child you saw on TV on Sunday afternoon when you were hungover, to school for six years - without the benefit of knowing you’re helping the needy. Instead, all you are gaining is the knowledge that the produce you’re buying is ‘organic’- a convoluted term that probably mostly just means your fruits and veggies are covered in cow farts.

By definition, organic means: ‘of, relating to, or derived from living matter.’ No fucking shit, farmboy! Produce comes from living matter. That’s science. There are so many derivations of the term ‘organic’, that while the jolly, patchouli-sniffing hippie acts all high and mighty on their mound of organic tampons (sorry, Jen) and free trade roasted seaweed chips, it is extremely difficult to ensure that their products are, in fact, entirely chemical-free. What you can ensure, however, is that you’re paying preposterous prices. You may as well start wiping your ass with fivers, motherfucker.

I’ve said it once (or more?), and I’ll say it again: I’m a vegetarian. I’m one of those twatwaddlers that y’all love to hate.

I get it.

You love bacon.

Steak makes the world go round.

You love to suck flesh off of bones and lick your fingers ‘til they bleed.

That’s cool.

You do what you want, and I’ll do what I want. If I want to eat eggs and roll around in a puddle of melted gouda, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. Even vegans, while I don’t entirely respect their choice to live without the splendor of the All Mighty Aged Cheddar, can do what they want as well. As long as no one is telling me what I should and should not do, everyone will keep their fingers, tongues and earlobes.

I feel like I may have gotten off track a little bit. What was I talking about? Oh right, eating healthy.

I’ll tell you this much: whenever something tastes amazing, and you find yourself asking “What in the fuckity fuck is in this dish? Angel tears?” chances are it’s unhealthy. Guaran-fucking-teed that bitch is loaded with a shit-ton of butter, possibly cream, probably cheese and some sort of carb and/or potato. (Psst. Want to know a little know secret? If the wind is just right, and you listen very carefully, you can hear Jenny Craig weeping in her stanky broccoli treehouse while you shovel those deep-fried orgasms into your piehole. Let her weep, hog, let her weep.)

Try as I might, just thinking about eating ‘healthy, well-balanced’ meals makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a fondue fork (mmm fondue). But, the time of bathing suits and tank tops is looming, and my winter binge eating is really starting to pay off. And by ‘pay off’ I mean: if I were to take up bellydancing, the instructor would be extremely offended and probably reconsider a new profession.

While I’ve toyed with the idea of giving up cheese for a month or two, I’ve also realized that that’s fucking stupid. I didn’t get a university degree to make asshat decisions like that.

So instead I’m going to give up butter chocolate cake candy potatoes bread pasta streetmeat tacos rice. Yep, that’s the one. I’m going to give up white rice. Probably. Maybe. Ask me again next week.

Bon Appetite, fellow facestuffers.

Pass the Crisco.

Don't Go On the Roof! Updated!

I have a raccoon problem.

Not in the ‘I can’t quit raccooning, guys- I’m hooked!” kind of way. But in the ‘they are taking over my life and will probably eat my cat’ kind of way.  And I don’t even have a cat.

Last spring, I had the luxury of discovering a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch. As we live on the third floor of a house, it felt a bit like a special delivery. The kind of delivery you’d expect from Satan, or Joan Rivers.

This was shocking and upsetting for two reasons.  1) I stopped eating meat 8 years ago because I had to dissect a fetal pig in high school and wanted to die the whole goddamn time. So it was pretty much like staring trauma directly in its hideous, inbred face. 2) It’s a fucking dead raccoon fetus.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation, I decided to grab the corner of the tarp that was conveniently strewn on the ground beside it, to temporarily cover it. Out of sight, out of mind, right? WRONG. Out of the tarp jumps the biggest raccoon fucker I’ve encountered to date. Probs from the pregnancy weight, but I’m going to judge her anyway. Bitch scared the living shit right out of me.  Worst thing? I was home alone. 

After a few hysterical phone calls and likely several shots, I stood for a long period of time, face pressed up against the glass door, expecting to see the unsuccessfully-covered fetus move. It didn’t… as dead things generally go…  The next day, my roommate and her heroic Irish boyfriend disposed of the body- later telling me they had had another encounter with Bitch-Jumps-Out-of-Tarps, but this time she also had a (living) baby. Hooray! More Raccoons all around! Just what Toronto needs!

A few months later, summer arrives and a fresh-faced 19 year old lad moves in downstairs. Sharing a love of booze, we instantly got along.  One night, he proposes the idea of climbing onto our roof sometime. My roommate agrees this would be a jolly good time, while my first thought was That’s where the raccoons are. They throw their fetuses from above- don’t go up there.  Trying not to sound like a total lunatic, I kept that thought inside and shrugged off the idea, hoping it wouldn’t arise again.

A couple weeks later, the following text message conversation takes place between me and my roommate:

Roommate: We’re thinking of going up on the roof tonight.

Me: Oh man, don’t! Maybe there are raccoon bodies up there!

Roommate: HA! If there are, I’m so getting them taxidermied and using them to scare you constantly.  Oh, what’s in your bed? Oh, what’s in the fridge? Oh, what’s in the oven? RACCOOOOONS.

And then I’m going to make them wear Anne Hathaway masks.*

Me:  I hate you.

 

*If you don’t get that, you should read this post.

Lesson: Don’t expect your roommate to support your irrational fear of raccoon fetuses. And also, dead raccoons are far more terrifying when you put Anne Hatahaway’s face on them.

Update: 
Roommate has provided a sample of her upcoming work.

Why yes, that IS a baby raccoon emerging from her stupid chin.

 

Self-Appointed Watchdog.

My roommate has decided the reason I hate Anne Hathaway’s face is because she has “too much face on her face.” I’m still trying to understand that, but she also managed to find a several Facebook groups dedicated to hating Hathaway’s face.  For that reason alone, I will continue to use Facebook. 

***

I recently saw an old man carrying a small white and red cooler as he crossed the street. He had a wicked hunchback and sported a pretty swag baseball cap. All I could think was That man totally has organs in there.  He seemed pretty chill and really, carrying organs around with you only makes you cooler (especially if you’re badass like Ke$ha and you eat that shit for dinner), but now I really wish I had been able to peak inside. Next time I see someone carrying a red and white cooler, I’m Chuck Norris’ing that shit from them.

On an unrelated note, last night I was watching the news thinking There should be more coverage of unicorns and less coverage of sadness, when all of a sudden this man appeared on the screen, standing in front of a gas station in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. I don’t know what the hell he was talking about, but the caption under his name read “Gas Price Watchdog.” Now wait just a minute. Is that his job title? How does a person become an official watchdog?  How much do you have to watch gas prices to be considered a watchdog?  And more importantly, is he a watchdog in other facets of his life?

We need to be friends.