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Category Archives: This Charming Man

Bring It On

It’s May, as if you didn’t already know that, but it’s also my birthday month. Yes, I get a month this year because it is one of those b-days that end in a ZERO. I am not going to lie, I AM FREAKING OUT. I can’t even say the number, it comes out like “fuh-” and then stops. Help me. I need to work through this crippling dread so I can own that number when it actually happens on May 11. So I’m going to write out a pro and con list of what it’s like to turn fuh and feel free to add some of your own in the comments, I need you’ll more than ever. FUHHHHHHH!!!!!! Please don’t put me out on the ice floe just yet!!!

1. Con: I do not enjoy people conversing about menopause. Yes, surprise, I am the person who will talk bodily functions from head to toe, diarrhea sandwiched by dandruff and toe jam, in all the grossest detail, but I can’t handle the hot flash jokes. For the record, I am not sure if had one yet or just have middle-of-the-night drunk sweats since they seem to happen on mostly weekends. “You would know if you had a hot flash,” I am assured by a locker room buddy, Deb, who by the way, is rocking her mid-fuh’s without trying too hard unlike another woman of similar age I know, a real estate agent, who gets puffy hair extensions and sports the second coming of acid wash(!) jean suits(!!) that even a twenty year old shouldn’t be wearing…barf, just barf, it depresses me to look at her, hanging on to her fugly heyday that was 1985. But Deb makes me happy to join the fuh club. Menopause happens, you can’t stop the train. But I have a big beef with the term “perimenopausal,” that fancy word used to describe the onset of menopause. Your mama simply called it “going through the change” when she drew the curtains shut on a sunny summer day and laid down on the couch with a wet washcloth over her head. My friend, Flanders,who loves to remind me that she is 6 whole months younger than me, has told me for literally 15 years that every physical thing that is happening is because I am “perimenopausal.” See, I’ve typed it twice and you can’t see it but my spell check cries bullshit and is underlining it in red, so appropriate. You either have a tampon stash or you don’t, it’s that simple. What is this “peri” crap? It’s a made up term for women to feel even more badly about themselves and buy more pharmaceuticals. Fuck that perimenopausal shit, by that logic we are all peri-dead then. Ugh, fuh.

2. Pro: Age is wisdom. Why am I so afraid to say the number when my forties was the most painful, tumultuous decade of my life? Why would I want to hang on to that number? Going through my forties was like going through a second adolescence only with financial worries. It was a learning curve on a very dark highway. Everything I thought I knew to be true and right was tested by my own misguided self sabotage. Seriously, what a dumb ho I was at 40, walking around like I knew it all. Maybe the next decade will be filled with the wisdom of self acceptance. Bring it on, fuh-fiffffff…. I still don’t want to say it.

3. Con: Getting old sucks a big scaly dick that needs moisturizing. For women though, not so much for the menfolk. Those silver shards of hair that peek out around the temple are cute on a dude but not so much on a lady. Also jowly things forming. Also a beard. Also going blind and slighty deaf. Also attack of the middle pudge. Also what is that new flesh fold in the back there underneath the ass cheek? Fucking fuh.

4. Pro: I am at the tail end of the Baby Boomers, cusping on that lazy, bottom feeding Generation X crowd. The Baby Boomers, because they are so vain and ambitious, are trailblazing the way to eternal youth blasting their Botox needles through the forest of free radicals. God bless them and their prolific nip/tucks and injections. Yes, some of them are over-done which is a good thing, their weird puffy faces make a little neck waddle look charmingly human. We can learn from their mistakes and apply the rest in moderation: A little squirt o’ Botox to soften the eyebrow scowl (and helps with the migraines, I am not kidding), a little Juvederm to caulk in the those puppet mouth lines that when left to deepen, turn into gutters filled with drool when walking towards the wind. Just a tiny bit here and there and that’s how your face can rock the aging process. Not so bad, fuh!

5. Con: I read a head-line on a tabloid at the grocery store saying “60 is the new 40″ with Kris Jenner on the cover…I know, foul…but still, I love when people make proclamations like this and put it up in a bold font. You can almost believe it’s true and continue to surmise that if 60 is the new 40, then fuh must be the new 30. The thirties were my mojo years. By the time I hit 38, I was in my prime. It was good until it got bad. So if 60 is the new 40, then I’ve got another rollercoaster ride ahead of me and I don’t think I can take another decade-long chapter of crippling existential angst fuckery. 60 is 60 and fuh is fuh, and that’s all there is to it…why must we get all caught up in journalistic subterfuge? Just stop.

6. Pro: This woman, no comment necessary:

7. I don’t know if this is a Pro or a Con but my mojo has come back. I don’t what happened, but I attribute it to this restorative yoga class I take on Tuesdays. Flashback ten years, summer of 2003, when I was FORTY, I fell on the sidewalk trying to get on my bike after consuming shots of tequila. There was a loud crack as I hit the pavement landing on my ass, I had the wherewithal to break the fall with my right hand but I ended up cracking my tailbone and breaking my wrist. I didn’t know it though, and walked around broken for two weeks trying to learn how to drive my new manual transmission Mini Cooper, why does it hurt so much to shift gears? I told you I was a dumb ho when I was 40. I finally went to the hospital and they told me that while I was most certainly a dumb ho for not coming in right away, they could have just set it in a cast then instead of having to operate and reset it with a pin, it was a good thing I was drunk when it happened because drunk people fall better than sober people as they are more “relaxed.” Oh how I laughed but I was too embarrassed to tell them about my tailbone because that was what made the loud cracking sound. ALSO, I had heard the only way to fix a tailbone is for an osteopath to shove a hand up the ass and manoeuvre it from there. Not happening.

After the fall when the cast came off, I started taking yoga which is a Pro, as yoga is so much better for you than running on a treadmill like a ridiculous gerbil going nowhere. I have done Hatha, Ashtanga, and Bikram, but a couple of months ago I tried one called “Restorative” where you hold a pose for 10 minutes. And they are all done on the mat with props and booster pillows. It is like an awesome nap where you don’t feel like much is happening but lots is happening, the chakras are in full flow mode. There is one pose where you sit with your knees splayed out and the soles of your feet hold a block. You fall forward and your forehead rests on the block. After a minute, your lower spine starts to burn and get somewhat uncomfortable and then you imagine it is blocked energy getting released and as you breathe into it, things start to loosen up. I’m serious, my broken tailbone loves this activity, it’s like I sprayed a whole can of WD40 up my ass, and it’s ready to bust some moves! An awakening of mojo has occurred since I started this class and I guess it’s a Pro until it becomes a Con. And it will. If I learned anything from the Journey of the Forties is that nothing ever stays the same. Everything is in constant change. Rolling, rolling, rolling.

In the meantime, this came on my laptop screen:

IDRIS ELBA! OMG! OMG! OMG!

So I love my butcher because meat, but also because he tells me what tv shows to watch. A couple of weeks ago it was “Hung” which made me want to be a lady pimp (jokes…not really, still holding auditions). This week’s viewing suggestion was “Luther” a BBC series about a crime detective…ugh, barf, I hate crime shows, I can never follow the plot, even “Charlie’s Angels” was too complicated. But what the hell, that particular butcher has that sort of power over me so I downloaded it even though I thought bleccchh, “the new James Bond’ my eye. I am now Queen of Torrents which I probably should keep to myself, and I love to watch stuff on my laptop…it is so intimate. My screen is all dotted in sneeze spittle but I don’t care, it’s my portal into the wild world of interwebz and how I communicate with you.

So yeah…LUTHER IS AWESOME AND IDRIS ELBA IS TO DIE FOR! And this is the funny thing, I have seen Idris Elba in “The Office” and “The C Word” (no, I have never seen “The Wire”), and I didn’t bat an eye or put my hands down my pants even just to scratch. But watching ‘Luther?” I took to the bed after watching the first episode on the now tainted family couch…that’s me in the cover photo with ma boo sitting on my lap…and I watched the rest of them with my wagging tailbone under the covers. Oh my god, those little white beard hairs! I love him so much it hurts. In a good way. PRO!

So yeah. Fifty …Five Zero #YOLO. Bring it on.

3 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on May 2, 2013 in lady boners, This Charming Man

Tags: Idris Elba, Luter, restorative yoga, yoga

New Dating Rule: Bang First, Explain Yourself Later

24 Apr

This week I was talking to my old buddy, Jesus (not that Jesus, my Jesus, Jesus of the Junction) and he was telling me about how frustrated he is going on dates with these women he meets on Plenty of Fish. My Jesus is in his forties and he has never been married. He is sick of GAME PLAYING. You know that is my biggest pet peeve about menfolk: I hate it when they say how they can’t stand “drama” and “game playing” when drama and game-playing is how we roll in the great cluster fuck that is the human race. If it didn’t work that way, we’d all still be sea monkeys, it’s the Darwinian way.

He said: “I usually go out with much younger women but lately I have been focussing on older, single 45-year old moms. I figure we’ll go out on a date, if we have a good time, we’ll go home and bang it out. We’re old, man, we can fucking figure out if we like each other or not. What is it with these women and their rules? Fuck man, WE’RE OLD! I don’t have time for this shit!”

I know, right? When he was telling me all this, I tried to recall The Rules and thought to myself: “Jesus Christ, Jesus, what is your problem? You’re just soooooo old, you can’t possibly wait for the third date?” I felt bad for him though, the pain was in his face, and if there was a big enough napkin around, I would have given him a quick little handjob. A handjoblet, as it were, just for some lukewarm comfort. I am compassionate that way. With a name like Jesus, I bet he has one of those stress busting rockets I like so much so it would have been win win.

I thought about what he said for a couple of days though. While I am a lady and I understand the fundamentals of playing the waiting game, but like Jesus, I am an impatient ho and not one to be confined to too many rules. I read Steve Harvey’s book “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man” and I probably sacrificed 20 I.Q. points for it, it is THAT dumb. According to Harvey, women should wait like, 6 months before putting out and for what gain? So they can finally have sex with a dude who has been having sex with other women for 6 months while you have been spinning some clever little web that you think is going to lead to marriage with some “quality” fuckarrhea? Not smart hockey at all.

I respect Jesus’s primal need to “bang it out” on the first date. Why would you want to waste any more time than possible sitting in a bistro after bistro, collecting farts while you try and make small talk? With every inane topic, like how you always cry when you watch “Marley and Me,” a subliminal subtext of how tragic your life really is has been planted in the other person’s brain, processed, and filed into the “not banging this tonight or ever” category. Dating is just so damn depressing. This is why Jesus’s Bang First, Explain Yourself Later strategy might be the smartest hockey for old bitches on a first date.

But how can Jesus and all you other dudes out there get what you want in the timely manner in which you want it? You have to convince her that it is her idea, obviously. Most ladies of a certain age will not suffer a fool for all steak dinners at Harbour Sixty, they have been a few rodeos and know the whole thing always ends up with painful crotch burns. I might not be an expert on the art of seduction, that seems too complicated and European ridiculous, but I know what puts ants my pants and hurries things along and can be done over beer and chicken wings in any dump of your choice. If there’s one of me, there has to be thousands more with same responses. Here, read, learn something, go forth and get ready to start pounding from the back:

1. Don’t even bother to lie. The bad news is that seasoned smart ladies know when you are bullshitting, like you are “in between opportunities” and doing some “consulting” in some vague field like “marketing management.” The good news is they’ll rationalize just about anything, like that you are unemployed still live in your mother’s basement, for some decent bone. Remember, women in their forties are horniest people on the planet so rest assured,you have targeted the right group, son. In order to score with some young chick for the first time, you have to make up a pack of lies, write them down on a list and stuff it in your wallet, then figure out what douches dress like and get some new pointy shoes, a leather jacket, some skinny dark wash jeans, probably borrow a car, and money even. Then you get to go on a SUCCESSION of the most boring dates in history where you have to listen to her talk about those inane things but she puts a question mark at the end of everything? She says it like this: “Oh my God, every time I watch Marley and Me, I cry at the end?” And you don’t know if you if it is a statement or a question? And should you answer? So you tune the fuck out just because you think there is a pot of gold at the end. Are you stupid? That is not rhetorical. Yes, you are.

Old bitches don’t talk like that anymore, their inflection stays steady after years of asking questions that don’t get answered. And they don’t want to see your dumb ass in those skinny jeans so just don’t. Wear your regular jeans (Levis 501s, I’m telling you) and a plaid shirt (I’m begging you) and don’t overthink your game plan. Go with the flow and do not get attached to the outcome because that is what will lead to despair which is you on your desktop fapping into your filthy gym sock watching LiveJasmin.

2. Compliment wisely. Do not say anything stupid like; “You look beautiful.” That is a generic word reserved for European men with English as a second language. Everything is beautiful. Even just this morning I went to pick up my dog’s dainty turd and admired its dry and compact texture: “That is just beautiful,” I said out loud, which is why I am known as the crazy pyjama lady of Brookmount (the street Betty poops on). Tell her she is “hot” or “fierce.” These are power player words that make things happen. “Fierce” once made me go home with a dude who had a busted face and no front teeth. Because he was a hockey player. So hot.

3. Have a funny childhood story to tell. Just don’t tell that one about how your mother beat you with a wooden spoon because you let your little sister get stung by a bee and then the rest of your childhood memories were completely blanked out after that. There’s not enough lactating women in the world to soothe that savage beast. Instead tell a little story about your first crush in kindergarten, Debra Jo McMakeitup so it sounds adorable that you still remember her name after all these years. Tell us about how you pinched her, then pulled her pony tail. We will be captivated by what happened next, how did she react? She cried and you had to stand in the corner for all of recess. Then she moved to another city because her dad was in the mining industry and you don’t know what happened to her but you searched her on Facebook (trust me, that will make us wet our pants that you still think of the one who got away) and you think you found her but she still hasn’t accepted your friend request, so maybe it’s not the right Debra Jo LeWhatever. Copy, print. You’re welcome.

4. Find something yonic on your plate and eat it like you mean it. What’s yonic? You know I can hear some of you reading this out loud in your outdoor voices. Yonic is VAGINA SHAPED! There’s nothing hotter than a guy who eats everything and anything with gusto. I have only one hard and fast rule about what is a deal breaker and it is this: PICKY EATERS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON THE VOYAGE! Also if you are on, or have ever been on a colon cleanse, keep it to yourself. Pro tip: When eating with a lady you want to bang, find something on the plate like a perogie or a fig or even a chicken wing…let’s go with a chicken wing that’s shaped like a safetypin, not the drumstick because that’s what I will be sucking on to show my prowess. Take the safetypin wing in both hands and lick it on it’s side, then quickly take a tiny bite, chew that one slow, swallow and then push your tongue through the remaining meaty bit so the tip shows between the tiny bones then suck all the flesh into your mouth. Be a bit of a pig about it, as long as you ate the carrot and celery sticks like a gentleman so we know you’re not a complete Neanderthal. Lick your fingers, too. The more we see your tongue flickering around, the juicier our beef brisket slow cooks in the crock pot that is our lucky underpants.

Sigh. You know, it’s that easy.

Okay that is about all I got for now, gotta go, I have something burning in the oven.

5 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on April 24, 2013 in This Charming Man

Tags: act like a lady think like a man, dating tips, first date tips, first date tips for older people, sex on the first date, Steve Harvey

The Pandemic, Kimye, and the Cable Man

22 Jan

Yesterday was Blue Monday! The abyss of all misery, when all your Christmas bills come in and your winter eczema has spread to places that can’t be scratched. Hopefully it will be uphill from here but I bet there will be more depressing days until spring comes and we pretend to be happy. I don’t have any pro tips for this, just to say that we are all in this together and this, too, shall pass. I’m a hermit and hermits love misery so I’m not complaining one bit, especially since all the HBO shows have started their new seasons this month. I am happier than a pig in shit, which is an expression I hate but is relevant to this post.

Last week I had The Flu. I’m hardly ever sick and if I am, it is self-induced (hangover) or milked out (lady-time cramps). It took about 3 days for me to fully understand what was happening. I barfed on a Monday and wondered, am I sick? It’s probably just that pesky norovirus that is going around and is super-contagious so don’t think scarfing down tubs of probiotic yogurt is going stop your orifices from exploding. This virus is insidious and is spread through the “faecal dust” (it’s the British spelling! Doesn’t that sound better shit residue?) that inevitably ends up on your greasy iPhone whether you wash your hands or not. The flu shot doesn’t work with the norovirus either. And it does not care whether or not you gulp down oil of fucking oregano. And please stop posting stupid things on Facebook that help “boost your immune system.” The only thing that keeps you from getting sick is hard liquor, it kills the germs proper. It’s Juiceless January, and that is why I got sick.

I got a strange headache on Tuesday, and of course I thought I was stroking out. This is my ongoing fear so I know the symptoms: numbness, scattered thoughts, and loss of balance. Seriously, if it happens you have to run to the emergency room. But my motor functions were in tact and I could smile evenly and recite the alphabet so I waited it out. The headache soon turned into sinus congestion. On Wednesday it got worse.

Then on Thursday, things got achey breaky. AM I SICK? I don’t even know, I had forgotten what it was like. I think I had the flu in 2005, it was when I was living in that fog that lasted 6 years. Maybe it is all imaginary. Is this real life or is it Stephen King’s “The Stand” coming into fruition?

But then on Friday, it became clear. Me so sick! It is “The Stand!” How come other people are still alive? Why are they still talking about the Golden Globes and laughing on the View? Don’t they know there is a pandemic going on? I have to admit I was in a panic because the kids were at school and I was alone. No one takes care of mama when she is sick. I want soup and ginger ale! I couldn’t get warm enough, then I got hot, then I had to pee or whatever that urgency was, then I got up and didn’t even make it to the toilet. Then I had to change, rinse and repeat. I went through 6 pairs of pyjama bottoms! Jesus. By the afternoon, I settled down, let’s just ride this thing like it was a psychedelic trip. Aside from the aches, chills, and having to constantly clench my sphincter super-tight because it just wasn’t trustworthy, I actually had a good time.

All my chakras were a-buzz. That third eye thing (intuitive powers) was tingling constantly, I think it was opening up and letting all the spirits guide me. The blue, green, yellow, and orange areas were burning and churning. In the meantime, my root chakra was wailing louder than usual, like I could do anything about it in my condition, so I put an ice pack on it. Shut up, Muladhara, just settle down. The flu is just an out of control chakra party.

By the end of the day my voice was all raspy and when my daughter came home, I could caw out orders: ”I want mac ‘n’ cheese!” I was so delirious, I called her “Mommy.”

I slept like a bear for 12 hours and had epic dreams that were so entertaining, I didn’t want to wake up. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with the plot but I had a really vivid dream about these two gaping sphincters, Kim and Kanye, both of whom I don’t really give two rear root chakra expulsions about until the dream:

I think it was because while I was laying in bed all day, I was on every gossip website so I know everything Kimye and Taylor Swift (what is her problem? I need to take her under my soft, downy wing and stroke her on top of her Sahasrara and tell her everything will be okay) and of course I practically have a PhD in Lindsay Lohan but that was from before the flu. Anyway my Kimye dream was really cool and they were my neighbours in my Sunset Boulevard mansion and I loved them. I even kept thinking about them for an entire weekend afterwards and then I had an epiphany that probably had formed originally from my open third eye chakra: These two are actually a really good couple. Normally I hate human couplings as I find them sad and pathetic like you always know there is one who can’t sort their own socks and they need the other one to do it for them. If you watch out for body language, the one who looks desperate is always the sock sorter, like these two specimens, dubbed “Leaddie”:

Ugh, they are The Worst. She is always desperately glueing her body onto his and he always has that smug smirk on his face while she always looks hysterical. How do they even see each other with those squinty eyes? Not only does she sort his socks but she also probably does other hardcore things like trims his nose hairs and squeezes his back zits. Shudder.

Kimye clearly lovingly sort each other’s socks, proverbially speaking, obviously they have servants to do that sort of thing. If you google them up, there is not a single bad picture of them together. So sweet, it warms the cockles of my heart chakra. I don’t care what y’all say, I hope they get married and have lots of babies, THEY CAN CALL ONE OF THEM KJANGO! The K is silent!

Still a little delirious, obviously.

I felt much better on Saturday but! The thing that has been bugging me all week is that issue of all cable tv turning from analog to digital. I have those digital converters still in their boxes (for the extra tv’s that don’t have the delux converter) but haven’t installed them yet! There is an ominous banner on the Peachtree station saying that Rogers customers might lose the station on January 21 because it is going digital! Peachtree is how I placate myself to sleep with double episodes of Seinfeld and Family Guy every night! I will die without Peachtree…no, seriously, I am a creature of habit and ritual. I am the one who defines insanity:

That is the stupidest quote ever, by the way. If you do something over and over again, of course something will inevitably give up, break down, shrink, grow, burn, melt, or prolapse. So yes, keep doing what you’re doing over and over and change will come, crazy ho.

Anyway, I need Peachtree to fall asleep, which is the result I am looking for, so those converter boxes better get put on those supplementary tv’s this weekend or someone might have a nervous breakdown. So on Saturday, Evangeline set up the boxes as she is the family technician.

Of course nothing goes smoothly in this flailing first world household. First of all, it is a dumb little box taking up space that you have to put on your tv and it only works with a dumb extra little wand that you now have to worry about slipping couch cushions.

The converter in the upstairs living room tv actually works to change the channels but when you turn it off with the new remote, the tv turns itself on again a few seconds later. You have to manually turn the tv off, who can live with that?

The remote in my bedroom doesn’t work at all. I only get Channel 3! Peachtree is on 47!

The one in Freddy’s room has made the entire tv screen turn to snow.

So I call Rogers. My entire shameless first world happiness is bundled in the hands of one overlord: Cell phone, internet, home phone, and beloved cable. Normally I am nice to service people but I have so many issues with Rogers, I have to channel my most beeyutchiest of personas because otherwise I will start to cry and I’ve already beaten that dead horse tactic to ground. But I need a service man to hook these things up, not to be guided over the phone like a dolt to plug and unplug everything, because we have already done that OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITH THE SAME RESULT, so I got all huffy and indignant until they finally caved: “We will send out a service man on Sunday between 2 and 5.” Yes! Help is on the way!

My entire house is rigged with dollar store cable cords from when I first moved in and the house was a triplex and I wanted to unify all the cable instead of paying 3 times the amount for each outlet. When I have had issues in the past, the service men that came pretended not to notice, and I know this because they have said: “I’m going to pretend I don’t see this amateur wiring job with pirate cables” and they fix whatever it is and go on their grumpy way. What if this time I get busted and they discover I actually have that 5th cable outlet on the third floor? And I’m totally not even going to mention the 6th one that my tenant has on the first floor. What if they charge me more money? I will totally lose my shit and get a satellite dish and live miserably and HBO-less.

At 4:30, the service man arrived and oh, my, God, was he ever cute! First he put on plastic bag booties on his giant boots so he wouldn’t track any more faecal dust than necessary…so sweet! He came upstairs and was unfazed by Betty’s asshole incessant barking and calmly went about his business. The first tv was an easy fix, the wand just needed to be reprogrammed manually because the brand/model of tv didn’t quite match the one in the guide.

The ones in my bedroom and Freddy’s room were more perplexing. While he was working, he explained all about cable, analog versus digital, and how one bad tv could affect an entire neighbourhood’s cable flow. I’m not sure if he was getting at anything as in my tv is the local cable cock block or he was just telling cable lore, I was too busy falling in love. He kept having to go back into the car to get things, and I followed him around. I swear if he brought in his laundry, I would have happily sorted his socks. Ugh, yes, he had a wedding ring on.

As it turned out, those pirate wires were not fit for fussy digital tv signals, so he re-wired everything with proper cable, “Analog signals will go through anything,” he explained, “And I’m going to change these connectors because they’re not good either.” I am soaking wet watching this happen.

It took him over an hour to fix everything, I didn’t want to him to leave! We had a little sparkly connection, he laughed at my jokes! That hardly ever happens! Take off your plastic booties and stay, Cable Man, I wanted to say out loud but didn’t, don’t worry. When he did finally pack up, it was one of those prolonged goodbyes where it was “Goodbye, thank you, you’re the best,” “You’re welcome, no, you’re the best,” “No, you are the best,” “No, you” it went on, ad nauseam, if you were the fly on the wall, you would have barfed. Sigh.

At least I have Peachtree.

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on January 22, 2013 in lady boners, This Charming Man

Tags: Blue Monday, digital and analog cable, norovirus, Peachtree, Rogers cable, the flu that's going around

The Enlightened Old Bat and the F-Bomb

25 Oct

There is an upside to all these candles, there has to be. I’m telling you as a “Lady of a Certain Age” on the slippery sleigh ride into Old Batdom, that the key to successful modern living is to practise the fine art of detachment. It is one of the principals of Buddhism. To not give a shit is a tangible entity. The path of enlightenment is paved with zero fucks.

Forget about “aging gracefully” the older you get the more you fall. There is nothing graceful about taking out the garbage in the morning and slipping on wet leaves and falling on your ass and landing in the dog poop area of your front lawn only to have your hot neighbour help you up and you are wearing a coffee stained Old Navy Tshirt and your weekend bra pops open as he pulls you up by the armpits. Oh yeah,and afterwards you realize your pyjama pants have blood on the crotch and you have to console yourself with the thought: ”At least he knows I still get my period!” True story and one ugly anecdote.

Wisdom is over-rated. I only know all this shit about life because I have been slapped around the block a few times and I troll the internet 8 hours a day. I would have been perfectly happy living to a hundred not knowing that a dude will actually lie and think nothing of treating your heart like a urinal mint. All that time wasted I could have just pleasantly masturbated to reruns of Gunsmoke. Life would also be golden if I didn’t google up “goatse” and “tub girl-” why must I need to know everything?

And fuck Cameron Diaz. Here she is in Esquire:

Here is what she says: “For the first time in my life I’m content. I’m so excited. Getting older is the best part of life. Like, I know more than I’ve ever known. I have gratitude. I know myself better. I feel more capable than ever. And as far as the physicality of it — I feel better at 40 than I did at 25.”

Shut. Up. Turning 40 was the worst thing I ever did. I will explain it all with this graph that took me two hours to make from a template on a children’s website. Growing older doesn’t make you good at the internet, by the way, in spite of all the time spent on it:

The bottom numbers are age, and the number at the side represent “Fucks Given per year” which by my definition means how many days a year your ego gets the better of you. And Cameron here is demonstrating how your undergarments reflect the state of your fat-ass evil ego. Let me explain.

At Age 10, zero fucks are given because who cares? You are 10, you walk out of the house wearing mismatched socks. You think nothing of stuffing an entire pack of gum in your mouth while walking down the street singing at the top of your lungs. Your hair is a mess and you got lice on purpose, it’s hilarious! You get to miss school! You do not need a bra and your mother buys your Hello Kitty cotton underwear.

By Age 20, you don’t have to give a fuck because all the free fucks are given to you. You can walk out of the house wearing your period underwear and some creeper will ask for your number because he smells fresh meat. Your ego is not yet fully formed because you are invincible. You also cut your own hair and it looks fantastic. Maybe once a month or so you will get a zit and feel bloated and you will cry because the last dude you gave your number to won’t call in a timely manner but that mood won’t last longer than a day, so maybe you will give only about 12 fucks a year, tops.

At Age 30, things are slipping a little. The metabolic shift that your older sister predicted has fully kicked in and you have to worry about muffin tops. At this age you are probably wearing matching bra and underwear because you think he thinks it is sexy. Pro tip: Absolutely no one cares, Victoria Secret, especially the dude you are banging. But sometimes you need Spanx because that “bloat” is actually a flesh belt…remember when you were twenty and all you had to do was drink a pot of tea and you lost five pounds? You worry about all this on a weekly basis. Also you are plucking your chin hairs routinely with a magnifying mirror. Why did this happen? It’s super sexy testosterone building up for your forties! Hold on to your hooters, sister, because you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Aaaaand you are 40….it’s subtle at first but things are really starting to go tits up (or down, technically)…Everything needs to be pushed up, sucked in, and smoothed out. Your hair has become a full time job. You need professionals from around the world for every different type of follicle, not just on your head, but your brows need a Russian woman, your pubes need a Brazilian, and your Korean pedicurist waxes your toe hairs, and oh, how she laughs. And notice on the graph how the 40 year old woman gives a fuck 24/7, 365 days of the year?

40-something women are consumed with themselves. They walk out of the house with their tits pushed up, and their leggings as pants. They don’t need actual underwear! The 40 year old woman is twice as likely to have sex at the gym than any other demographic so they would just get in the way. The 40 year old woman has a mojo like a teenage boy. She gives so many fucks that she will easily give one away if you ask her, go ahead ask her.

Trust me, this way of life is exhausting. But relief is on its way (at least I am hoping). And this is where the art of detachment comes into play. Listen up, because the magazines won’t tell you this little secret: The older you get, the less you care.

There is a rapid decline of fuck giving at the age of 50. All that unbridled mojo is getting a bit embarrassing, isn’t it, Demi Moore? The phantom ovulator or the full moon will pull you back in once a month and will only give a fuck because you are hornier than a Hoover. You will match your black bra with black Spanx and some sluttier sisters will wear a thong with those jeggings. You are now dyeing your own hair because Botox costs $11 a unit and you need 30 to get rid of that bitter expression that is keeping the boys away. Trust me, a few squirts of poison in your forehead every 3 or 4 months and you can still charm your way out of a traffic ticket. So worth it.

At 60, you give zero fucks again, not like when you were ten, you would never put an entire pack of gum in your mouth but! You would think nothing of dropping $8,000 on a set of veneers. Who gives a fuck, YOLO? Sometimes you don’t even bother with a bra, Susan Sarandon lets hers off-leash so why not? And fuck Spanx, they ride up the ass, those boxer briefs the cabana boy left will do just fine. Snap!

Hopefully as you go further on the chart, you have your health and you mind, and you will get a cake full of candles that you can light your cig off of…I will wash mine down with bourbon, and wear my bra on my head like a party chapeau. And I will yell:

I am bat, hear me roar!

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on October 25, 2012 in This Charming Man, Uncategorized

Tags: aging gracefully, Buddhism, Cameron Diaz, Cameron Diaz is 40, the art of detachment, YOLO

The Tale (With a Happy Ending) of the Mudflap Angel

25 Jun

Last week when my insomnia reached fever pitch, I was forced to go out and look for street opiates. My doctor doesn’t prescribe anything stronger than sleepy time tea and the usual home methods don’t work. Vodka: it makes you pass out but then wake up at 2:00 and go for a ride on the tedious thought merry-go-round. Weed: similar to vodka except you are up all night making origami animals out of the sheets.

I’m a firm believer if you go out and make your needs be known, somebody somewhere will come up with a solution.

“You don’t need opiates, you need to get laid,” suggested the helpful butcher. Oh great, he just woke the big sleeping bear. If the dudes in that shop only knew of how long a run my dry spell has been, they would mercifully tie me up and lock me in a box in their basement and make me their gimp, Pulp Fiction style. Yes, please, I will have the bone-in pork sword special.

I’ve become such a social misfit during the last five years, and I simply won’t call on boys. You never know if they’re married or not. And I am insanely shy when it comes to mating rituals. A couple of years ago, there was dude at the gym I kind of fancied, he was “age appropriate” and he had no ring, so I decided fuck it, he’s not all that, I will smile at him and say hi. He smiled back and said hi, and it went on like that for a couple of weeks and then we started having friendly banter at the water cooler. That’s the thing about me, if I can’t make ‘em hard, I can make ‘em laugh. The gym has a bar (!) and one day he bought me a beer. It’s a super casual type place where you can have a drink by yourself and not feel like a trolling weirdo like in Starbucks, where the desperation in the air is as thick as homogenized foam and everyone in there is frantically searching for their soul mate. Anyway, I took this free pint of Stella as some progress and he was really growing on me. Even his facial tick was starting not to bother me.

A few days later, I ran into him at Loblaws, with his wife and baby! We caught each other’s eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he didn’t know me. Hmmmfffff, you’d think at some point he would have mentioned he had a family, but no, dude was out prowling on collector lane while his wife was at home, changing diapers, lactating, and whatnot.

Maybe there is an iPhone app for my problem. In gay world, there is one called Grindr that uses GPS as gaydar to let you know when there is a gay in the general area. You can check out their profile and if you want to meet, you can message them. Brilliant! Is there an app similar for straight people? I wondered. Yes, there is, said my gay pal, it is called “Look Outside.” Very funny.

I found one in the app store called OkCupid, but it’s more or less a dating website, not a boner tracker, but I decided to sign up. Pro Tip: If you are thinking about joining one of these sites, think about how you are going to write up your profile beforehand as there is nothing more morose and tedious than filling out these things.

I flew by the seat of my pants:

Create a user name: I did this once before on some other site 6 years ago (for about a day) and called myself “Girl Afraid” and the only one who got it was “Frankly Mr. Shankley” who was a gay and messaged me just to find out if I had heard the new Morrissey album. I decided on “Mudflapangel” which is the moniker I use when commenting on other blogs and probably best describes my nice and dirty personality.

Make up an opening about yourself: ”I am an insomniac. I like a joke and a stiff cocktail. If you pull my toes, I will make you a sandwich. I like a dude with calloused hands who smells of WD-40 and can swing his dick around like a floppy eel.”

What are you good at: “I can estimate the correct size of rubber maid container that will fit leftovers without too much extra room or excess spillage.”

What are you doing with your life: “I write a blog, in fact read it: mytorontoeh.com” (*I figured at least the blog can get some hits even if I can’t)

Message me if: “You like sushi.”

I gave my real age too, which is old as fuck but I figured these dudes can just take me as I am or go home. Then I had to answer 800 inane multiple choice questions that started filling me with rage because you had to qualify with “how important it was.” Like: How do you feel about kittens? I like them very, very, much and I don’t give a crap if you like them or not, what does any of this have to do with getting some bone? I had answered but a few when I noticed I was already starting to get some messages in my in-box.

“Do you want to meet for coffee?” Was the first one. No, dude, I have insomnia, the caffeine will keep me up. Are you not reading what I’m writing down here?

The messages came in chunks of dozens throughout the rest of the day and there were too many to reply to but it is good to know there are men out there with floppy eels in their pants. One thing that stood out: There are no single men my own age, they are all married! Surprise! Calling all LOCAs: You need to know that your husband is on-line trying to pick up chicks like me.

Only one message was by far and away the shining star in the batch and it was from a 25 (!) year old who made me laugh and blush at the same time. I messaged him back, then we started texting, or sexting, then we talked on the phone. For me, a voice is more important than a penis. If I don’t like how you sound, I can’t get a lady boner, and I’m looking right at you, David Beckham. Luckily “Boss” had a voice I could splay for, he also talked really fast like a Gilmore Girl. Men who talk fast make me think of 1930′s screwball comedies and I am tickled and smitten.

So we arranged a meet up. This is unorthodox and I know breaks all common sense rules but I have to do things in my comfort zone or I will have diarrhea and barf at the same time. He has to have drinks on my porch and meet my entire family and neighbours…I know, right? Crazy. But it’s okay, I can sense if he is a serial killer if I meet him at Point A and then if I like him, he goes to the second location, Point B, the porch. The neighbours are all down with this, although one of them thinks I’m a lunatic, and the kids are home with a bunch of friends, all poised for some mass slaughter. ”Mother, he is 25! You could have given birth to him!” But I didn’t so shut up.

So in the early evening I went to meet him. First impression: Brown and muscly, zero body fat, compact, pheromone bomb swaggering toward me…no serial killer vibe at all, phew. He is shorter than me but I don’t care, I think tall men are way over-rated. Do you ever notice how they usually only date really short women? It’s as though to swing a stump around their cocks makes them look mightier. Short men try harder and have that alpha male compensation thing going on which I think is pure bone power.

We went to the porch. He brought vodka. He assimilated like a boss. The dog loved him and he loved the dog. We had a couple of drinks, laughed a lot and then what happened next is that although I don’t squirt and tell, I will let it be known that the sky opened up, and the universe finally got off its lazy ass and threw me a bone. And it was good. And I slept, but just a little bit, it was a long night.

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on June 25, 2012 in go girl, LOCAs gone wild, This Charming Man

Tags: boners, internet dating, lady boners, OkCupid

The Creep, The Weirdo, The Bachelor And The Elevator

25 Apr

Yesterday I had big, important plans but I ended up not doing any of them. First I was going to go to the gym first thing but it was too cold to move so I deemed it a Possible Snow Day, pretended to be sick and took to the bed. I ended up watching “Live with Kelly” where Jessie Palmer was her cohost. You know who Jessie Palmer is: He was born in Toronto (homeboy!), raised in Napean, played college football for Florida, then the New York Giants and the Montreal Alouettes. He was The Bachelor in 2004 and now he is a football commentator. He looks like this:

My big question watching the show: Why is he still single? He’s so handsome and he has a bubbly, agreeable personality that even your mama would like. He’s funny and self-depracating. He thinks Megan Fox is “out of his league.” Bitch, please. As though any man, no matter how dysmorphic or Aspergery, thinks he is out of any woman’s league. That kind of stupid talk sort of makes you want to hit on him. But then you don’t, because he’s just too perfect. The litmus test fantasy is what would happen if you were trapped alone on a broken elevator with him. He is the man you want to love but ultimately when you stand next to him, you become hyper-self-aware of ugliness vapours emanating out of your rapidly gaping pores. Nope. Pass. Press the emergency button.

The other important plan was to obtain Jack White’s new release CD, “Blunderbuss” at an actual record store, NOT iTunes. I need solid, concrete music, not this internet sorcery that is my current music library since getting separated, this is me: “Oh, you can take all the CDs, I will just copy them onto this computer one by one until I grow old and die.” Of course I missed a bunch of albums that I ended up obsessing over even if I would never listen to them again. On one hand, there is less clutter but on the other, it’s a precarious situation, the computer will probably break and the iPod will spontaneously terminate itself and I will be tuneless. And alone.

By mid-morning I had moved from bed to couch, still too cold to go out. Pretending to be sick would be an all-day event so Evangeline offered to go get the Jack White before her class downtown. Yay.

Now I love Jack White. Here he is:

Toronto Star’s Ben Rayner describes Jack White as a weirdo, which can’t be denied and is why I love him so. He looks kind of like Johnny Depp on estrogen supplements. He is a temperamental genius, graphic proof here…and is there any other kind? He dresses in costume, like a 19th century bandit which is kind of off-putting and badass at the same time. Repulsive and fascinating, the dichotomy is a recipe for capitulation. Imagine being trapped in an elevator alone with him. Somehow, without even knowing how you let it happen, you would walk out with a hickey and a broken bra strap.

While she was gone, I put on my favourite movie of all time:

Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo 66 with Christina Ricci before Thinspiration ruined her and her acting career. This is one of those independent cult movies that if you say the phrase “spanning time,” people will either look at you blankly or laugh knowingly, the video clip says it all. Vincent Gallo has such intense charisma that it is creepy. His default expression is a mug shot. You can’t spend too much time thinking about him or you might go out and get his name tattooed on your chest. One thing you might want to consider, is checking out the shop on his personal website. For $50,000 you can go out on a date with him and for $1,000,000 you can get his sperm! Not bad. And if you were ever so lucky to be trapped on an elevator with him, be prepared to re-enact a certain scene from The Brown Bunny. Or maybe that’s just me. Should probably just take stairs from now on.

And this, just for fun:

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on April 25, 2012 in This Charming Man

Tags: Blunderbuss, Buffalo 66, Creep weirdo, Jack White, Jessie Palmer, Live with Kelly, The Bachelor, Vincent Gallo, Vincent Gallo's sperm for sale

The Penis Diaries

31 Jan

First of all, let me preface this potential mess of a post by saying how much I love my dentist. I’ve been going to him for 20 years and he may very well be the love of my life. He is so gentle that I have had fillings done without freezing. If I do need numbing, he does this vibrating massage thing to my cheeks so when he sticks the needle in my mouth, I am so distracted, I don’t feel the jabbing prick. As he digs away, he always tells me how awesome I am in his cute South African accent. I never dread going there and in fact, I sometimes go early because he has the best magazines in town. He subscribes to In-Style, People, and Men’s Health. I have learned some things from Men’s Health I may have never known from my own field work. And when I say “field work,” these days it’s restricted to watching “Californication” which I know is worse than a fairy tale and Hank Moody is the fictitious Holy Grail of sexual prowess who would never exist in the real world. A girl can dream.

Anyway, although I love my dentist, I hate his receptionist. She is an uptight Leaside mom-type who obsesses over her preschool-age son, named Adam. She wears a headset and always on the phone talking to her nanny about Adam who is a hellion. When the kid gets on the phone, she threatens to “punish” him when she gets home for being “a naughty boy.” I’ve been privy to this conversation more than once, and I only go there twice a year. You just know where this kid is going in 20 years, I can picture his ad on Craigslist under “M4W” with a cryptic picture of a wooden spoon, captioned; ”Spank me.” She is a control freak. Last year, when I was waiting, the tv was on and Dr. Oz was talking about how to enhance the female orgasm. She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to the monotonous reel of petty crimes and weather reports that is CP24 and muttered about how the topic on Dr. Oz was “inappropriate.” And I was like, “Bitch, please, I don’t have that nailed yet, I’d like to hear what he has to say!”

Just other day, while Freddy was getting some fillings, I was in the waiting room alone blithely pouring over “The Best Sex Tips of 2011″ in Men’s Health, when a woman and her 3 children plunked themselves down. Now I don’t care about children, I can easily tune them out. Their inane blathering is often repetitive and rhythmic so I can translate it into white noise. It’s parents I hate. Sure enough, this woman was one of those cows who talk loudly and refer to themselves in the third person: “Mummy wants you to do your homework while you wait, Mummy is tired, blah blah..” I pegged her for one of those older mothers who miraculously spawned these 3 snotgobblers from her rotting egg farm so she needed to advertise how fabulous her parenting skills were. At one point her son, age 11, picked up one of those pop-up picture books meant for pre-schoolers. This one was about “The Creation” as depicted by Adam and Eve. I know, right? Why is this in a dentist’s office? The receptionist is a religious freak and she probably brought it in from her Bible Study group. The kid opens the book and up pops a cartoon drawing of Adam and Eve and an apple tree. Eve has her back to us and Adam is facing her. Her cartoon bum and his cartoon peen are obscured by a cartoon bush. The boy holds it up, “Look mummy!” The mother shrieks: “Ryan! Put that away! That is so inappropriate! You’re embarrassing me!”

Now I am the only one within earshot and I am sitting with a magazine spread on my lap of a woman with her real legs up in the air with a man’s real head popping through, obscuring her real bush, and I am thinking that between this lady and the receptionist, exactly what goes on in North Toronto behind closed doors? How do they raise their sons? Do they make them shower with their clothes on? Shame is their weapon, the wooden spoon that keeps their behaviour “appropriate.”

Speaking of which, last week, my daughter and I went to see the film, “Shame” with Michael Fassbender and his penis. And yes, this was our main purpose AND we liked him in Jane Eyre. We consider ourselves to be “British Celebrity Penis Connoisseurs.” 6 years ago, when she was not much older than that Mummy-whipped boy in the dentist’s office, we took a trip to London to see Daniel Radcliffe, aka Harry Potter, go full monty in “Equus.” Neither of us particularly enjoy live theatre but we got to see Harry Potter’s Arab-strapped penis boner and that is worth the price of admission. And no, it did not scar my 12 year old daughter, it empowered her. My first viewing of a non-relative’s penis was not so spectacular, it was semi-traumatizing. When I was 10, my friend and I would crash sugaring off parties at the sugar shack on the bottom of my street. We’d steal syrup taffy from the trough and if we got caught, we’d run into the woods. Once we saw a drunken French Canadian man with his pants completely down, wang out, taking a slash in a bucket attached to one of the maple trees. You know, the ones that collect the sap that makes the syrup. Yes, he was urinating. No, I never eat pancakes.

In “Shame,” Michael Fassbender’s penis is the protagonist of the film. His character, Brandon, doesn’t say much, but his peen keeps the plot going. It’s not like it gets closeups or anything but it has more screen time than most Actra members. Usually in a non-porn cinematic experience, you might see a flash of pube and a blur of tubular flesh from afar and the actor is in a fast action mode like diving into a pool in the dark. In “Shame”, there is a decent sequence of frames that pans it as it sways from the shower to the kitchen, in the brightness of the morning, like an elephant trunk sniffing for peanuts. The film made me sad for the penis, “penis empathy’ if you will, Freud. It’s a bleak and realistic depiction of sexual addiction, and childhood shame is the cornerstone. This is why you can’t be an asshole as a parent. Respect the penis, it’s got a fragile ego.

On that note, here is the trailer for “Shame,” go see it, take your mom:

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on January 31, 2012 in This Charming Man

Tags: Daniel Radcliffe, Equus, Harry Potter, Michael Fassbender, Michael Fassbender's penis, Shame, The Creation

More Meth, Please

09 Jan

One week into Juiceless January and I’ve turned into a meth addict by proxy. I have been catching up on the first 3 seasons of “Breaking Bad” on Netflix. I started watching it on Friday, just to shut everyone up and say it’s no big deal, stop harping about it, it’s just a tv show. I hate hour-long shows, too much commitment, and I hate crime dramas, I can never follow the plot lines. But everyone around the campfire on New Years Eve was talking all “yo, bitch, Breaking Bad, yo…blahblahblah..”and I just hate being out of the loop, no matter what the loop is, which is why I pretended to watch “Glee” for so long. I would turn on the tv at 8:00 on Tuesday, put the dog on the couch, film the dog on the iPhone sitting with “Glee” in the background, upload the video on with the caption: “We Are Watching Glee’ and put it on my Facebook wall. I never actually let it pass through my retinas or permeate my consciousness. I can admit it now because the show has jumped the proverbial shark, which I am only assuming because I have not seen that fug fish-faced Lea Michele on the cover of any tabloids recently.

Anyway, I started watching Breaking Bad on Friday afternoon, and powered through all 3 seasons in 48 hours. I could not tear myself away. I didn’t shower. I barely slept. I didn’t even want to make toast because the toaster popping would make too much noise and make me jump out of my skin. Gunshot! In real life, my mom was in the hospital and I drove my sister up to visit her, all the while blathering on about “Walt” and his meth making ways.

“What are you talking about?” She is out of the loop because she PVR’s Young and the Restless which means there is no time for superfluous tv watching.

“Walter White in Breaking Bad. He’s the dad from Malcolm in the Middle. He’s a chemistry teacher and he finds out he has lung cancer so he starts making meth to support his family.”

And on and on I went, to and from the hospital, on both days. Sister’s eyes glazed over.

“Jessie is in rehab after getting hooked on heroin. That Jane was a ho, I’m glad she choked on her vomit. Ladies should not be junkies.”

“Walt’s wife is a bitch. If I had a husband that I supposedly loved, I would totally support him making meth. What the hell, he’s doing it for the sake of the family. See what happens in America when you have to rely on HMO’s. I wish a man would make meth for me.”

“If I was part of this meth operation, I think I’d be a good cook. I did really well in chemistry, I got a 92 on the final exam.”

And so of course out of curiosity, I have looked up meth recipes on the internet and came up with one boneheaded site written with more typos than I put out: METH IS IN THE BIBLE WHICH IS THE MAIN REASON IT IS ALL OVER AMERICA. I’d put up the link but I’m too paranoid I’d get on the DEA’s radar. That’s the Drug Enforcement Administration, for those of you who are out of the loop…but I knew that from watching “Weeds.”

As I wait for Season 4, which is coming in the mail thanks to the benevolence of a Facebook benefactor, I will leave you with a taste of the chard, a montage of Saul Goodman…just in case you are out of the loop:

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on January 9, 2012 in This Charming Man

Tags: Breaking Bad, Glee, meth, Netflix, Saul Goodman, Walter White

10 Hot Ginger Men

09 Dec

Tonight is the cookie exchange party! Last night I made 7 dozen chocolate ginger cookies from the Martha Stewart Cookie Book (the ones on the cover). They are sublime. They were also labour intensive. I had to chop chunks of chocolate and grate fresh ginger. As I grated the ginger, I wondered, why are redheaded people called “ginger” when ginger is actually off-white? Ginger cookies are reddish because of the molasses! And then I mused about ginger men and how they are coming back in style. My daughter wants to marry a ginger, or specifically, Rupert Grint or Robert Pattinson, who is technically a brunette but can be filed under “tinge of ginge.” When I was a nubile 19 year old, I fell hopelessly in love with an older Jewish guy who looked like Starsky from the tv show (not Ben Stiller from the movie…please). He had brown hair but when he forgot to shave, his beard would come in red. He was a moody fucker and would spend days in his apartment, growing this ginger beard that would collect food and toilet paper lint. For some reason I thought it was hot. I loved him so much, I would have carved his initials on my ass (this was before tattoos were mainstream). He ended up dumping me for someone his own age although he told me I was the best sex he ever had. My youth embarassed him! Bet he regrets that now. Lol.

Since then, I haven’t really given red headed men, or tinge of ginges, much credit. I like a tall, dark, handsome man like every other ho in T.O. but as y’all know, I have sub-categories: Indian men, men that look like Jesus, men with dark moustaches that resemble outlaws from the 1930s, men who herd sheep, and the list goes on. But since I’ve unleashed my mojo, why not expand my horizons? Re-think the gingers! They are not all like Danny Bona-douche or Carrot Top. So as I baked, I comprised a Top Ten list, saving my fave for last. here we go:

1. JESUS!

Not Willem Dafoe as Jesus in the Last Tempation of Christ, but Jesus in general. Yes, Jesus was likely a ginger, or a ginge tinge, based upon the tribe of his maternal lineage according to my research on Google and central casting according to Martin Scorsese. Jesus was a carpenter and I do like men who work with their hands. Lose the entourage though, don’t have time to do you all.

2. Sterling Hayden

In university, I took a film course on Stanley Kubrick. Sterling Hayden was in The Killing which was one of those heist-gone-wrong films that I looooove. And he was hooooootttt!!!! And then he was in Dr. Strangelove and he was craaaaazzzy. I love a nut job.

3. Vincent Van Gogh

Speaking of crazy, I love that he cut off his ear. That is so awesome. Men don’t do that anymore, they don’t even cut their own toenails. They get pedicures and have their balls waxed at a salon! Pussies.

4. Eric Stoltz

Remember him? He was hot during the Brat Pack era but didn’t get the fame. Because he was a redhead! Look how cute he is, he is like a male Jodie Foster. I like Jodie Foster a lot, I remember when she was a child star, I wanted her to be my friend. She was in the original Freaky Friday!

5. Boris Becker

I know, what’s up with this? I’m picking this tennis playah because he is a perfect example of a blonde with a ginge tinge. This works well if you style yourself like a Scandanavian hipster or a fisherman.

6. David Caruso

Ugly-sexy! And the voice! All he has to do is talk and you forget worrying about what level SPF he has to use in Miami.

7. Kevin McKidd

Another actor from that show Grey’s Anatomy which jumped the shark after season 3 when the plots turned into something from General Hospital. What McHorseshit. But this guy is worth a channel surf.

8. I don’t know who this is

When I googled ‘hot ginger” so many fetish websites came up, who knew? Check out this site, it’s perfectly wholesome, so many more to fuel your fetish. I think this dude would make a perfectly good son-in-law.

9. Prince Harry

I’m putting him on my list because you like him and I need a higher google rating. Sweet!

10. Louis CK!

I know I’m late to the party but I am madly in love with Louis CK. I want to marry him. I don’t even think I need to tell you why, just watch:

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Posted by Kristin Peterson on December 9, 2011 in This Charming Man

Tags: David Caruso ugly-sexy, Eric Stoltz jodie foster, ginger men, Jesus was a redhead, Louis CK, Prince Harry no shirt

Bradley Vs. Ryan And The Winner is…. Fat Vince Vaughn

18 Nov

According to People Magazine, the world’s sexiest man in 2011 is Bradley Cooper. This has some crazy hos with their panties in a knot making a petition saying that it should be Ryan Gosling. They have point in that it is Ryan Gosling’s year since he had a bunch of films out AND he has a rescue dog. I have a rescue dog. We all should have rescue dogs by the way. Bradley Cooper, on the other hand, may or may not have a dog but he can speak French. Apparently he impressed the judges with his interview on French radio nattering away, using far too many syllables as French are wont to do, just tell the people of France to go and see his new movie. Here it is, lock your bedroom door and set your laptop on vibrate:

And here he is without a shirt:

As my friend from Newfoundland used to say when she encountered a man she liked: ”I’d do you for a dollar!” I’m not really sure if it meant she would give him a dollar or she would charge him a dollar? But whichever, there’s no flies on Bradley Cooper so I don’t really see the problem. I would do him for a dollar any which way. Maybe Ryan Gosling is just so hot he is going to make the Sexiest Man of the Universe. Or maybe People magazine didn’t want to use another Canadian, wasn’t it that other Ryan with abs just recently the title holder? Americans have slight contempt for our country because we pay high taxes for health care and it makes them crazy with jealousy and confusion. But we send them our hunks and throw in Justin Bieber as goodwill measures and yet they still mock us with that ”Oot and Aboot” accent that nobody really has. But for whatever reason, I say let People magazine have their sexy Bradley for 2011.

As for moi, I have a hard time getting excited over any movie star really. I just can’t get past the idea is that what they do for a living is make-believe ridiculousness. And they think it’s so important, like when they call what they do “work” and it’s a “craft.” Dear George Clooney and Brad Pitt, I tell you what work is: getting up milking cows, and a craft is carving a pig out of a mound of butter. Please, get a grip, even your vernacular says you “play” a role. Plus you wear make up, that is so not hot. Although if I did have to pick a movie star to have around my house, it would have to be Vince Vaughn. Not the coked up Vince Vaughn from the 90s like he was in Swingers, but the fat Vince Vaughn from The Break Up. Have you ever had a conversation with a man who has a six-pack of abs? It’s so tedious to hear about carb and protein ratio and there is nothing so sad as someone who separates the egg whites and throws the yolk away. You have to wonder then: What else won’t he eat?

Vince Vaughn looks like someone who would eat my pie. And everything else. And look, he would it standing up, tell me this isn’t hot: