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?

House of Horrors... Now With More Garbage Bags.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love Halloween. 

For as far back as I can remember, it’s been my favourite holiday. As a kid, I would spend hours sitting on the front porch, shredding black garbage bags like a motherfucker (think: Steve Vai, but with scissors…and garbage bags…), constructing scary ‘graveyards’ in the front garden and barricading the doorbell so people would be forced to use the door knocker- thus setting off the Ghost of Horror. The GOH was essentially a small plastic cone, covered in white material with a face drawn on it. When activated, it would shake and make a ‘ghost’ noise for about 30 seconds. More often than not, it was unresponsive to loud noises. Noise detectors in the 90’s were clearly not up to snuff.

My mom really digs holiday wreaths.

Every Halloween, the front of our house looked more like it was vandalized than decorated.

Despite all of my hard work, my makeshift decorations were usually always shitty, and most definitely not weather resistant.  And as many of you likely know, sometimes it snows on/around Halloween in our Nation’s capital. This meant that we were forced to bundle up when we went Trick or Treating. Nothing says “frightening” like a zombie in a Mountain Equipment Co-op Jacket and snow pants. “HIDE IN THE CLOSET, HONEY! THE ZOMBIES ARE COMING AND IT LOOKS LIKE THEY ARE ABOUT TO DO SOME SERIOUS TOBOGGANING!”

(Wow that paragraph was abundantly Canadian.)

The presence of snow pretty much guaranteed my garden ‘graveyard’ would always be ruined. Turns out cardboard cut-outs with “RIP” written in Sharpie aren’t as ‘authentic’ as one might think. (It’s important to note that the ‘tombstones’ were also about 6 inches tall and a foot or so apart, resembling more of a sad pet cemetery than a spooky graveyard. And given the high number of these pet-sized tombstones, one could have deduced that the child living in the house was likely a budding sociopath/serial killer.)

My parents always played the “It looks great, kiddo! You really did a stand-up job this year! How spooky!” card.

Deep down, I always knew they were just being polite.

But every year, without fail, out came that Halloween box, the garbage bags, the scissors, a role of masking tape and a kid determined to make it the ‘scariest year yet!’

I’d hate to tell you, kid, but you failed. That ‘evil, pumpkin-head scarecrow’? Not scary. That time you dressed up in your friend’s dad’s Hungarian monk robe and hid behind the tree? Not scary.  That time you turned all of the house lights off, except the glow of the jack-o’-lanterns on the porch and made your own ‘scary sounds’ tape and played it through the dining room window? Definitely. Not. Scary.

There is, however, one thing I’ve managed to master after all of these years: my pumpkin carving skills.  I can work my way around a pumpkin like George Foreman can a grill.

I guess you could say pumpkins are my bitch.  

Masterpiece by Janet and Britt. Delicious.

This year, with an abundance of Halloween plans in the working, I can hardly wait to get my hands on one of those orange fuckers and get my stab on.

Prepare to be gutted, my friends.

***

Do you have any good pumpkin carving ideas or conquests to share? If you come up with a good idea, maybe I’ll use it. And maybe I’ll credit you.

Pass the Tequila, and the Untag Button.

Sometimes I’m not sober. 

I know that’s a shock to all of you, and we’ll have a moment of silence at the end of this post to let you gather yourself so you can move forward with your day.

I have always prided myself on my ability to hold liquor. Sure, I make some questionable statements, play too many games of “slap for slap” and become irrationally intent on proving how tough I am, but overall, I keep my puking/crying/drunk-drama to a minimum.

I also have a memory like an elephant, and unfortunately for me, can usually recall the shit that pours out of my mouth when the hooch has me in its sweaty grip.

For years, I would be the one responsible for reminding people what they did the night before. Chances are if you woke up half under my bed, wearing only a crossing guard vest, spooning a pylon with “RIGHT SAID FRED” written across your chest in lipstick, I’d be able to give you the play by play of your shameful escapades.

