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A Hooker’s Guide to Writing a Resume

I think we can all agree that job hunting is the worst thing ever. I’ve been on an aggressive blitz this week for the past couple of weeks and I can tell you, I’d rather walk naked through an Abercrombie and Fitch CEO board meeting than write a resume and cover letter. Why is it that I can write a blog, tweet a tweet, and tell you all about my precise level of moistness for Idris Elba but I can’t even bullet point a single skill I obtained as a real estate ho? I don’t even know the proper job title is. I forget how to string words together. And I would rather give good old fashioned blow jobs under a desk than create a profile on LinkedIn. I just can’t with that site.

On Monday I had a phone interview where I paced back and forth on my back deck like a wild cat while I answered the questions. This is why I can’t have an office job, I can’t sit still on a chair. Even when I write these blogs that take up half a day, I’m moving from “half lotus” to “boat” and then to my own personally patented yoga position that I call “snake laying an egg-” don’t ask.

After stuttering and forgetting the word “customer,” I managed to get a second interview where I had to go to the actual place which is in Etobicoke, which means I have to QEW it, which is the highway where all the exits have like sounding names. “Islington” and “Kipling” look exactly the same, at least to me. I got off the wrong one, of course, got lost, then got very sweaty, and arrived ten minutes late. It didn’t matter, I had to wait 40 minutes for the interview because the woman wasn’t even there! And then when she arrived, I had to follow her to a remote office, even more sweaty, dry mouth, and out of breath because of 3 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS, I answered a bunch a questions clearly and concisely, with only an occasional nervous bit of too much information rambling. The interviewer woman, who was probably 35-ish, did NOT get my sense of humour so I was able to keep it dignified. HOWEVER, at the very end, she asked for two forms of ID which I was told to bring and I actually had because I am nothing if not always prepared.

“What do you need it for?” I asked, thinking it is a good sign.

“We need to run a police check,” she says.

Fuck. This has happened before when someone googled me, which of course is not a police check per se. A woman with the same name as me got arrested in Toronto three years ago for terrorism during the G20 shindig. It turned out her crazy husband was the one building bombs in their swanky Forest Hill home, unbeknownst to her, but she still went to jail and made headlines. People thought it was me even though her first name is spelled “Kristen” not “Kristin,” but you know how thorough folks are with details ಠ~ಠ….not. Oh well, hopefully the police don’t use google. And if I get this ridiculous job, it will be blog fodder galore, I promise, maybe it will even have its own anonymous Tumblr. A police check takes a couple of days and then a THIRD interview, she said. It’s jaw-dropping really, I’m not going to even tell you where it is because most of the people who work there look like they are from the island of lost misfits so if I don’t get it, I’m going to volunteer to be the next experimental monkey that gets launched up into space.

If I could really be me, and not the boring version, and could write a resume my own special way, it would go something like this:

1. Data Entry Clerk at Pratt & Whitney Canada. This is the summer job I had at my dad’s company during university for 3 years. I still remember my badge number, 27642, because I had to type in hundreds of times a day, along with payroll and shittons of mysterious engineering data that went into a giant box of a computer that was the size of an ensuite bathroom. This was the 80s, you could probably fit all that crap in an iPad now and all the women that worked in that department are probably dead from carpal tunnel-related cancer. There were twenty ladies in the department, a hummer of hens, all clucking their dentures while they clacked on the keyboard. And smoking all the while. Women can sure multi-task. Martha, Shannon the Crazy Bitch, and I were the summer students whose papas swung us these soul sucking jobs. Martha and I, forming an impenetrable love club, kept our spirits up by gossiping, and Shannon kept jealously accusing of being “lezzies” like we cared. Martha had the best stories because she had a bazillion boyfriends and she was a total sex goddess. She liked me because I made her laugh so hard that no sound would come out so we would stay out of trouble that way, her laughing silently and me squirming in my seat imagining what it was like to bang a Jamaican man on a dance floor.

We lived for the two weeks in July that was called “Plant Shutdown’ because it was then we had to work the four to midnight shift and not have to go in at 7:00 a.m. with our dads. One of us would get an Oldsmobile (ALL the Pratt & Whitney drove those!) and after our shift at midnight we would hit the local brasserie and drink until 3 a.m. Good times.

But the best EVER time was that Tuesday we got out extra-early at 6:30 in the evening because the big clunky computer spontaneously farted out an explosion, and she had the brilliant idea of taking the Oldsmobile over the bridge and into the CITY which was Montreal, FYI. Her Jamaican boyfriend, Winston, was taking a summer class at Concordia, and was shacking up in an apartment in NDG with his cousin, James. We could go over there, order Chinese, drink some beers, then head back home at midnight and her dad would never know she hijacked the car downtown.

Here’s how it went real time, play-by-play:

7 pm: We arrive at Winston’s apartment. Winston is a BIG STRAPPING black boy on a football scholarship, hotter than hot, of course. Martha gives him a big goopy kiss. James, his skinnier but also cute cousin, is also from Jamaica is speaking Patois to set the mood. It should be noted that it is July and they are not wearing shirts and they were sweat-ayyyyy. They had already ordered the food. They give us a beer and some egg rolls. Oh yes, and of course, a big giant doobie is passed around.

7;10: Still eating and not yet finished the first beer, Winston puts on some reggae music at maximum volume.

7;15: Martha and the cousin James are “dancing rub-a-dub” which looks like this: The guy is standing against the wall and the girl is grinding her crotch on his upper thigh. Hands are everywhere.

7:20: I am grinding my crotch on Winston’s knee. His fingers are sliding around in my ass crack.

7:25: Martha’s clothes are on the living room floor and she is in another room. With James.

7:30: I am stark naked on the couch with Martha’s big giant Jamaican boyfriend on top of me, pulling his pants down.

7:31: Okay, now I am freaked out. I HAVEN’T EVEN FINISHED MY BEER AND THERE IS A NAKED BLACK MAN ON TOP OF ME. How did this even happen so fast? This is what happens to me when I smoke weed, I get paranoid. I manage to slither out from underneath him and he is a perfect gentleman, he hands me my clothes. I apologize and flee like a scaredy cat. Believe me, I wouldn’t do that now. Flee, that is.

7:45: I am at my friends’, Kingsley and Mark, apartment a couple of blocks away, and telling the tale what just happened in the timeframe of a tv sitcom and oh, how we laughed. Also, as it turns out, I am wearing Martha’s bra inside out.

SKILLS: Knowledge of DOS, data entry, and Rub-A-Dub wizardry

2. Busser at Le Select Bistro. This was my very first job in Toronto. I had to bus tables, make cappuccinos, and keep the bread baskets full. Everyone, the owners and the customers, thought it was cute to have hanging bread baskets over the tables and I would constantly get yelled at by the customers: “THERE ARE CRUMBS IN THE CREAMER!” Where I wanted to say: ‘IT’S FROM THE FUCKING BREAD BASKET, MORON!” But I didn’t, I politely apologized got them some “fresh” cream, all right.

SKILLS: Revenge

3. Assistant Manager at Parachute in Yorkville. This was a store that sold the quintessential eighties fashion victim-style clothing. It was one of the funnest jobs I ever had. In fact, I’m going to lazily link from the archives to a whole blog post I wrote about it, it’s that epic.

SKILLS: The fine art of fag hagdom, how to pose in the mirror like a supermodel

4. Receptionist at a head shot photo studio. I do not remember the name of this place! I remember my boss was named Joe Black! I remember I was reading Martin Amis’ “Money” when Carole Pope came to pick up her photos in and said; “Martin Amis is so nasty and that is why I love him!” I remember trying to process that statement and not really understanding how anyone could like anything “nasty,” I was that dumb and naive. But I was starstruck so I pretended to agree. Carole Pope was one of my all time lady heroes.

Skills: Satire, also I got good at quitting jobs.

5. Bike Courier for Sunwheel Bicycle Couriers. I delivered important documents in the era pre-fax machines for a year with gusto and tenacity until one day, I crashed into the back of a parked truck climbing up Yonge Street because I wasn’t looking. I bashed my head and stabbed my leg with a wheel spoke. I finished my deliveries, bleeding and concussed, riding a bike with a wheel shaped like a Pringle chip. Like a boss.

Skills: North and South, East and West, developing an innate knowledge of where toilets are located.

6. Shopgirl at Holt Renfrew. I sold pantyhose to rich Forest Hill and Rosedale women, who, when they got a run in their stockings, would always bring them back for a replacement. I know, right? You’re thinking what cheap cunts, HOWEVER, the pantyhose industry is a diabolical business because a single pair at Holt Renfrew cost $7.95 and they would only last a day. Do that math and then tell me these ladies are cheap. I wore Donna Karan opaque tights for $19.95 and they NEVER ran, in fact, more than 25 years later, I still have 3 pairs. So I pushed these babies to these grateful women and was top in sales during the winter season.

Skills: Up-selling, talking the talk, making animal sculptures out of spent pantyhose

7. Painter. I painted with this dude who did Marbalux faux-finishing in Italian wedding halls. What a hot mess. I did that until I was 8 months pregnant and then I couldn’t bend over. I actually loved that job and learned a lot, no joke. Painting is all about patience.

Skills: Fucking use a good quality primer, fucking never use alkyd when latex will do, fucking use actual painter’s tape, not dollar store masking tape for a clean line, fucking take down the light switch covers, fucking wrap the brushes and rollers up in cellophane so they don’t dry up, and fucking don’t sit on someone’s white sofa when you have hunter green paint still wet on your ass.

8. Stay at home mom. I had two babies and raised them to be fine upstanding teenage citizens. Both of them are really smart and I drank like a longshoreman while I breastfed them, hahahahahahahahahaha.

Skills: Herding, hoarding, humility

9. Real estate sales. Helped people buy and sell homes. That’s where I started this blog, hoping to help my career and promote community and neighbourhood spirit. Instead I went off on a tangent and ended up telling you stories of how I a rub-a-dubbed a Jamaican man one hot summer night, hahahahahahahahahaha.

Skills: Resume writing

REFERENCES AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

5 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on May 9, 2013 in Uncategorized

Tags: Jamaican dance, jobhunting, jobs, rub-a-dub, writing a resume

Paging Dick Power

18 Apr

So yeah, Spring finally showed up, yay! So yesterday I walked around Leslieville in the blinding sun for a couple of hours while Mike the Mechanic changed my winter tires and performed some other tender loving things to my precious box that is a Scion XB, filter and oil change, et cetera. I window shopped and drifted into some stores, taking street #selfies because that is my hobby. I went to get a drink at one point and I stopped dead in my tracks because parked on the street in front of The Pumps was the car of a dreaded ex-fuckarrhea. It is bad enough running into an ex-lover-type in a controlled environment but most horrifying when you are off-guard, TAKING PICTURES OF YOURSELF like a douchette in front of THE BONE HOUSE because you think it would make a funny cover for your fake on-line magazine/dumb blog. I looked around but I couldn’t see him BECAUSE THE BULLSHIT SUN WAS BLINDING but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see me wherever he was so I took a quick shot (it was too bright for the letters to show up! Damn you, sun!) and stealthily headed back to the mechanic shop. I don’t really care if he sees me, looking like crap with #nomakeup, as time has healed that particular wound into an invisible but tiny, jagged scar in the bottom left hand corner of my calcified heart that I sometimes pick at when I go too far deep-sea diving into the ocean of #sadz, which is hardly ever, but I would just HATE running face up into him and if he was with his new generic wife and then it would be all fight or flight flustered. Since I am entirely made up of chicken shit and apple cider vinegar, I would probably say something rude while running into traffic. Thank Hayzoos there was no encounter and the only person I ran into blocks away was my little soul sister, Ania, who works the front desk at my gym, and she was on her way to her shift. We squealed with glee when we saw each other. Isn’t it funny when you have a sparkly connection with someone who is from a whole different generation? I could have even given birth to her if I was prolific enough to have boned her father when I was 21.

“OMG! Your hair is so shiny!” (that’s me).

“Your hair is so shiny, too!” Her.

“You’ll never guess what I use!” Me.

“I bet I know…” Her.

“APPLE CIDER VINEGAR!” Both of us in unison. Apple cider vinegar a frugal lady’s best beauty secret. We laughed, high fived, and then went about our ways. And then I tripped over a streetcar track because I was wearing flip flops. THAT is the first sign of spring as far as I am concerned.

Last weekend I downloaded all three seasons of the HBO-comedy series “Hung.” José, the butcher, recommended to me last week as I am a power-tv-watching champion and I finished Downtown Abbey (embarrassing) and American Horror Story, Season 1 (awesome). I’m IMDB-ing “Hung” for you so you can check it out but if you are too weak to click, I will give you a quick synopsis: Ray is a forty-something high school gym teacher/coach who is divorced with a twin teenage son and daughter, moves into his parents sweet retro cottage-style home that he inherits but doesn’t insure. There’s a fire and enough damage that he has to live in a tent in the backyard which is by a lake…OMG, I love his little house, even half wrecked, it’s like real estate porn for me! You can have your Downton Abbey drafty mansion but give a tiny bungalow and I will be a happy lady of the cabin-with-the-screened-in porch. SIGH! Anyway, he has to build it back himself but because he is poor American teacher in Detroit, he needs to supplement his income! He has an awkward one-night stand with Tanya, a hippie guest poetry teacher who happens to be in one of those Learning Annex-type business development classes he takes to figure out how to make more money, and he ends up fucking her again (even more badly) because HIDDEN CHEMISTRY… somehow they decide his GINORMOUS dick is his shtick that he needs to market. Ray becomes a man ho, and Tanya is his lady pimp. They call themselves HAPPINESS CONSULTANTS. The synopsis sounds far-fetched but it’s played out brilliantly and makes you think it’s all very plausible. At least I do.

I spent the entire weekend watching all three seasons. The weather outside was shite so I stayed in my jammies and took to the bed. JUST ONE MORE EPISODE, I kept saying, I neglected to shower, ate raw food, I was so consumed in this show. Not since the “Breaking Bad” 48-hour power-watch of January 2012 have I gotten so lost in a tv screen. Last year I wanted so badly to make crystal meth in my basement with my tenant who loves Heisenberg even more than me. He would be Walter and I would his Jessie, this landlady don’t give a fuck. Buck the system! It didn’t happen though, he had better things to do like build a back deck, so don’t go calling the DEA or the RCMP or whoever. The only dodgy thing in the basement is a nest of snakes and I never want to go down there ever again.

NEVER MIND THE METH, NOW I WANT TO BE A LADY PIMP! Specializing in that untapped niche market of men servicing women. Why is this not a popular thing? I have no idea. I’m going to brainstorm some ideas with you, so stifle your judgements while we go through this.

Now on “Hung,” Ray is played by Thomas Jane, who is a handsome All American JCrew-type rocking his forties. He is like a unicorn because he will bone a woman of any age. We all know that in real life, a forty-something man who looks like that always has that arrogant self-entitled pickiness where he would only bang twenty-year bikini models. Let’s face it, women that young are not going to be paying customers. Disgruntled wives, cat ladies, and cougars with their mojo on overdrive with some money to burn are the ones who would pay for the service. I know I would if I wasn’t making up this business plan. But I think if I am going to have some man hos working for me, they would have to be in their twenties just based on boner power, willingness, and stamina. Let’s not kid ourselves, it’s a young man’s game.

And does a man ho have to be well-hung for this career? In my humble opinion, NO! Now that I am old and have seen a variety of penii, I don’t really care about the size. Or girth or whatever the fashion is of the moment. They all have their own personalities and stuff to bring to the table. The penis needs to be demystified if I’m going to be peddling it.

First of all, you can’t tell just by looking at a dude’s hands or feet what size he is. It’s like sometimes when you know a guy and go to his house to meet his dog (not a euphemism) and you think he’s going to have one of those cute Lab/Shepherd crosses and it turns out he has a frightening looking Chinese Crested and you are completely repulsed and you really don’t want to pet it. Or you expect a Jack Russell and you get a Great Dane. Now I am speaking in metaphors: The truth is that as majestical and horse-like a Great Dane is, they only have a life expectancy of 8 years as do other giant breeds, whereas a Jack Russell will be jumping around like a puppy for twice that long. Just saying.

Helmets versus Rockets. If a North American man is of a certain age, born in the 1970s or earlier, he is more likely to be circumcised than not and women of the Sex and the City-era are used to this helmet look to the point where they would shudder in horror if they saw an uncut one. This infuriates me. In praise of rockets, I like me some extra foreskin. Since I was a toddler, I had tactile OCD habits and I would carry my blankie around and run my fingers along the satin edging until it completely wore out. Uncircumcised dicks are an OCD girl’s best stress toy, they remind me of these fun snake water tubes where they slide up and down in your grip and you never want to let go. So. Much. Fun.

I know men have some insecurities about their dicks for whatever reason and they just want approval and for a woman to look at it and say it is the most magnificent thing she has ever seen. For me though, the first time I see a man’s dick, I am going to be shocked no matter what. I’m never prepared for the strange colour, the bulging veins, the shock of pubes or even lack of pubes. But then I gradually get used to it and then it will grow on me. It’s never going to be a love at first sight scenario so just be patient and introduce it gently. The only dick that doesn’t scare the beejezus out of me is my Remainder Man’s (you know, my strictly platonic male friend I go on about ad nauseam who parks his trailer in my backyard and takes me out for beer and wings and cuts down my shrubs, blah blah, etc). Before he became civilized and had all the fun whipped out of him by his heinous girlfriend, he had the most hilarious habit of pulling out his penis in public and slapping it on top of the bar like a floppy eel. I know you’re thinking how vulgar, what about the children, he is a pervert and should be charged with public indecency, etc…Relax, hardly anyone saw and his dick is so friendly and non-threatening, you just want to pet it. In fact it reminds me of my wiggly little dog, Betty. So cute.