But the years have not been so kind to this ol’ memory of mine. We can all speculate as to why my brain lags sometimes, but you’re welcome to keep your opinions to yourself, asshole.   The point is, my drunkventures have become a little bit patchier than they used to be. This means 3 things:  1) Sunday morning usually resembles some sort of still-drunk scavenger hunt for my own belongings, 2) I spend the day logged into Facebook, waiting for the impending untagfest, and 3) I will receive several calls throughout the day from fellow bed-ridden partybeasts looking for some clarity on their poor life choices.

And while I may no longer be the best go-to resource for piecing together your disaster of a life, I vow to be supportive, use some judgment when I upload my pictures and next time I pass you that bottle of tequila, I’ll promise to take you for street “meat”* afterwards. Because that shit IS what dreams are made of. 

*I use the term ‘meat’ loosely. I’m a vegetarian, and I don’t give a shit if you have a problem with that.  You eat meat; you don’t eat meat, whatever. I don’t care. Veggie street meat is the shiz. End of story.

*** 

Some of you may be looking for a Thanksgiving recap, and this, my friends, is not where you’ll find it… Not today, anyway. I ate/drank too much and my brain has yet to regain full functionality.

I’m going to go drink some wine and find a park somewhere.

Cheers.

**

P.S. After some brief and informative research on slag terms for booze, I've located a new favourite, as per this site: 

The Porch Climber: A Canadian slang, Porch Climber refers to someone who is extremely drunk or in the state of intoxication.

I'm sorry, but do we have a problem with people climbing porches in Canada? Is this some sort of epidemic I'm unaware of?  If so, how can I get on that train? I do enjoy a good porch. 

Thanks, Harvest, You Good Ol' Sonofabitch.

This upcoming weekend is Thanksgiving… in Canada. I’ll refrain from calling it the “real” Thanksgiving, and instead, just accept that our southern neighbo(u)rs like having their big holidays mashed together like peas and potatoes on Uncle Jim’s plate.

Personally, I’m a big fan of having Thanksgiving in early October.  It eases me into the fall spirit, gives me a long weekend to drink away cope with the loss of summer, and makes way for the best holiday of all: Halloween.  Unlike many people, I have only grown to love Halloween more and more with age. Sure, as a child it was fun shit with the free candy, but as far as I’m concerned, drinking in a costume surrounded by other people drinking in costumes wins. Hands down. I can buy my candy on sale on November 1^st, or steal it from children like the rest of the world.

No? That’s not what you do? Interesting…  But there’s plenty of time before Halloween, and right now I’m talking about Thanksgiving.  Let’s stay on topic.

In Canada, Thanksgiving is an annual holiday to give thanks to the close of the harvest season. We’ve been celebrating this shit since 1957. A whole 54 years. Don’t our deep-rooted traditions and rich history just warm your heart? 

While our Thanksgiving may not have anything to do with pilgrims and slaughtering, and may not have started in 1863, WHADDUP America, Canada takes pride in its ability to turn out some pretty badass cornucopias.

"Horn of Plenty" is right.

Jealous?  Yea, that’s what I thought.  I bet you didn’t expect a history lesson on Canada’s shortcomings awesomeness. You’re welcome.

This year, I’m heading to my native land of Ottawa, Ontario, to bask in the glory of giving thanks. This means 2 things: #1 I’m going to eat a shit-ton of food and #2 I’m going to drink a shit-ton of booze. During these consumption escapades, I’ll be sure to pay homage to our national holiday by rolling around in some leaves, stabbing a pumpkin and making a scarecrow (as #2 above ^ pretty much results in that outcome anyway.)

This year, some friends and I will also be doing the hour drive to go here:

Parc Omega! Throw your kids out the window and drive like fuck!

Words can’t describe how hard I hope to see this kid jumping around, unclaimed and unsupervised in front of moving traffic with wild animals.  This is the stuff dreams are made of, people.

And you can imagine my delight and excitement to see they have these little fuckers treats on their premises, as well:

Oh haiiiiiiiiii

 

Stay tuned, folks, this Thanksgiving’s going to be amazeballs.