So for my Happiness Consulting business (shhh, not lady pimp, this is legit), I would have to hold auditions. Must have dick power but I am more interested in finger and tongue action, those are the gateway tools into a woman’s pleasure zone. So dudes, if you are up for a new career and want to pay of your students loans in a hurry, you know to how to contact me…and ladies (you know who you are), I’ll keep you posted and in the meantime go get a bikini wax and here’s a cute puppy to put you in a happy mood and you know I’m just kidding about all of this, right? #notreally #callme

2 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on April 18, 2013 in Uncategorized

Tags: does size matter, HBO Hung, helmet vs rocket, lady pimp, uncircumsised dicks

Brace Yourselves, Spring is Coming

03 Apr

I’m sure you’re not surprised but Miss Contrary, aka moi, is not even remotely excited for spring. It’s not that I like the cold but I just don’t care for all the brouhaha and chores that go into April. Let’s not forget you have to do your taxes, rake all the garbage from your front lawn, get your winter tires changed, clean your front hallway of tiny Pomeranian turdlets that have petrified into the tiles and created a texture that kind of blends in with the slate so maybe just scratch that…and then the worries! Worry about your spring wardrobe, worry about your garden hose (fuck, yes, I worry about my garden hose all winter long, I don’t even know why), worry about what happened to your missed period in March (shut up, it’s coming), worry about North Korea, worry about that garter snake your neighbour saw slither into your basement in the fall and if its going to be waking up from its winter orgy slumber with all its snake friends in a big giant pile of snake salad underneath the pile of crap that didn’t sell at the Italian garage sale. Cannot deal.

Also I have had enough rounds of spring fever to know that where there is hope, there will inevitably be major disappointment.

Yes, spring is exciting, there is definitely a natural mojo boost from extra sunshine, not just those annoying rogue beams that peak out from sides of your drapes when you take to the bed to watch endless hours of Downton Abbey on your laptop. It’s time to get outside, lazy ho!

The warmer weather brings out the people from HBO hibernation and everybody wants to sit on a patio. The pressure is finding the right patio with the optimum possibilities. The perfect patio has all the best sidewalk traffic, with a parade of motley humanity that will keep you entertained. In my neck of the woods, the Beach, it’s all same old year after year: An endless stream of boring ass couples with their ugly strollers and their purebred dogs who lead the way like majestic protectors of their boring ass masters. Why so loyal, dog? You want to say, break free and chase some squirrels and run to the lake and roll in some dead fish. I used to be one of them, my husband and I, and my custom slip covered Peg Perago double stroller…our Shiba Inus used to get loose and bolt every chance they got which was HILARIOUS! *sigh* Was that fun or a pain in the ass? Snap out of it…now I am a crusty, single old bat with just one lunatic mutt who dive bombs for every crumb and canine anus that passes by. Definitely not hilarious. I need new hood and a new game plan, that’s for sure. I have some ideas (which doesn’t include dog training) that I am going to implement this spring and I’m going to share them with you and feel free to comment some pro tips of your own because I love hearing from you:

1. Last post, we discussed the art of flirting and I got a lot of feedback in my in-box. I’m going to read a book, the sequel from the classic “Men Are From Mars, etc” and it’s called “Mars and Venus on a Date” and perhaps we shall discuss it in a future blog post (if I actually get around to reading it). Meanwhile, I feel a million dollar idea coming around like we need another take for the disillusioned souls who have had their heart ripped out and shat on, something like Men Are From Uranus (obviously) and Women Are From Pluto (because that’s a planet that doesn’t even exist and you know how we’re supposed be all like difficult and stuff, *eye roll*). Anyway it’s real time right now and I am back at the same place with Refat, the very same bartender who was ignoring me last post and now even though the place is packed, he came running up to my table which is in the same spot as before. ”Can I help you, Miss?” The power of cleavage. ”I’d love a pint of Stella Artois, Refat, please!” I know, I sound like one of the dumb cunts on “Downton Abbey” ordering a footman around but I have been fervently watching the show in marathon sessions and it’s given me some lessons in poise and lady manners.

2. I need to find a new crush, speaking of Downton Abbey. One of you wrote me last week and said “I think it’s awful that you would flirt with a married man. I take offence to that!” I apologized profusely because I am stupid but the more I think about it, the more indignant I get. I was married once and I let ridiculous bitches flirt with my husband which only gave him a mojo boost and therefore more cache, and it was beneficial for everyone. So fuck you, I will practise flirting on your husband whoever he is and you will put on your big girl pants and suck it up. Anyway, it’s just FLIRTING and I’m really not that good at it. My current crush, who is tits on a bull when it comes to flirting, is of course married, but to some hooker who runs a tight ship, a lady who most probably has her man’s balls in a vice grip. Men love that type of woman for some reason,I know it’s true because there are entire Tumblr blogs devoted to macerated nutsacks. Anyway, I told my crush I watched an entire season of “Downton Abbey” over the weekend. And he said: “Downton Abbey is a really good show.” Oh… I know, right?. And I, incredulous, said: ”But Downton Abbey is a girls’ show.” And he replied, chest deflating: ”Well I’m not the one who puts it on.” And then he went about his business with his head down whilst my lady boner wilted to thirty percent of its capacity. I might still carry the tiniest of torches because cute! But! if somehow I find out he is watching “The Bachelor,” which I suspect he is, I will never look at him the same way again. So I need a new crush, one who watches hockey and maybe some reruns of Seinfeld while he is unimpeded to scratch his free wheelin’ balls in front of the lady he loves. Bitch, please, it’s that simple.

3. Laura and I went out on Friday night to see a bar band. We went to Dora Keough which is a pub-type place full of wretched professional drunkards. She and her friends go out regularly and they know how to swill the beers and shake their hips. I am a day person, a vodka drinking hermit, as you know, a reverse vampire who wears pyjamas at 5 pm. Laura is “taking a break” from men because of their tedious game-playing ways. But me, I am always zealously on the prowl, I scanned the room: ”Everyone here is a circus freak!” And before y’all accuse me of being a stuck-up picky bitch, I am hot for Louis CK who is a balding, chubby, ginger hunk of cerebral sexiness. So don’t bust my balls if I have a certain standard. Anyway Laura, who is all off the men and not paying attention to anyone but the band, gets asked to dance by a young dude! He is bat-shit crazy but still…we have decided that Laura has some kind of magical powers. a mojo so fierce and fine-tuned that we need to scrape her armpits of her pheromone debris and chemically recreate its essence and we will be rich, I tell ya. To which I ask this question: Would you rather be really rich or have Laura’s sizzling hot fucking mojo? I pick the mojo. The most valuable commodity in the world, in my opinion.

4. It’s time to buy a new vibrator. Just saying.

5. It’s also time to exfoliate. Even though I appear a little bit casual at times (read slovenly), I am massively vain when it comes to skin care. I think if you are a lady of a certain age, you simply have to buck up and get procedures done. In my opinion, you don’t have to spend a shitton of money on skin care at home but where you should drop the big ones is at an aesthetician who doubles as a nurse just as a side job. You need a wand wielding bitch who can shoot out laser beams into those gaping pores and rejuvenate with medical proficiency. Don’t get me wrong, at home I put rotten avocados and honey on my face while I watch my Downton Abbey, but there comes a time for professional restoration. Save your pennies, get some Fraxel or a Vampire Lift, but until then and before you enter another yoga class, get ye a salt scrub even if its from your kitchen cupboard and rub it all over your ass because scaly skin is gross.

6. I’ve been taking some #selfies (don’t judge) for recreation and going all around with the iPhone lens and noticed my Hello Kitty tattoo has changed shape and even disappears at certain important angles. Ugh! This means a fitness goal of some sort which is something even my lazy ass can handle. For some reason I like the gym (three words: hot tub jets) and if I change my time that I go, I might be able to find a new crush, hence killing two birds with one stone. Snap!

7. I’m going to make a scotch egg. Labour intensive, yes, but my lazy ass enjoys a culinary challenge. Check this out, you will looooove it, it is all about eggs but is sexier than “Game of Thrones.” I’m in love with Heston, is he gay or just British? The scotch egg is around the 12 minute mark but you are going to want to watch the whole thing and maybe make your own mayonnaise, yo. And THAT is not a euphemism.

8. I need to finish watching “Downton Abbey.” I took a break because I was missing something. I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw “Game of Thrones” and I realized it was it was the soft core gratuitous porn of HBO. A lady needs a little porn now and again but maybe my brain doesn’t have to be marinating in it. It’s all about balance. And patience. Speaking of which, once again Refat is completely ignoring me, even though I am stroking my decollete with my fingertips. What the hell?

3 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on April 3, 2013 in go girl, lady boners, Uncategorized

Tags: Downton Abbey, flirting, scotch egg, spring fever, spring tips

Tales Inside the Locker Room: Cat Fight!

07 Feb

I don’t hate the winter the way most of y’all do as I figured out how to shut up, strip the ego of any kind of fashion sense, and just ride it like a stallion. I like the hermit lifestyle but sometimes I need to get out so I go to the gym and get on top of those whirlpool jets just to remind myself I am still alive.

The other day in my gym locker bay, these two women were talking and one was saying how she hated that her husband made them go south (Fabulous Turks and Caicos!) in January because when you get back here (Frozen Turds and Caca!) it’s so depressing and you have to go through major adjustment to acclimate back to the shite weather. I got what she was saying, I have been on a tropical winter holiday or two and know the misery of which she speaks. You might as well just stick it out all winter and go away in April to get a head start on sun damage. That is what you call smart hockey.

This other woman, however, was not having any of it and she started shrieking how she hated being cold and what an ingrate this other woman was, “I’m always so cold! Even in the summer I’m cold! You should be happy to be able to go away! First world problems, must be nice!” And all the while she’s sashaying around the locker room stark naked, you can tell some kind tension is building up inside her because all two ounces of random flesh on her bony body is shivering in fear as she slaps on some body moisturizer that smells like the bottom an old purse where some hand lotion had leaked and then some spearmint gum got marinated. And mens, don’t get excited about the visual of a screaming naked woman because the fluorescent lighting in the locker room made this woman look like Gollum with a blond bob.

But the rest of look like Sirens, so keep up the fantasy.

Meow. That’s me, getting my hackles up. Mostly I try and practise my Buddhist-ish dogma of modern living which is to let things go, don’t get attached, blah blah, but I am only a human with surging natural lady hormones that make me bitch with the best of them.

First world problems? I’m getting really tired of people not being able to voice their complaints about how they hate the interior colour of their Lexus without having their heads blown off by the mighty gale of farting whitey righteousness. When was the last time you bought a goat over the internet for a village in Africa? Shut up and do it here and let the rest of us use all the discontinued pennies to tile our powder rooms in copper splendour.

Mostly I don’t have time for that certain type of skinny bitch that is constantly complaining in a little girl voice: “I’m so cold!” Because she wants you to say,”You’re so skinnaaaaay, girlfriend! Eat something!” To which she will respond: “Oh, I eat so much! I just have a really high metabolism!” Oh right. If her metabolism was so high, she would be hot, not cold. Hypothermic Hanna is that type of woman we all know, when it is the middle of July and it is one of those nights where you can’t sit inside and everyone in the neighbourhood is out on their porch steps drinking beer out of cans, she is huddled on an uphostered lawn chair drinking a glass of Chardonnay wearing some fat woman’s fat husband’s hoodie that she borrowed and she is just “swimming in it!” It is just “so huge!” Tee hee!

And the menfolk lap this sort of behaviour up, quivering Chihuahua women make them feel mighty and masculine. And it’s our own fault because we are constantly pointing out so-called fat asses on normal women. We made the skinny ideal happen, not them. We started buying fat reducing cream from a snake oil salesman who disguised himself as a doctor and coined the term “cellulite.” There’s no such thing, cellulite is just textured fat that you can see on the skin! It’s got a fancy name because the guy was a Frenchman and they have to put an ostentatious spin on everything. They eat snails and other garden garbage.

If we didn’t become so obsessed about we’d save ourselves a lot of money and grief. If cellulite wasn’t a thing we had to point out to men to sabotage other women, they would never have noticed! If we had kept quiet, they’d be all like getting their dicks into the Rubenesque folds of fat flesh like they did back in the olden times and we all could have had our cake AND wieners. Science has proven men like a fatty!

The good news is that men can be brainwashed into believing anything is hot, it’s all about implementing an elaborate reward system involving basic culinary skills and all kinds ego stroking. And blow jobs. The bad news is that it’s probably going to more work than it’s worth to train an entire society of men so it might be just easier just to let Victoria’s Secret rule the world. Sometimes we women are own worst enemies and my awareness of this does not stop me from having an irrational hate-on for the locker bitch who is just a victim of the vicious cycle that has evolved into modern Photoshop society.

Anyway, I don’t even know this woman’s name but I have seen her around for years. She *bugs* me. I have seen her a) wear one of those Canada Goose parkas in May b) run on the treadmill for a solid hour every day for past two years c) order a salad and a Perrier on half price wing night at one of those Firkin places downtown last fall. It was one those random sightings of someone you know from the gym but they might not recognize you because you are usually naked with a towel turban on your head. Of course she didn’t acknowledge me because her complete attention was on her salad, she was busy picking out walnuts and hiding the goat cheese under the napkin. Meanwhile her husband, who was eating wings AND sweet potato fries while washing it all down with a pint like a normal person, was ignoring her because he was too busy texting on his Blackberry. Probably with some other woman who has visible cellulite, the forbidden fruit! Yes, that’s the spin we need to put on it! Sexy, fleshy lumps, and bumps, rock it!

Back to the situation in the locker room, the Turks and Caicos woman was taken aback and started apologizing, “Oh didn’t mean to sound like a Real Housewife, just saying how tough it is to get back to this weather.” I don’t know this woman personally either, but I know that she has three young kids, one of them she adopted from Mexico! She is saint! And she also drives a hybrid.

Hypothermic Hanna hissed something inaudible, Turks hissed back, and before you knew it: CAT FIGHT! Well that seemed to escalate quickly, there must have been a more interesting background story with these two but I didn’t know what it was, I was just grateful (and beyond thrilled! me likey the drama, it’s like real-life HBO) to be a witness and not a participant. And no, they didn’t actually physically brawl but there were some harsh words and some locker door slamming. One of those plastic puffy balls for exfoliating was thrown and hit Turks in the face and that’s about when it came to an end. In the end, Turks held her own with much dignity, but surprisingly, I had a newfound respect for Hypothermic Hanna and her spectacular unbridled meltdown. You know, you never know what path a person has been on, maybe she is crazy for a good reason.

So after I got dressed (really quickly, I was still wet in fact), Turks had taken off, I turned to Hypothermic Hanna who was slumped on a stool, still naked and rubbing herself with cream (Gollum! Stick with the proper visual, I am still a bitch after all), “I love the smell of your moisturizer, what is it?”

And she looked up actually seemed to be surprised that I was even there.

“Oh, it’s Aveda, it’s essential oils, it’s supposed to be calming. I’m so sorry for that outburst. She’s my sister, she makes me crazy. Her fucking perfect life, with her fucking perfect husband, and her fucking perfect kids in their fucking perfect house.”

Oh! Well that all makes sense now! Heavy emphasis on the f-bombs, bitter and beaten down, she is obviously the Fredo of the family! The light was cast, and that was when I took her under my soft downy wing and after she got dressed, we went upstairs and had a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio (yes, the gym has a bar, why have you not joined?) and she told me all about her childhood and how her sister stole all the thunder and got all the good Barbies and she just had a one Midge whose hair she cut off in a rage. Surprise.

It turns out her name is Kathleen, but when they were little, her sister couldn’t pronounce it so they called her Kat and it stuck. LOL.

1 Comment

Posted by Kristin Peterson on February 7, 2013 in go girl, LOCAs gone wild, Uncategorized

Tags: crazy bitch, locker room cat fight

Every Family Has A Fredo

02 Jan

Happy New Year, peeps! The holidays are a massive bitchfest, aren’t they? So many elephants in all the living rooms of all the suburban/urban bourgeoisie, thank the gods of groceries that there are enough peanuts wreaths and brie wheels to keep them fat and fed that they don’t notice that they are vulture fodder. Elephants are too busy being elephantile to notice the other animals and their ridiculous habits.

It occurred to me that this year I am the 2012 Grand Elephant that they squawked about when I finally left the room to give birth to the yule log that was stuck up my proverbial chimney/colon because I forgot to drink coffee on Christmas morning: “If only she would find an age appropriate man….she should go to teacher’s college…she should sell Avon….why doesn’t she do something with her hair?…et cetera…” They worry about me, I guess. Every family has a Fredo.

Oh well, I’d rather be a big honking elephant than a meerkat or some other dumbass creature that moves in packs indistinguishable from each other, and dispensable because they are ALL THE SAME… even if they are so cute (stop reading this shit right now and run and go see the film “The Life Pi” now and you will know what I mean). Don’t kid yourself either, Golden Child, I bet even you have a massive trunk and a curly tail that have been whispered about in by the light of the downstairs beer fridge by your relatives at least at one point.

Anyway, I have resolutions and inspiring thoughts for the new year that you can use too and best of all, they don’t involve cutting out carbs because CARBS ARE AWESOME:

DON’T BE SO HARD ON YOURSELF!

I just spent the better part of the last decade beating myself up for all my mistakes but what is the point in that? Then I made the same mistakes all over again just so I could beat myself up more! I’m addicted to self-loathing! Why not just go out and get a bunch of piercings? Instead, I’m going to do more yoga but not that crazy Bikram because it makes me get all in my head and completely lose my humour and I need it for blogging purposes. There’s a class called “Restorative” where you lay around for 90 minutes and pull off 5 poses and the teacher, who is actually a crazy bitch who will run you over in the parking lot, comes around and massages your temples with lavender oil and makes you feel like everything is going to be alright, Jesus Christ Superstar-style. I’m telling you, she is a genius, and when you walk out of the class, you feel like you had a sexy nap by the ocean and dare I say it, you feel like you can conquer the world. Roar!

PUT A POSITIVE SPIN ON WHAT YOU PERCEIVE AS NEGATIVE!

I know a lot of people are talking about “gratitude journals” and you should write about what you are grateful for everyday and then as if by osmosis, your life will change for the better. Let’s not kid ourselves, we all know what you’ll have by the end of the year: A leather-bound book with two pages of tentative chicken scrawl: ”I got a parking spot at the liquor store!” and the phone number for Pizzaiolo on the back. Rather than waste time on a journal that will only embarrass with its lack of entries, why not join Instagram and put all your pictures of pizza slices on there? When you scroll back through it at the end of the year, you will be satisfied with all the glorious food you have eaten and the weight you gained won’t be in vain. Social media rocks! Also with Pinterest I put up pictures of shoes I want and this ring I love, I want it so bad it hurts:

I’m just putting it out in the universe so that in case I find an age appropriate man with a bank account and a human name, he can get me this and I would be ever so grateful that I would take a picture of it on Instagram #diamondsareagirlsbestfriend!

REAPPLY YOUR LIPSTICK AND BRUSH YOUR HAIR!

I know, this seems like a no-brainer but the other day, I dumped out the contents of my purse and 8 tubes of lipstick and an owl shaped lip gloss (and yes, I took a picture of it and put it on Instagram), I realized I only put on slap in the morning so by the time it’s 11:00 (aka, beer o’clock), it has been licked off by my voracious tongue and completely ingested by lunch. By mid-afternoon my lips are all cracked and gunky, what is the point of that? Who is going to buy a ring for a woman with meth lips? Reapply, lazy ho! And if you insist on growing your hair long, stop all this OCD twirling and chewing and brush it once in a while. Oh, and use Moroccan oil to make it smooth and maybe run a straightening iron through it. Your hair represents the state of your mental health, so pick the french fries out of it before you go out in public.

FINISH WHAT YOU START!

Seriously, I have to finish my book except I have to inject some mommy porn into it. My friend is making me read “50 Shades of Grey” so I can be inspired. It’s so embarrassing! But I will fake it until I make it and maybe it will all work out. So much heavy breathing and nipple clamping, I don’t really get it. Other than that, I have to finish plastering my roof from that leak I had two years ago, it’s such an eyesore but I just don’t see it anymore. Although this is why I need a man around, don’t get all in my grill, I do all the other crappy blue chores (garbage, lawn mowing) along with the shitty pink ones (picking gunk out of the dishwasher jets, cleaning toilets), that just for once I need a handy man to impress me with his tool belt. Why is the universe so goddamned hard of hearing? Is the universe too busy to read my blog? She sighs heavily, her breasts heaving up and down like two scoops of Heavenly Hash ice cream. Just practising mommy porn.

By the way, in India they worship elephants as a symbol of the Highest True Self. So there, Pinterest this under I WANT:

Merry Tips for Christmas Sloths

13 Dec

I know some of you are all faking it when it comes to Christmas spirit because of the way you grumble and moan about “getting ready” for one day out of the year. Stop, STAHP. Take a page from my book, The Sloth’s Guide to Successful Modern Living, the Christmas Chapter…just breathe and drink:

1. Hang some lights. I love the Vegas style lighting displays that people put on, it’s never too much. Unlike those Halloween decorations that people put up in early October where it looks like a dollar store barfed up on their front lawns, a bazillion Christmas lights is always welcomely festive. And it’s never too soon. Nowadays, because all the lights are dim LED, you can’t have enough because of their inherent ugliness, we have slowly gotten used to over the years, more is more. Lazy sloth pro-tip: After Freddy told me my single strand of tiny purple lights plopped up on top of a shrub was “lame,” I just kept going back to Canadian Tire every few days and picked up more lights one box at a time and then added to the nest of luminance strand by strand. There is still is not enough! It is a refined display that keeps growing but as long as OCD Christmas mongers like exist, there is no point competing:

2. Get a tree. I have two trees. One is a fake one that I put in the upstairs living room. It is my anal retentive theme tree that is a wire mesh base, with pink garland, feathers, butterflies, and glittery things that look like fireworks. I’ve been putting it up for 7 years and putting the same shite on in year after year, I can do it blindfolded. It is a sloth’s dream, it doesn’t shed, nothing breaks and it packs away easily. The other tree is real and lives in the main floor ashram, aka. the room with the big tv and the HBO connection. It’s a tall, messy bitch and it sheds and drinks constantly…oh! just like me! It smells nice though and it is full of all the mish-mash nostalgic decorations of Christmases past. Sometimes a sloth has to step up her game because as much work as a real big ass tree is, it’s worth it. Here they both are, my pretties:

I know everybody thinks their own tree is beautiful, like their own babies even if their faces are whacked and their heads are lumpy. I find other people’s trees (and babies) weird looking. I have a friend who puts up a fake tree, not a groovy one, but the kind that tries to pass itself off as real but is all perfectly uniform and dusty looking. Her ornaments are all the same theme, those stupid Nutcracker soldiers and white lights, and spaced perfectly apart. It’s so ugly, I get depressed when I see it. I had a hard time believing her tree brings her any joy so I brought her a fun little ornament I handcrafted, a little hanging voodoo doll to spice up the soldiers, like this:

Cute, right? Well she didn’t like it because it she didn’t put it on her tree, “I like it for the powder room, ” she said. Never mind, different strokes for different bitches. The important point here is that even as a sloth, you can make your own gifts and ornaments. If it is an Amish enough activity, like sewing a bunch of buttons on blob body, or popcorn threading, you can do it while watching tv. And the tv to watch is all those shmaltzy Christmas movies on the W Network that are running on a loop for the month of December. Right now I am watching the one where Sabrina the Teenage Witch kidnaps Mario Lopez and pretends he is her boyfriend to make her parents happy and zaniness ensues, a misunderstanding breaks them apart but SPOILER ALERT: love prevails, just like real life. LOL.

3. Bake something. It’s not that hard if you do it in stages. I find a lot of Christmas cookie recipes require that the dough needs to be refrigerated for a few hours. This is a sloth’s dream. So if you make the dough, wrap it up, stuff in fridge, maybe wait a day or even a fortnight in order to forget about what a chore it all was, all you have to do is pull it out and chop it up Pillsbury-style onto a cookie sheet covered in parchment paper! No mess, lazy ho! I go to a cookie exchange party with a bunch of broads who were an off-shoot of another cookie exchange slash world’s most dysfunctional book club. Among these ladies, there were mini-feuds and petty quarrels and then there was an incident that is now known as the “Battle of Eat, Pray, Love” and that was when I knew I actually had a murderous side. Best just quit that bitch, I thought. So the new group formed and last week’s gathering was our second year, we call ourselves the “rebel cookie exchange” because we allow squares. Cookie exchanges are a great way to mix up your stash, catch up with your posse, drink wine and start wearing stretch pants because this is the beginning of the annual Super Big Bloat. Good times.

4. Don’t shop. I’m over it. My kids are old and they are going to get practical gifts like socks and Canesten. I am not going to a mall, no way, no how. I do not want more stuff in my house, I just got rid of a truckload of crap in the summer during my Italian job garage sale. If they open up their presents and are saddened and disappointed, they will thank Santa Cunt later on when they have cold feet and itchy poonanis. Ho ho ho.

5. Drink all day. A while ago when I was in London close to Christmas, I went to Liberty’s Department store which is like retail heaven. It was so civilized that they were serving mulled wine. I didn’t really think I’d like it… I don’t like warmed up booze, what if the alcohol evaporates and all you are left with is some spiked mushy fruit? It seems like too much work to eat to get a buzz. But not the case! This mulled wine was fantastic and! it was made with WHITE wine…this is key to drinking in large quantities. Red wine always makes your teeth all black and your innards pickle even before you can get properly loaded.

This is an easy recipe that will make use of your old crockpot and some of those temperamental Clementines that you are now probably sick of…seriously, how does a fruit rot so fast? You know it’s over when you’re on your third box and the entire bottom layer is covered in blue moss. Try and salvage some for this. Here it goes:

Set up crock pot to “Warm”

Dump in a box (3 or 4 liters) of white wine, I don’t care what kind, but I bet even Reisling will work if you think about because it’s already sweet

Pour in some brandy or Cointreau (about a mickey’s worth)

Some sugar to taste, 1/4 to 1/2 cup-ish

Add some cinnamon sticks, cloves and Clementine slices (or oranges)

Let it simmer there for hours while you nip and sip all day.

Pro tip: When you are holiday slothing, always wear clean pyjamas during the high season because you never know who will stop by. Sometimes Santa hears your plaintive wails while you are watching “The Loneliest Christmas Angel Ever” starring Heather Locklear and he might send a FedEx man to deliver you a package. Magic happens this time of year, if you believe.

1 Comment

Posted by Kristin Peterson on December 13, 2012 in Uncategorized

Tags: christmas tips, cookie exchange, mulled white wine recipe

A Man, a Plan, a Canal, Panama

08 Dec

I’m in the midst of my first teenage parenting issue. I’m forcing Freddy, age 16, to get his lifeguard certification. It’s 2 weekends, 10 hours a day, 4 hours on Friday. In a pool. I get it, gross. Public water is the worst: the fear of accidently swallowing one of those mysterious floating seahorse shaped booger blobs, there are always band aids at the bottom, and micro germs you can’t see but you can feel crawling in all your orifices. He HATES it and it’s only Day One. As a young child, he was stubborn with a hot little temper when you had to move him from Point A to Point B, but once you got him to Point B, you couldn’t get him back home, he was having such a good time. He would throw a screaming fit. I shamed him out of that behaviour and by the time he hit his teenage years, all that was left from his tantrumming ways was a low incoherent grumble and cute little flaring nostrils.

Except for this lifeguard thing. When he came back last night, his rage was palpable. His usual lanky,carefree body was all stiff and tense, he looked like he was going to explode, steam was coming out of his ears, he hissed: ”I do not want to go back.”

“But it’s paid for, you have to go.”

“I will pay double to get out of it.” Yeah, right.

“You need this for your camp counselling in the summer and you can also get a lifeguard job with the city and make $18 an hour.”

“I told you I want to work in a grocery store AND STOCK TRISCUIT BOXES ON THE SHELF!”

“Nice work if you can get it, Freddy, but you are still going to have to go.” I think I like him all full of rage, he enunciates better, I still can’t decipher most that teenage mumbling.

Of course, I pulled the “when your grandpapa was your age, he was storming Normandy” card. And the “when I was your age, I had to do things my parents made me do that I hated.” I went to charm school every Saturday morning. I would waaay rather have swam in cold urine than sit in a circle jerk with a group of fugly teenage Jewish princesses discussing nose jobs and their Sweet 16 parties. We are all there to learn correct posture and the proper way to sit in a chair without showing off our meat departments.

Anyway, off he went this morning, grumbling something about hell to pay. Honestly, kids today.

I’m just trying to save him from having an existential crisis like his mama, which brings me to Part Two of the VAMPIRE LIFT from previous post.

I called my mother last week, in melt-down mode. I need steady job and career path, all this freelance hustle business is for extroverts, not Jungian introverts like moi. If there were jobs like shepherding or lighthouse keepers in this city, I would be so down (as the kids say: ”down” means “in”, they keep changing prepositions probably to keep us from figuring out what they are up to: I’m at school probably means they are under a bridge smoking a doobie). This was our conversation.

Mother: ”I always told you that you should have gone to teacher’s college.”

Me: ”What? You never said that, when did you say that?”

Mother (ignoring the question because she actually never said out loud ”go to teacher’s college”): ”It’s not too late you know, you are still young, you’ll have a pension…” Some more blah, blah, blahs. The word “pension” makes me sick to my stomach. I secretly am hoping this Mayan calendar comes through because you know, pensionless.

Me: ”But you need a bachelor’s degree to go to teacher’s college and then you need to actually go to teacher’s college.It’s like years.” I hate school, at least I think I do, maybe I’d like it now that I am old and can sit still and proactively do kegels or whatever.

Mother: ”You have a bachelor’s degree already.”

Me: ”Oh! Right! Huh. Where is it?”

Mother: ”I gave it to you a long time ago. I hope it didn’t end up in that fire.”

Ugh, that fire in the old house also makes me sick to think about so when I got off the phone, all I could think was “must get to teacher’s college” because that is how powerful force my mother is, but first I have to find my degree that I completely forgot I had, it’s a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Concordia University. For some reason I had it in my head that I didn’t finish it and lied to everyone that I did. Seems like something I would do.

Do I actually want to go to teacher’s college? Not so much. I don’t even really like children, they make me nervous, they always stare at you eerily and have no filters and they have no qualms pointing out the hairs you forgot to pluck. Besides there is a surplus of wannabe teachers these days all pension-hungry so maybe not such smart hockey. But! I could get a teaching certificate to teach English as a second language, and then maybe can blow this shitty hog town and move Costa Rica or Panama and teach English. The ultimate plan! Fuck yeah! Let’s go find that degree.

It was in the basement, the first place I looked, bottom drawer, middle filing cabinet. I consider that a sign from the gods. I don’t believe in struggling to success, in my opinion it either happens freely or it ends in colossal failure. Show me the path of least resistance and I will you how a sloth can bust a move from Point A to B, Gangnam-style.

I stayed in the basement for a while because there were drawers filled with old photos that I completely forgot about. As an aside, I think my tenant has a cat because I found an empty box of anti-furball cat treats…? Or is that just something young people are into now? Anyway, I found this photo of me as a young Elvis Presley looking lovingly at the back of my nephew’s head, like I am his spiritual guide, talk about the blind leading the blind…and then I remember it was he who didn’t finish his degree! So finish your degree, Arne, you might need it in 20 years:

He’s like, ugh, let’s go grab a drink or whatever.

The same day I ran into David, a fitness instructor at my gym. David is my Personal Jesus, I love him so much. He is on my Top Ten Favourite People list, which includes celebrities but excludes people I am related to because there are so many loveable Petersons and I would feel bad if I left Furious Freddy off that list…just jokes, I love my Freddy, I just wish he wasn’t so stubborn and listen to his mama.

David calls me Freddy, by the way, always with exclamation point, like “Freddy! What’s up?” That day, it was:

“Freddy! I’m reading this book called “The Plan” by Lyn-Genest Recitas. Do you know what are the four worst things for your health?”

I know this is a trick question and it’s going to be thought-provoking because he’s all excited about it. Crystal meth is pretty bad, but that’s too obvious. Self-loathing? Anxiety? That’s bad for your health, I have those problems, it makes me chew my nails and probably ingest all kinds of bacteria, including my own candida. If you know what I mean.

“Too much sodium is one,” he says, “Not enough water is another. And over-training. Do you know what the fourth one is? I’ll give you a clue, it’s a not enough one”

I can’t follow this conversation. There’s always a new plan or some new diet with new rules.

“It’s not about a diet,the book is about everything,” he says,” The fourth one is NOT ENOUGH SEX.”

Oh, great, I really am going to close over and die re-virginized.

“What if you don’t have anybody?” I protested.

“That’s what fingers are for, Freddy!” he says.

Oh how laughed. I’m going to live forever then. With carpal tunnel and no pension. Good times.

1 Comment

Posted by Kristin Peterson on December 8, 2012 in Uncategorized

Tags: lyn-genet recitas, pension, teachers college, The Plan

The Vampire Lift

06 Dec

Last week I while I was in the apogee of yet another existential crisis, my friend texted me and asked if I could come to her medical injection spa the next day to be a model demo for a “Vampire Lift.” That is upside of being a floundering fuck-up, people think about you not because they feel sorry for you but because they know you have the time in the day and the motivation in case they want to practise tattooing fancy fonts on live human skin or the latest techniques in medical spa treatments. I am so down with being a guinea pig. I will inject anything anytime. Call me!

“Yes! I want a vampire lift!” I immediately texted back. I had heard of it before on one of those lady talk shows like the Doctors. It’s a PLP treatment and the groovy name “Vampire Lift” has been registered trademarked by some douche doctor who didn’t even invent the procedure so don’t look for it on the menu of your favourite injection spa. He probably googles it and is going to demand me to pay him for blogging about so I’m going to tag it and title and write in bold: VAMPIRE LIFT. Catch me if you can. And bring your magic wand with you.

PLP is not like filler per se, so it’s not about trout lips, but it can be used with a filler for multi-tasking purposes. It is as sinister as it sounds: It involves drawing a vial of your own old bat wine-soaked blood, then putting it in a centrifuge for a few minutes, separating the red blood cells and plasma. The red blood cells are the shite part, and get dumped, but the golden plasma (platelet-rich plasma, known as PLP) is the stuff they inject into your old battered skin, tricking the cells into thinking there is injury and thus increasing the production of collagen. Young people produce collagen without thinking about it or even knowing what it is or how to spell it. But when you get old, you and your skin don’t want do anything but hang out on the couch under a blankie. Fuck that tedious collagen production, your skin says, what has collagen done for me lately? I’m so tired.

Sometimes a lady needs a kick in the sweatpants. So off I went to the spa which was on Yonge and Davisville. I always forget that you need to dress up before you go to a place that isn’t the Home Depot, otherwise you will feel like a giant awkward wildebeest that had rolled in a dumpster because everyone there is sleek and beautiful, flittering round in spike heels and black pencil skirts. They all seem to be making barrels of collagen without any labour disputes at all. I am soaking wet from the rain, wearing half pajamas, half saggy jeggings and I had just eaten a 6-inch Subway sandwich and had a black olive stuck in my teeth the entire time. Whatevs. In the corner, there is a cheese platter, hallelujah, and I plunk myself down beside it, digging into a wedge of brie with a plastic fork, I work hard for my snacks. It’s a special event day, and my treatment is going to be in front of an audience.

Another thing I hate about spas, aside from feeling like a circus freak and my arms and legs are on backwards, is that it all your flaws pointed out and discussed so casually.

“What are your concerns about your appearance?” asked the glamourous spa greeter who looked like Veronica from Betty and Veronica. Me so jelly. She had one of those shiny blue reflections when the light her jet black hair just so.

This is me responding: ”Uhhh-m, I’m here umm cuz Connie called me for like, the vampire thing like, umm…”

The fugly is just flowing freely out of my pores.

Veronica: ”Is there any area you are particularly concerned about? What about redness around the cheeks…rosacea?” (Yet another fucking word old bitches need to spell check).

Me, rubbing my nose: “Ummm, well, no, I just like, broke a blood vessel on my nose once, like when I pushed a baby out, the first one…Like it wasn’t there when I went to the hospital, like ummm…when the baby came out then it like, just appeared…like, it probably burst when I was pushing, it took hours, and that’s why it’s so red there, like, on that side of my nose. Also I like my wine, you know, like, ladies like wine, so, like, maybe the little blood vessels break then. I guess I don’t really care like they will always be breaking because I will either be pushing something out, like sometimes when I don’t drink I get constipated so I have to push hard, maybe not pushing out a baby hard but still maybe I’ll be breaking some more capillaries pushing out a hard poop…or drinking more, whatever, I can’t win either way so I don’t really care if they are there or not…”

It’s one of those times where you know you are talking but you don’t know what you are saying. Luckily she let that one go. One woman’s rosacea is another woman’s drunken diary I guess. Jesus Christ, if I didn’t have rosacea I would look like a dead fish. She did tell me I would benefit from filler on the cheekbones to pull up the jowls. Fuck yes, I want that. That is the secret to Angelina Jolie’s success, people, she has so many injections that she doesn’t need her skeleton anymore. Her cheekbones look like awnings and keeps the rest of her face from getting sun damaged. That is what we call smart hockey.

On we went to the “Injection Room.” A group of ladies were all huddled by the bed I was about to lie on. The nurse that was going to do the procedure was Wes, a tall handsome dude, and super-excited to jab and stab: ”We’re going to get those lines on your neck and all that crepey skin around your eyes, and in 3 weeks, you are going to glow!” He was like Edward Needlehands. You could tell he was born to stick things into people. It’s always good to make a career out of your passion, says Oprah.

But first they made me stand along the wall and take a “Before” picture. With her i-Pad, Veronica snapped a photo, and then putting it on a app that should be called “Uglify” she held up my photo….aaaaand it looked like this:

Call me “Monster.” Okay this is Charlize Theron, which makes me feel better because the spa photo would have ruined my day if I wasn’t already so filled with anxiety.

“This shows where all the sun damage occurred and where she will need treatment and what will be most beneficial for her in the future,” she is holding up the i-Pad to the group, who are all surprisingly not vomiting. Wes,in the meantime, was gleefully drawing blood from my veiny hand. Someone in the audience pipes up, “What about her nasal labial folds?’ And that’s pretty much enough of that story I want to tell.

No, it didn’t hurt. It’s a tiny needle and a lot of quick pricks and it’s done in less than 5 minutes, that’s what she said. I left the spa looking a little swollen and puffy with a slightly bruised ego. The next day I woke up and everything was smoother than normal, at least on the outside, still turmoil on the inside. And two days later my skin feels almost slippery, not its usual cat tongue texture, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my bank machine where I usually glare at myself in disgust, I actually thought hey! I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! And witty and bright! Collagen is back from vacay and pumpin’ up the volume! Although when I close my eyes I still see the monster in the mirror and my existential angst rages on. If my skin can get its mojo back, maybe I can too?

What’s it all about, Alfie? Ugh, that’s the tune that runs through my head when I get like this. This is a two-parter post because I need to tell you about what my mother said, the book David is reading, and what I found in my basement. Who is David? Just settle down, you’ll find out tomorrow, in the meantime, my rosacea is calling and wants me to break some blood vessels Pinot Grigio-style whilst I centrifuge (word of the day) my thoughts.

You Got Me Dickmatized

27 Nov

I got 99 problems but a dick ain’t one.

I’m going to be solving some of YOUR problems further down this post but first bear with me, I want to talk about “Liz and Dick” which I watched on Sunday with ardent interest. I simultaneously read the tsunami of barf on Twitter but I really don’t think it was all that bad, so sue me, and I will argue that Lindsay Lohan was the perfect choice to play Elizabeth Taylor. Liz was as hot a mess as La Lohan back in her heyday, so it was like a film within a film, wrapped in crazy. Real Liz stole husbands and turned into a fat, sloppy caftan wearing drunk coaster. As an actress, she wasn’t really all that by today’s standards. She was either breathy or shrill and over-acted like she was in a high school play. She wasn’t even that hot, she wore a fuckton of makeup and for Godsake, people, her eyes were not violet, they were blue with flecks of brown. It’s a trick, I tell you.

I don’t know why I had always been under a rock when it came to anything to do with Liz Taylor, I guess I was too cool at the time to be interested in her “iconic” movies like National Velvet. I hate horses, I’m not afraid to rub my own vagina. Her kind of glamour was tacky to me. Diamonds and all that shit make my eyes glaze over in boredom, even to this day. By the time I was old enough to care about all things Hollywood, she was getting married to that mullet dude, Larry Fortensky,which was a supposed scandal because he way younger than her and Cougar Movement hadn’t really been invented yet. I guess she should win my respect because she was a pioneer for the likes of moi, giving old bitches hope for fresh bone. She was also an awesome fag hag, and a truly great humanitarian that will become a whole other biopic, starring Madonna, duh.

It’s not just Liz, it’s Dick who I am really grooving to. My only knowledge of their story together was basic: They met making “Cleopatra,” they got married, divorced, and then remarried. How romantic. Oh, and he bought her lots of jewelry, including this honking ring bling:

That was her “everyday” ring, the Krupps diamond, that she wore to glue on her false eyelashes and toss back the cocktails. The Taylor-Burton diamond was a pear shaped Cartier diamond that she wore as a necklace that cost him over a million dollars. Jelly? Don’t be. Red flag.

Never trust a dude who buys you a million dollar diamond. Think about it. Do you think a normal guy cares about accessories? Aside from an engagement ring that he supposedly spent 3 months salary on but didn’t really because he got it at Costco and the same Marquise cut (yuck) diamond would cost five as much at Tiffany’s so be happy, bitch, he might buy you a present now and again. Perhaps a pair of opal studs for your birthday, a charm for your bracelet on your anniversary, or if he is away on a European business trip, he might pick up a pearl necklace at the airport duty-free because he feels slightly guilty that he went to that massage “spa” in the hotel lobby and paid the extra 20 euros for the cabeza. All these are good reasons for giving you jewelry but he if, out of the blue, feels the need to buy you the biggest motherfucking diamond in the world, then it’s not about you, it’s about him and the headlines it’s going to make. Classic narcissist.

Narcissists are very charming, good-looking, charismatic, and when they set their sights on their prey, they will do anything to get it. That was Dick when he was starring with Liz in “Cleopatra.” And she dumped Eddie Fisher (seriously, Liz, what the fuck marrying him in the first place?) and he dumped his long-suffering wife who was the mother to his daughters, so that they could bask in the glory and beauty of their love, blah blah blah, drunkity ever after. Insults, jealous rage, blow ups, and hot make up sex. Good times. Oh, and they lived on a yacht for some reason. Taxes or something, make a note of that, maybe the taxman can’t swim.

They both got bloated, somebody fell and got paralyzed, I’m not sure who because I was reading the Twitter feed, but I think it was Dick’s brother (who was his father figure and Voice of Reason) and they divorced and remarried. That’s the thing about narcissists, they get under your skin like ticks. So Liz took him back, even though he was a big embarrassing baby about losing two Oscars, but he gave good jewelry which must have made her feel important. It’s sad really.

But at the end of all that mess, I thought if I were to get a diamond ring, I would like one that didn’t rip pantyhose or get mangled in a toilet paper wipe down, maybe something kind of Asscher cut in a deco setting…anyway, just saying. On to your problems.

Thank you for writing to me and giving some blog fodder! Remember, I am not a therapist, marriage counselor, or child-rearing expert, so take my advice with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila:

My wife and I are both in our early 40′s and have been married for 7 years, our son is 5, and I the last time we had sex was 4 years ago. He was born in 2005, and I think we had sex maybe 3 or 4 times afterward. It was short and quick each time where as before the baby we would make love everywhere and all the time. It just stopped one day, she said she had a yeast infection on our anniversary when we got her parents to babysit our son for the weekend when we went to Niagra Falls. A week turned into a month, and now the months have been turning into years, four years! What should I do? I am at the end of my rope.

Oh, the proverbial rope! With it’s frayed edges and slippery grip. It’s so hard to hold on especially with all those itches to scratch. All those numbers! You’re making me do math, luckily I am more Aspergery than you. If you are in your early forties, married for 7 years, it means you got married in your mid-thirties. Hasn’t anyone ever told you about 35 year old women? Some science journal and a Time cover has deemed it that their 35-year-old eggs are still considered reasonably farm fresh and it is a fast train to Barren City after that. Fact. If they have baby fever, they will marry any thing with a front fly in order to reproduce. Of course you boned like rabbits before the baby, she was trying to get pregnant. Those 3 quickies you had after the baby was born were called mercy fucks to keep you in a holding pattern. Good news: Since it’s been 4 years since your last encounter, your sperm donor duties are probably not in demand. Let go of the rope, bro! And get ye to the nearest oyster bar!

I hope I am not being too harsh but I’ve seen it this before, time and again. People are just taking to long to procreate because they have careers and such that they need to nurture first, that’s why you are chosen over the hot bartender she used to bone in college and probably should have had his baby in the first place because his masculine badassness was probably better for evolution and the sake of humanity in the long run. Swing that desparate rope in any direction and it will inevitably land on the head of the nearest dumbass whose dick is pointing due north. And yet! still a better love story than Twilight.

I’m still obsessing over Liz and Dick. They had the sense not to procreate. Here’s a classic scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf:

1 Comment

Posted by Kristin Peterson on November 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

Tags: Krupp Diamond, Liz and Dcik, Liz Taylor, narcissist, Taylor Burton Diamond

The Sinner’s Guide to Successful Modern Living

21 Nov

I am Sinner, hear me roar.

This week I am on one of my boring austerity programs where I don’t drink. It’s just like Juiceless January but only a week long. It’s not a “cleanse.” Please, this lady is clean as a whistle. Don’t hate me because I am so boring. I just like to torture myself once in a while with depravation because I am a card-carrying Glutton and I need reign it in once awhile otherwise I will go off-balance and miss out on my other favourite sins. I will be too fat to fuck and too drunk to follow the plot of this season’s American Horror Story Asylum. Let me explain.

As you know, the Seven Deadly Sins are: Gluttony, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Pride, Greed, and Wrath. Whoever made this up was not thinking of a progressive society. Supposedly these are all traits than can lead to the degradation of humanity, blah, blah, blah….According to lore, each of these sins has an opposing “virtue” which are in order from the above: Temperance, Diligence, Chastity, Kindness, Humility, Charity, and Patience. They all sound like trippy hippy names. Most of these so-called virtues are self-imposed righteousness, and at least one of them is not worth having, and you know which one I mean.

I do not personally grapple with any of the so-called “Seven Deadly Sins.” I think they are best when performed in tandem for the most effective results. For example, I am never more content and in tune with myself when I am practicing the art of sloth and gluttony, or “sluttony” as I like to call it.

Sometimes one sin can lead to a chain reaction of sins and virtue which can be hilariously tragic: I have this Facebook friend who is rocking his 50’s as a retired rich bastard. Every day he diligently posts pictures of different women who hanging out at his house, drinking wine without their tops on, wearing only thong underpants. The chicks are all half his age! And he is so proud, just like a peacock! So we click the “like” on the photo of the Asian girl with the face of a 300 year old vampire who is sitting uncomfortably on one bony ass-cheek on top of his piano, not because she is hot, but because we are kind…and jealous as fuck that he can afford a hooker every night of the week! All that outside validation must make him perform like a boss, even though he probably most definitely has erectile dysfunction. It is all so awesome.

Gluttony vs. Temperance: I have so much praise for Gluttons, I don’t know where to begin. Gluttons are more fun, hands down. If you win an all-inclusive vacay, you want to take a glutton with you because they will show you a good time. Gluttons are troopers who will never say no to ice cream, even if they are lactose intolerant: Oui, c’est moi. I love the word “gluttony” because it sounds like “glug” which makes me think of beer. Beer is a beautiful beverage, and if you are going to be a glutton, an ale cleanse is the way to go to freshen everything up, hangover prevention and cure all in one. Gluttony also sounds like “gluten.” If you are someone who is full of temperance, you are probably on a gluten-free diet because you think it makes you bloated. It doesn’t. You are bloated because you are a gas bag. GTFO and deflate outside.

Sloth vs. Diligence: Modern day sloth is synonymous with tv watching. You really think should be doing something else but have you seen what’s on HBO? The last decade has produced some pretty awesome shows and if you are one of those people that says: “I don’t watch tv,” you are a fucking liar and/or a loser. “I’m so busy, I don’t have time.” More lies. It’s always those “I’m-so-busy” people who claim to not watch tv, who are the ones who know the names of every Real Housewife in any given city. If Anderson Cooper has time to watch Honey BooBoo, then you have time to watch American Horror Story Asylum, preferably with me so we can talk about it afterwards. Did you know you can multi-task while you watch tv, Busy Bee? That is why God invented ironing boards.

Lust vs. Chastity: Okay, lust can lead to a lot of stupid things like a wardrobe full of leopard print, stained furniture, miscommunication and a few sessions with a therapist who has to explain to you, ad nauseam, the difference between lust and love. I still don’t get it, but whatevs, maybe one day I will have an epiphany…until then I’ll be clearing the pipes with battery operated devices. It still counts. Dry spells scare me so much that I think I am going to shrivel up, close over and die re-virginized. What would be the point of revering Chastity? Tits on a bull. Even Chastity became Chaz.

Envy vs. Kindness: If I wasn’t so jealous all the time, I would be dead. Seriously, jealousy is what keeps me my breathing reflex functioning. The seething green vapours keep the air passages clear. Envy provides motivation. Sometimes I stumble upon another person’s blog, and it’s so good that I get all my hackles up that I want to make mine better. Whenever I have crush on someone, it inevitably turns out he is married or has some hooker fetish. The level venomous jealousy that surges through my system could kill cancer cells. This is just natural instinct that people need to have, not sin per se, in order to progress and propagate. Kindness is for pussies. Darwin’s law goes like this: See, want, turn green, kill that bitch in the way, and get.

Pride vs.Humility: This is a no brainer, it should be the other way around! Modern day people celebrate pride in colourful parades like Gay, St. Patrick’s, and Caribana. Even that one at Easter, not the bunny one, but the one where they re-enact Jesus carrying the cross has bling, hunks, and dancing girls. The one year I saw it, Pectoral Jesus was wearing his red velour robe open and he had been clearly working the gym and the tanning salon. And why would you want to get all sad sack and dour about it? Mass pride is a good thing, it creates solidarity even for the outsiders. Even if you are not gay, you are gay for the day (or the whole weekend)! Kiss me, I’m Irish (no, I’m not, I’m just drunk)! Let your light shine, ignite the jealousy in others so you can inspire them to rise above mediocrity. Just don’t be so smug about it or you are in danger of the truly serious sin of Douchebaggery, I’m looking at you, Bieber.

Greed vs. Charity: This one sin versus virtue where the latter wins. Donald Trump is greedy. Ellen DeGeneres is charitable. If I’m going to lay on the couch like a sloth with my hands down my pants, I would rather watch Ellen than Celebrity Apprentice. That is all.

Wrath vs. Patience: If jealousy is the pilot light that ignites ambition, then wrath is the fire that burns it into fruition. Angry people get things done, not the so-called “diligent” busy bees who don’t watch tv. They are too busy blowing the smoke up their own asses. If you want results, ask a pissed off person with a bee in their bonnet. They will make the earth move. Patience only leads to deeper frustration and unless you enjoy living a life of limp limbo, then sit there like a Buddha. Pro tip: Wrath and Lust make excellent bedfellows.

And speaking of sloth and Ellen, this little video never gets old: