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A Hooker’s Guide to Riding the Waves

I wish this was a real magazine, “The Art of Modern Living” …like Oprah’s “O” only with actual practical advice that you can really use such as how to hashtag your Instagram photos for maximum likeage, I fancy myself the nouveau poor-but-grew-up-without-incest-and-poverty version of Oprah. I might not be able to give you a brand new Volkwagen Beetle but at least you won’t get a pair of sequin Uggs from me either. Ok, I know you would like a pair of sequin Uggs and so would I for my elegant dog walks with Betty who may or may not be just a ferret on steroids. Who am I kidding? Oprah is the awesomest and the stuff she gives away is all the best shit, but in my magazine, I can only share with you what I’ve learned from my first world trials and tribulations (the hashtag would be #trialsandtribz). It would be way more entertaining than “O.”

I had an epiphany this week. Oprah would call it an “Aha moment” but since your with me, it was more like a WTFLOL moment. And it’s not a complete and tangible realization but more like something that has been slowly gestating and is starting to spew forth from my brain to this blog. Please, bear with me! Or if you can’t bear with me, beer with me…go crack one open, I’ll wait….It is about a spiritual journey, and I have been working through it for the past ten years ever so slowly, one step forward and then a nap, then drunken wino weekend, then a nap, then another step forward, then watching the entire three seasons of Downton Abbey, a Jays game, and another step forward…in other words, my little rudimentary “spiritual journey” is more on a par with an errand in to the corner store for some emergency Liquid Plumbr than an epic pilgrimage to the three corners of the Earth like that smug chick in “Eat, Pray, Love” JUST TO GET SOME JAVIER BARDEM BONE. I’m SO jelly.

Mine started like this:

I went to a Blue Jays Game. Lorraine had an extra ticket to see the Jays play the Indians and asked me to come along with her family. I was like, yes! I don’t know shit about baseball but who cares? A stadium full of testosterone is just what the doctor ordered and BEER ME! I can’t eat hotdogs, so I pre-ate beforehand, slapped on a Tena-pad because I am no dummy, and hopped on the streetcar to meet her. The Queen streetcar, as much as I hate that slow-moving bitch in my motor vehicle (I am still doing the Downton Abbey accent), is a really soothing ride, kind of meditative if the other passengers aren’t sniffing glue and speaking in tongues. It put me in a good mood for the game. At the Rogers Centre, we had great seats and not only did Lorraine know ALL the words to the national anthem, she also knows everything about baseball and all its subtleties. I learned a thing or two that I have since forgotten but at least I know all the words to “Seven Nation Army.” In the 9th inning, because “we” were tied, the excitement of the crowd escalated to fever pitch and a wave ensued. “Whee!!!” squealed me, jumping up ( 5 sections too soon). Nobody loves a packed stadium wave more than me. I got the rhythm of it by the next round, don’t worry.

I am not always a crowd yahoo. A few years ago, when I was a real estate agent, my brokerage manager convinced to take a 3-day Mike Ferry seminar at the Convention Centre to learn better business practises in order to achieve SUCCESS! (Success is always in capital letters in real estate publications). It took place in an auditorium of over a thousand other real estate agents with their hair and their outfits and their coffee and muffins, all talking shop amongst each other. I sat in the very back with my hair and my outfit and my coffee and muffin, all alone and paralyzed with dread and fear. When Mike Ferry came prancing onto the stage with his Gwen Stefani headset, Jumbotron backdrop, the disco lights went on and out blasted “Y’all Ready For This?” Everybody, and I mean every single person, bolted out of their seats and started dancing and clapping with the oh-so groovy beat. I was mor-ti-fied. Cannot deal with forced jubilance. I got up alright…and bolted to the bathroom. This ritual happened every morning and after every break. Fucking horrifying.

What’s the difference between me giddily hopping up performing a wave and singing The White Stripes at the top of my lungs at a baseball game or me cowering in a toilet stall to avoid a crowd of dancing realtors? One word: Mojo…or MOJO in capital letters. Sergio Santos, I would so hit that. Dude in a white shirt tucked into a pair of dress pants eating a muffin with a Blackberry in a belt holster, noooo. Not even drunk.

But the question is, does it take an entire stadium to get my MOJO`to flow? And the answer is no, I can do it all by myself. Here’s how:

I went to a guided meditation group at the library. Sounds like a good time, right? My daughter, Evangeline, who is 19 has had anxiety attacks for a few years. She gets into a state when she starts thinking about her own mortality in relation to the rest of the unknown universe. She fears her own death, and maybe Betty’s but not so much other people’s. For a few months she has been going to group meditation in order to control her emotions and cope with anxiety. I, too, have a simmering stir fry of anxiety triggers: money, death, jobs, getting old, drying up, the future, loneliness, etc. They make pills for this sort of thing, I know, but I would rather learn to cope by myself. With a lot of people, anxiety and depression are a barf-awful couple like Brangelina but thankfully my anxiety is like moi, a lone wolf who might occasionally send out a sexy text message with a random body part attached. I can get the sadz alright but it only lasts a day. My anxiety needs to be on a short leash that’s for sure, otherwise fuck knows what disorder it might want to pick up for some good times.

The group meets on Monday and it’s free! ’Not everything you have to pay for, Mom,” Righteous Teenage Daughter knows how to buck the system. Her boyfriend, Tamas, has also been going which is not surprising, he is a fascinating neo-hippie-type and I feel like he is a whole blog post on his own. I thought it would be just three of us and the guide because bitch, please, meditation?…isn’t that seventies thing? But there were over twenty people in the room. And I’m not going to lie, the first thing I did was a scan of “who would I bone in a pinch?” It’s a game I play wherever I go and so do you, admit it. Why would you ever have to bone someone in a pinch? In case the bomb dropped and you were the only survivors and had to propagate the species, duh. There were mostly women of various ages, a couple of young dudes like Tamas, but there was this one middle age man in a suit who stood out because demographically speaking, he was the one I would HAVE to bone in a pinch. I kept my eye on him, just because he made me worried, he looked so incredibly sad. Or meh, I couldn’t tell which.

I learned a thing or two that I have been retaining because we got some handouts that I actually read and then googled. Our guide was a thirtysomething dude who had just been to INDIA on a spiritual pilgrimage, of course. He smiled a lot and had those kind of twinkly eyes that make you feel like surly, sarcastic drag-ass and that maybe you should lighten up a bit.

He told us this story of seeing an entire family: Father, kid,and mother holding a baby, all perched on a motor scooter, weaving through the traffic. Imagine all the tickets they would get if they were riding along Queen Street. We all laughed like what a bunch of crazy mofos in India, but then he explained that it was a culture of “collective fearlessness.” That is how they roll in India. In our culture, he said, we are excellent communicators, what with all our cellphone texting. Isn’t that cute? I’m serious, sometimes you have to get tired of all these cellphone shaming memes you see on the Facebook, but he puts a positive spin on it. So tap, tap, tap, away, kittens, we are part of a collective power of excellent communicators! Huzzah!

Then he guided us through a meditation exercise where we were sitting in a chair, both feet to the ground, we had to do some swirling around with our hands from our laps to the top of our heads, then tie a pretend bow, and then make a rainbow over our bodies. WTF for you ask? To bring awareness and create energy flow, don’t be so skeptical. The energy is Kundalini, which is Sanskrit fancy-pants for MOJO, hookers. And MOJO isn’t just about boner power, pervs, it’s the energy that guides the whole spirit. This energy flows through the seven chakras centres through the body, called the subtle system. Is it Science? No, but not everything has to be “science” all the live long day, I’m looking at you Neil Degrasse Tyson. By the way, this energy flowing ritual is not unlike thousands of people performing a wave at a baseball game. Yes, it is.

Once you get your energy flowing though your chakras, which is not unlike UNCLOGGING A TOILET, you can close your eyes and achieve the state meditation. And what is that? It’s like an emptiness, where you are calm and void of all emotions. Anxiety is emotional blockage and if you can calm yourself, by yourself SANS Ativan, you should be signing autographs in my opinion. Our guide says sometimes this state of meditation only lasts a moment and when you get good at it, you can go for an hour or more. It takes awhile to achieve this so I’m gonna try if it kills me. At this point, I can’t really tell if I had any actual meditative moments or I am just thinking of a very boring thought. Also, the girl beside me and I were having duelling banjoes of stomach growling. Distracting! How can you ignore outside noise? This little grasshopper has much to learn! But even just being in a group with all the positive-style energy flowing, a packed stadium or a room in a library, is a powerful MOJO stimulant. I peaked a few times to check up on the man I would have to bone in a pinch and he still seemed to have the sadz or the mehs but maybe that was his default expression. Who knows what goes on inside a person? Also worthy of note, is that during our meditation silence, one woman started to cry in big, greasy sobs and then on a dime, it turned into laughter! THAT is one messed up set of chakras I would think.

My little epiphany? Don’t be such a goddamn hermit and find comfort in the collective energy of those who inspire you to NOT hide in a bathroom stall. Don’t be afraid to ride the waves! Go, little elephant, go!

7 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on April 11, 2013 in lady boners

Tags: Blue Jays, Kundalini, meditation, mojo

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

A Hooker’s Guide to Flirting

21 Mar

I’ve realized my problem and it’s that I need to become more lady-like. In this post we are going to research and figure out how to flirt with men and maybe consequently “get some.” One does not simply stroll into a bar with one’s gay nephew as a wingman, order a pint of Flying Monkeys and a round of Jaegermeister and ask the bartender if he will have sex with you (this is not me, it happened to a friend of a friend’s cousin…please don’t judge). He will FO SHO say: “No I have a girlfriend.” And send you off in a cab. One needs to have more finesse and learn a technique or two, for godsake, there is no need to be a bull in a china shop. Men these days have to be coddled before you make a hit, they need to be stroked the right way, like a cat, or else they get spooked.

But first, in the past couple of days when I have checked my site stats for what it is that you google in order to find me, I have had a huge spike in traffic from this term: Lululemon pussy see-thru yoga pants. And I just wanted to say thanks for dropping by, but there are no see through yoga pants here . But! in any given hot yoga class, you will inevitably see some in their splayed out glory, so maybe that’s what you should be doing instead of trolling on google looking for rogue camel toe. Just saying.

Also as an aside, yesterday my male platonic boyfriend without any benefits whatsoever (otherwise known as Remainder Man) came over to my house to check out the hole in my kitchen ceiling where it is snowing plaster chips on my stove top as we speak (he will work for beer) said “Let’s go for lunch.” And I, as usual, thought he meant Gabby’s for chicken wings and the company of really old, glassy-eyed professional beach drunks. The beach hood is infamous for this particular pack of old dudes who live for the 11 a.m. opening of the beer taps and then do the stroll along Queen Street, starting at Castro’s in the morning and ending at Captain Jacks at midnight. They spend the whole day not speaking to one another at the bar and then one of them will finally say something and then a fight will break out and somebody gets their nose broken. Lather, rinse, repeat the next day. I love it so, these are the men that need to be flirted with and I am fully prepared to hone my newly acquired techniques on them.

But no, Remainder Man wanted to go to my gym, where they serve beer and soup. ”I want to eat lighter,” he said.

“No, you just want to see vaginas in yoga pants,” I said.

Giggity.

So we had lunch at my gym and he as he ogled some yoga-panted MILF-type who trotted by with her screaming toddler. Some other sweaty gym-regular menfolk with their squash racquets dropped by our table of crass talk, and I came to the realization that I MAY AS WELL GROW A DICK. I am just one of the boys. What the hell? I am not even remotely masculine looking, I wear mascara and I have been dutifully reapplying lipstick throughout the day as per my New Year’s resolution, I have projectile boobs and a bunched bum. I rock the latest nail colours, I always carry a purse full of crap, my voice sounds like a little girl (true story, telemarketers always ask me if my mother is home), and I am afraid of snakes. Not one of these men are ruffled around me, they carry on talking their talk of boring golf shit, completely ignoring me while their eyes wander around the room at the ladies that AREN’T at their table. It is virtually impossible to practise flirting with them, they are such assholes. They are all bark and no bite. Even if you flirted with them, they would look at you like you were a frog on the highway and then resume their infantile ignore game.

I left all frustrated, as usual. My Remainder Man is always kind to me though and doesn’t let those loathsome squash dudes hang around for too long. As we drove back to my place, we passed a girl in yoga pants(!!!!!!!) walking her dog.

“Woof woof,” said Remainder Man. She can’t hear us, we are in a car, but he does it to bug me.

“Her fucking dog could carry a pizza box through the gap between her legs!” I’ve told y’all before, when I am jealous, I am one mean hooker. Look out. Also I am not even sure why I was jealous…do I carry a torch for Remainder Man? I feel like we might be in one of those worm holes and we will hook up when we are in a nursing home.

“I know, she is a little too thin, that one up ahead though…HOT!” And she’s an elderly lady with a walker. And that will be me one day.

“Seriously, what is it men want?”

“They want it all!” Except for me and my phantom dick, obviously.

I must figure this out before I get too old and settle into this mess and become ONE OF THE BOYS in the retirement community on that remote island off the coast of Venezuela I plan on escaping to (you are all coming with me).

I have been googling how to flirt and I will practise techniques RIGHT NOW, REAL TIME on Refat, the bartender where I am writing this on my laptop plugged in to the far wall but with a direct view of the bar, I will SMILE and begin:

1. Make eye contact. He is busy right so I’ll just wait. Bat eyelashes? Yes I think that is cute. Maybe too cute? I don’t know, help me.

2. Take interest in what he has to say. After I get his attention with this eye contact that is not happening, I am not kidding, there is a woman in YOGA PANTS at the bar and he can’t take his eyes off her, I will ask him about his childhood in Bangladesh. Goddamnit, it’s been over ten minutes and he’s still talking to her.

3. When I am talking to him, I will touch myself. NOT IN THAT WAY, dumbhead. You are supposed to stroke your collarbone or flip your hair, or tickle your own cheek, or something, I read that in Cosmo or some other lady rag. I do all this shit already because I have OCD. I am yanking at my bottom lip, and waving my hand, but he is still talking to the bitch in the yoga pants. Fuck him.

4. Learn from the masters. Since he’s completely ignoring me, I will watch what the hooker in the yoga pants is doing that is so riveting. Her hair is in a really high pony tail and when she talks, it wags back and forth, like a tail on a Golden Retriever. She is laughing and he is laughing, this is KEY! I never laugh. I am always in a serious panic about something, you know it’s true, I run into various businesses in tears asking for duct tape because my car key fob as fallen off the ring. A master in yoga pants would be all like, giggling about duct tape and its many uses, she would be using duct tape as nipple clamps and LAUGHING ABOUT IT. I must learn how to make light of the folly of the day.

5. Watch body language. Apparently, and according to Cosmo or some other lady rag, most things are said NOT with words but BODY LANGUAGE. If you fancy a certain dude and you are sitting down, you need to cross your legs and point your upper foot directly toward him. I think swinging the leg back and forth will help draw his attention to you, it’s almost like you are pulling him in, and bonus, it will also feel good. I had a friend who actually used to masturbate in class this way, no joke, she grew up to be a squirter obviously. Anyway, I fucking hate Refat right now so I am sitting splay legged with my feet tightly entwined on the chair legs. He’s still talking to yoga pants, she’s standing up and moving her hips from side to side like she has to go pee. I am sure he finds that alluring, he probably is into golden showers, maybe even a little scat. Perv.

6. Touch his arm or tap his leg when you speak to him. If he ever comes over, you can be sure I will not touch him, scatman poopy germs. I am NOT a touchy-feely type person. Although sometimes when I accidentally touch a certain dude, we graze fingers like when he is handing me something or we pass each other and our arms bang together, I get a little electric thrill, and that’s when you know you will hit it off in the boudoir. At least in my imagination. I do not even want to see if this works with Refat. And he is still talking to that yoga ho!

7. Make sure he knows you are available. If you manage to hook a dude with your foot or gaze or hair twirl or whatever and you actually get to talk to him, this is when the word “ex-husband” coming out of your mouth is all magical sounding, not like a disease: ”My ex-husband is taking the kids to Chicago FOR THE WEEKEND!” Maybe the neanderthal will get the hint and throw a ball in your court, or not. And here’s a pro tip on the other side of the flirting/flailing woman that is me: if you are married or hooked up, it is nice to chat with someone in a flirty way for a brief amount of time, just to give the other person a mojo boost. There is no need to say “mywife” like it is one word or “WE love the biryani at Lahore Tikka House” within the first 30 seconds of meeting someone. Just saying.

8. Close the deal. If I knew how to do this, I would not be sitting here writing this with such rage in my heart for Refat and by the way, he never showed up at my table: ”It’s the end of my shift,” he said when I finally went up to him at the bar just now. Light is off the cab.

And that, is the story of my life.

5 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on March 21, 2013 in go girl

Tags: body language, flirting tips, Lululemon yoga pants, yoga

How To Turn That Frown Into A Raging Boner

12 Mar

People are always telling me that men are simple creatures. As a woman, to keep a man in a holding pattern, all you have to do is know how to crack open a beer, make a kickass sandwich, and put out in a timely manner. Do it in that order and if you are lucky he will stick around for the weekend and grout your tub. There’s a rule in the “timely manner” aspect of it all. Ironically, if you put out too early, he thinks you are a big ho and won’t stick around to do some chores. You have to fool him into thinking your vagina is a precious place, like a lush, secret garden that only he knows, or an out of the way fish market in a remote coastal town where the catch of the day is so fresh, it melts in your mouth and doesn’t have that fishy odour. If your vagina is busy like Six Flags in the summer time, he might want to ride that roller coaster once, but he’s not going back if there is gum on the seat and the floor is sticky from cotton candy vomit.

This is a hard trick for most women and especially those who have birthed out some babies, such as myself. If I’m going to make a metaphor out of the state of my cooter, I would have to say it’s like an old comfy couch that has been reupholstered in a brand new sleek fabric and is just waiting for someone to park his tired old ass on it and create his own dented imprint on the cushions, I don’t care how he does it. The waiting is driving me crazy but what can you do? All the fish in the sea are gay or married, and all the streetcars have short turned. THERE IS NO GRINDR APP FOR COUGAR SLUTS…maybe that is this my million dollar idea?

In the meantime, as I wait, I have decided to become proactive but not on internet dating! No way, Jose, it’s too soul crushing. Every on-line dude says the same thing: No game playing and no drama. What does that even mean? Everybody plays games, it’s how we evolved as majestical text messaging, Grindr app playing beasts. Your parents met, played the game of courtship, and you were born. Your mom had to pretend she wasn’t interested in her super cool crush so he would think she was a challenge and he would ask her to the prom…But she was so good at being aloof, he asked another girl, who was the town trollop and she ended up pregnant with had some other baby, not you. Your mom got really jealous so she ended up going out with her best guy buddy, Duckie, and although he was friend zone material, a brilliant game was being played and she fell in love with him anyway and they got married. And yes, that is the way “Pretty in Pink” should have played out but it didn’t because test audiences didn’t like it! But that’s the way these stories happen in real life for everyone else. It’s all just a big game. And the drama is the icing on the cake. Without the drama, there are no boners, haven’t men figured this out yet?

So I’ve been telling everyone I know to set me up with their local divorced dad-type, I think I need my male counterpart so we can understand each other’s trials and tribz. The problem is that there are two kinds of divorced dudes: The first kind has not even let the ink dry on the divorce papers as he has already put the light on his cab and has hooked up with the first passenger that comes along who he is going to spend eternity with and get his vasectomy reversed for, etc. He will jump through hoops in order to remarry because he can’t handle being alone. This is not the type guy I would like to have sitting on my brand new reupholstered couch, if I was actually fast enough to catch one, he is too needy….and probably a premature ejaculator…no.

Then there is another kind of divorced dad who is a whole other animal, all full complexities and emotional issues. All the damages come out after the age of forty. Which I don’t have a problem with as I am all about the fascinating case studies. There is nothing simple about these guys, they are up and down drama kings, all in desperate need of therapy.

Case Study #1: I have a Facebook friend who is not a contender for my comfy couch because he doesn’t know I exist as he is one of those 5,000 friend hoarder-types. He would never bother reading this blog because he is too busy blathering on about himself…yes, I know I blather about myself BUT I READ ALL YOUR STATUSES AND POSTS, whatevs, let me have my little blog. This dude SHOULD have a blog because he writes a diary as a status. Most of the time he is pining away for his ex-wife and children, which would be sort of noble except that she is in therapy for the fact that she has 8 kids. She hates him, she was probably in an oxytocin haze for their whole marriage while they had all those kids and now she no doubt prolapses when she sneezes. And all this guy wants is to have her back and plant more seeds in her bomb blasted womb. He’s like a honey badger, just plowing away wherever he wants, and if she doesn’t take him back, he’s going to find himself a nice girl and make even more babies. The only thing I will say is that there are not enough gingers on the planet and I do love a ginger so maybe he is doing a good deed for the greater good of diverse world population.

But seriously, this is a dude without any self-actualization at all. This guy will pine away forever until he cures his misogyny. IT’S 2013, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KEEP A WOMAN BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT ANYMORE. Grow up, read a self-help book, and get a haircut. And a vasectomy.

Case Study #2: I have some friends who heard my plea and invited me over to their house recently for drinks on a casual setup with their newly divorced dad friend. This divorced dad’s ex-wife has a blog (!) and I perused it before I met him. This was not one of those blogs that make me jealous with its amazing content because it was crappy, boring stories of children and hair. I’m not even kidding, it was pictures of her kids getting haircuts but for some reason every post had hundreds of comments, seriously really? That pisses me off seeing dumbass blogs with loads of traffic for no good reason. When I met him, I thought he was very handsome and! he wore plaid shirt which is one of my fetishes left over from Grade 9. But! All he talked about was his ex-wife. What a bitch she was. Drinky, drinky, drinky: ”Selfish whore.” More drinkies: ”What a heinous cunt.” I told him I saw her blog and said it was kind of silly…I thought we were having a bonfire-style bitchfest where we could all throw a log in the fire, but no, he ripped me a new one for being disrespectful of her journalistic integrity, or something to that effect.

Talk about a whacked out attachment disorder. You just know he stalks her on the Facebook and in her driveway. There will be no moving on until a certain someone realizes you can’t find happiness in another person. In order to move on, one needs to strategize a game plan and this guy is just too addicted to his own misery. Until then, I probably would let him on my couch, if he could get his mind off his ex-wife for twenty minutes or so, something about him protecting her shitty blog got me all hot and bothered, he’s got some spunk in him. I <3 spunk.

3 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on March 12, 2013 in lady boners

Tags: dating, duckie, grindr app for cougars, on-line dating, pretty in pink

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Lullabies for Little Interwebbers

28 Feb

One does not simply “accidentally” click on a Japanese porn site, I am going to admit it was my own fault. Last night, during one of my bouts of insomnia, I took a wrong turn in the internet hay maze and saw a thing or two that were probably best left unseen by my delicate lady sensibilities. Holy Hello Kitty, Japan! The WTF imagination of it all is limitless which I can appreciate but what is so confoundedly weird to me is that some body parts are blurred and others are not. To pixelate or not pixelate? If that is your question, I would say you have it all ASS BACKWARDS but who am I to judge? Any time anyone says anything remotely negative about another country or culture, out come the Perpetually Offended Righteous Kony2012 Army (PORKA for short, you will need this later on): ”You can’t say anything bad about the Japanese, that is RACIST!” So carry on, Japan, you crazy kids, with your creative cinematic endeavours that you can proudly share with the rest of world. I am just going to curl up in a ball now and double up on the underwear and clench my sphincter super tight (just in case).

And so I tossed and turned. I’m so boring, I can’t stand it. And neither will you, here are my triple thought rotations in the middle night. If I had to suffer through it, I’m going take you with me…spoon with me until I fall asleep:

>Why does everyone get up Lena Dunham’s ass all the time? I love her so much it hurts. All those haters are all just jealous of her success. (Bear with me, I am obsessed with HBO’s hit tv show “Girls”)

>>I wish they didn’t get those new spin bikes, they are calibrated so hard! My calves are going to turn into tree trunks.

>>>If I have to rub one out, I’m going to make Colin Farrell my muse.

>Why should Lena Dunham publicly respond to a tweet by Lisa Lampanelli? So dumb. It’s those PORKAs at work again, leave Lena alone!

>>Next time I spin, I’m going to just have to keep up the RPM’s and turn down the gears. My fucking calves are so sore, that means the muscle fibres have broken down and are rebuilding themselves up in Hulkian proportions. I’m not turning that resistance up so high, I don’t care what he says. I’m not a real woman. I am a monster. Hold me.

>>>I don’t get Colin Farrell’s bizarre new hair cut but whatever, I won’t be running my fingers through it in this fantasy…(Let me google that for you if you haven’t seen it yet).

>Ugh, I can’t handle all the righteousness on the internet, no wonder I ended up on Japanese porn. I have to stop reading the comments on Jezebel and most of all, the stupidly written articles on xoJane. PORKAs are offended by the “n-word” no matter the context, be careful saying “vinegar” because they have sharp ears. Like it or not, the derived term “nigga” has become an indissoluble part of the popular vernacular of hip hop culture. You can’t put a stop to the evolution of language just because Oprah said so. It’s going to be an uphill battle trying to fight that one. Best of luck there and enjoy your new Lil Wayne download.

>>I think if I keep spinning, I need to add another yoga class.

>>>I bet Colin Farrell would make an awesome husband. I don’t care what anyone says. I love that he befriended Elizabeth Taylor in her last days. Although I wonder what that was all about? Is he a Cougar-izer? Was Elizabeth Taylor even a considered a cougar in a wheelchair? Is there something beyond cougardom? I hope so. Sigh.

>Why can David Duchovny say: “Nigga, please!” on Californication and no one cares? He’s a whitey, but! he is a man so that gives him some leeway as per the unwritten law according PORKA. That is my theory. Women have a much shorter leash when it comes to saying outrageous things. If they are allowed to say anything at all. Without offending anyone. Fuck that. Being a woman sucks a big giant pulsating cock. Also is it because Lena Dunham is a young woman that she is considered “misguided by privilege?” I don’t get it. Aside from owning a gun, isn’t “privilege” part of the American dream, why begrudge her for it? Her parents are artists. Again, I don’t get it. Didn’t they do a lovely job nurturing their daughters in the arts? I wiki’d them and her sister goes to Brown and is a poet. We need artist-type people and great shows on HBO. So what if her life experience inspired her to create a show about a struggling young writer in Brooklyn? OOOOOH hear the PORKAs cry: I’m just so blinded by the whiteyness of it all! When Edward Burns came on to the scene with his auteur-style films about his life with his equally blinding whitey bros in New York, no one busts his ass about not being racially diverse. And oh my God, if the characters aren’t too white, then they are too ugly. That thought just makes me sad which makes even madder and I don’t like it when people say bad things about Lena Dunham. Why do I even care? Because Lena Dunham a trailblazer. She is my hero and she is only going to get better. LENA DUNHAM IS THE CUTEST GIRL EVER.

>>If I add another yoga class, I should probably go back to Bikram but I’m scared. It’s so hard and I’m going to have to look even more inward than I already am, my head is already stuck so far up my ass that I can hear AND see the ocean and catch some fish while I’m there. I wonder how my blogger friend in Kansas City is doing on the 30 DayYoga Challenge? Maybe still snowed in? CALM DOWN, STAY OFF THE INTERNET, YOU WILL FIND OUT TOMORROW.

>>>I wonder if Colin Farrell is a douchebag modelizer like Leonardo diCaprio? Colin Farrell has a son with Angelman Syndrome and he seems like a great dad, and he also has a son from another mother…you know if a woman has children with different fathers, she is considered to be on the totem pole of ho, how high up she is depends on how may different tree branches are involved. Dude plants his plethora of seeds in more than one orchard and he is like Farmer Awesome. Let me bake you a pie out of your fine fruit, sir. I’d like give Colin Farrell a piece of my pie, that is for sure. Sweet Jesus, pie, forget the euphemism. Ugh, I wish I could make crust like my mother. So flaky and tender. I should do something with all those blueberries rotting in the fridge, I knew i shouldn’t have bought so many. STOP THINKING ABOUT PIE AND GET ON WITH SEXUAL FANTASY ALREADY, GODDAMMIT, OR GO TO SLEEP. Thanks, Japan, all I can think of now are tentacles.

>>>>I need a cat.

3 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on February 28, 2013 in go girl

Tags: Colin Farrell, GIRLS tv, insomnia, Lena Dunham, Lisa Lampanelli tweet, yoga

Timing is Everything According to Cupid

23 Feb

Well, well, well…this has been a bullshit winter. Weather-wise, IT’S SO COLD! I’ve been wearing the same thing every day for the last two months. I find when I’m so cold, I don’t even care anymore…about anything, except for you people, my internet lovers. And fried chicken.

Valentine’s Day came and went! I don’t care at all about romance and stuff but I always cook up something special on Vagina-Lonely-Day because it takes my mind off my harrowing despair otherwise known as celibacy. This year, I mastered the art of fried chicken! It’s all about the brine! Who knew? I made about 6 batches in total, since the Toronto Star published the recipe of The Stockyards, and fuck, it is HARD. No joke, it takes 2 days to make, at least. First you have to soak the pieces in brine in the fridge….and do you even know what brine is? It’s salty, sugar water. Like the tears of a sad clown. NO, I DID NOT GET SAD ON VALENTINE’S DAY! I’m so over it.

Anyway, after the chicken is done its 48 hour briny bath, you soak it in buttermilk where it luxuriates with some spices for a few hours while you watch something on Netflix. Do NOT do your nails at this point because what comes next is more tactile than you might want to get with raw chicken. But I have nothing else going on so I got my fingers into it. After the buttermilk soak, you coat the chicken with flour. It is so messy! But worth it. I don’t have a deep fryer, I just use a pot of vegetable oil on the stove and dump the pieces in after you have heated it up for longer than you can stand. Hot oil doesn’t really bubble, it just swirls around all impatient-like. This is where I have gone wrong, putting the pieces in before the oil is hot enough, then the coating comes off. But still, it is fried chicken and you almost can never go wrong no matter how you cook it. Sigh.

Who am I kidding? I am a bitter old cow who needs a brine bath and a buttermilk soak and then dumped in a deep fryer. I am jealous of chicken.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine decided to try on-line dating, I told her about Okcupid because if you follow this blog, I got what I wanted last summer. She is more interested in dating an age appropriate man so I think when she first logged in, neither of us had any real hope. But off she went, into the deep, dark woods of the interwebz and what do you know? She went on a coffee date and had an actual good time. Then came another date.

And then she said: ”KP, I am smitten!”

And I said: ”Smitten????? What the fuck does that mean?” I don’t even….

She explained that when she sees him, her heart skips a beat. Is it scary? Yes, it is scary. THIS IS CUPID’S ARROW STABBING YOU IN YOUR HEART! It’s an actual thing, Apparently it is scary because your old, jaded self becomes powerless. That is so awesome I can’t stand it! I want that feeling!

I have crushes, minor and fleeting…like the cable man who saved my Peachtree from the digital force crushing out my analog signals, the drama! It lasted an hour. I have a kind of crush on a dude I encounter in my daily activities but he is married or something and my heart does not skip a beat when I see him. My loins get all fired up though, and when I talk to him, I allow the verbal diarrhea to spew out of my mouth which is awesome in its own right, but it is not SMITTEN. And he probably thinks I’m an idiot. I realize this heart beat skipping trick has to be MUTUAL in order for it to be scary.

I want to be smitten AND scared.

That’s Lorelei Gilmore, having an impromptu session with a shrink in the back of a car. But that is also me, I’m tired and impatient and I have been growing my hair out to no avail.

With that querulous attitude, yesterday I put up a new profile on Okcupid. Why is it that I can write a 1500 word blog post for you people and be my most happy self doing it but I can’t fill out profile form to save my life? Ugh, I am the worst, but do the men even read these things? Don’t they just look at pictures? Some creepy mofo on Facebook accused me of putting up old photos of myself when I just took one on Tuesday and the previous one was from September and he has never even met me in person. I am only guilty of Hipstomatic filtering, but who isn’t? If you want to see pores just use your imagination. They look like moon craters, dude.

So I put my thing up and waited and then like, nothing. An hour went by…is this thing even on? Last summer, I hadn’t even finished writing the profile when the locusts came. That is not bragging, that is just the law of interwebz nature. This time around people were perusing me in silence, it shows who checked out your profile but no one actually said anything. What the hell? I put a link to this blog so they could be dazzled by the polka dotted background at least. Then someone wrote: “Your blog is really funny, you should right as a living.” I know, right? WRITE. And yes, I know, I know, I am the Queen of Typos but I couldn’t get passed it.

So I took matters in my own hands and went trolling, trolling, trolling. I cast my net at AGE APPROPRIATE men folk because I don’t think I could ever get this elusive smitten feeling with a cub, no offence twentysomethings but you don’t know who the original Starsky and Hutch are.

So I wrote to two men, they both had really good profiles. One was a HERMIT! I am a hermit! Surely we could hermit together. I picked out our wedding china as I wrote him this quick hello: ”I like your profile, it’s very clever and witty…” I sent it, waited…I could see him checking out my profile (this is like making eye contact at a virtual bar)…and then I waited some more and NOTHING. He did not respond. I was sure he would be excited by our mutual love of HBO. But no, it wasn’t enough to hermit with. Hermits probably need social butterflies in order to not turn into Unabombers, right? So maybe it’s not meant to be.

The next guy was really stern looking but he rocked a plaid shirt. He was an “almost vegetarian” and he sold his cars and now rides a bicycle as his main mode of transportation. I know, slightly disturbing, cyclists are a weird breed but I was a bike courier in my heyday. His long winded profile read like a novella but I could get behind that, it meant he was probably literate and could read my blog and appreciate my ramblings. So I sent him a hello note. Watched him check out my profile, again, just like the other dude did and I waited and AGAIN NOTHING!

What the fuck? Then I realized: fried chicken. I wrote something about fried chicken on my opening line which probably offended his “almost vegetarian” sensibilities. Oh well, whatevs…love me, love my fried chicken.

So I deleted my profile this morning. Seriously, this pheromone rush I seek is best left in the hands of that lazy ass little Cupid boy to get his act together. I just might have to wait a little longer, or not….maybe I’ll fry up some more chicken EVEN THOUGH IT TAKES SO FUCKING LONG.

6 Comments

Posted by Kristin Peterson on February 23, 2013 in Get out of your comfort zone, go girl, lady boners

Tags: fried chicken recipe from the Stockyards, OkCupid, Valentine's day

Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy

13 Feb

I love Kate Upton. She has big boobs and so do I. Chicks with big boobs are part a secret sisterhood, we like to stick together and brush each other’s hair and whisper things that only we only know about. Kate is only twenty and she is our reigning poster babe! Ave, Hootervus! I think of her as a sister but more like my daughter from another ovary because I’m so old now. Ugh, soon I’m going to have to give up flashing my boobs, it’s so inappropriate. I can’t help it, I’ve been doing it since eight grade when I answered the door topless for the pizza delivery man on a dare. I dared myself to do it. True story.

Last year when the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit edition came out with Kate wearing a 3 triangles the size of a wedge of Laughing Cow cheese, I posted the cover on this very little blog and thanks to StumbleUpon came so much traffic, little blog’s site states on that day looked just like a big, soaring boner. It’s Kate’s World, we just swim in it.

So anyway, this is her second cover and I’m going to ride with it, click here for more Sports Illustrated (or less, check out how tacky the body paint is).

And I have a lot to say about big boobs.

1. There are Kate Haters among us. Any time my girl Kate makes the news, be it with her fapworthy Cat Daddy dance or her Mercedes Benz (Meh-cedes) commercial, there is always some little bitch on any given forum: ”Kate Upton is fat! That’s the only reason she has big boobs!” Oh my God, she is such a hambeast! Put her on a diet now or our retinas will burn because she has meaty bits. Last year at some adult birthday party (insert eye roll, grown up birthday parties are ridiculous), I had a conversation with some married dude about some new cleanse diet he was on (insert another eye roll, people on cleanse diets: STOP, there’s no pork spackle from 5 years ago glued to your colon wall) and you know how middle-aged men are now the new teenage girls? They have become all body conscious and they think if they get rid of their love handles, we won’t notice their receding hairlines. And then they get all ripped and start some kind of hair follicle growing operation on their heads and they think we won’t notice the personality disorder. Talking to Mid-Life Eating Disorder Guy is the worst, because he is also obsessed with the way his wife looks and he shows me some iPhone photos from his vacation where they are on a beach and his wife had just got a fresh boob job: “Look at my abs,” he says,”They’re an 8 pack, I have to cut out all carbs after 5 pm.” And me (more eye rolling) trying to be nice and thinking this would be a compliment: ”Your wife looks great, too, just like Kate Upton in that white bikini.”

AND THEN HE RESPONDS: “Kate Upton? She’s a cow! Her waist to hip ratio measurements are way too low. They call her a supermodel but she could never do runway!” Oh. My. God. If I had a husband and a sentence like “She could never do runway” came out of his mouth, I would drive that Brokeback to Woody’s on Church Street and set him free, no judgement, and if he came back it like the butterfly that he is, I would assume it would be to steal my stash of Elizabeth Arden Prevage eye cream.

Yesterday I asked my son, Freddy, age 16 and famed boob-man, if he knew who Kate Upton is.

Freddy: Kate Upton? Of course I know who she is. (Duh)

Me: Do you think she is fat?

Freddy: Fat? No! She’s not fat!

Me: What about her boobs?

Freddy: MOTHERRRRRRR…..(insert massive eye roll)

Faith in humanity restored.

2. Kate is a supermodel but she could never do runway. Okay, so let’s just address Brokeback’s statement: I knew you were coming so I made you a gif of a cow lumbering down a runway. You’re welcome:

3. Sometimes boobs cannot be tamed. This is true, the good folks at Sports Illustrated are always putting Kate in toddler sized bikinis as if to put greater emphasis on this point. There is much humour in this that only the secret sisterhood of chicks with big boobs can laugh about. I can stuff my boobs in a bra and walk around and the earth will still rotate on its axis. I can put them in a Shock Absorber (that’s a sports bra) and I can run and play tennis without creating a spontaneous sink hole. They are tame on dry land. They will sit and stay on command. But put them in a swim suit and add water, they become rambunctious Labrador Retriever puppies. They just want to jump out and run in opposite directions and the more you stuff them back, the crazier they become. They slither out the bottom, pop out the sides, and explode out out the top. The best beach vacation I ever had was in Miami where most of the women of all sizes and ages didn’t wear their tops at all. UNLEASH THE HOUNDS. The best dog park evarrrrr!

4. Not all big boobs are enchanting. Some of them are like heavy bags of marbles and they give a lady back pain. I get it but mine are not like that, it’s all about density. The insides of mine are soft and mushy and feel like ricotta cheese with some soft bits of exploded bubble tea. I flopped one of mine onto a fish scale last summer and it didn’t even come in as a pound, so when I hear someone who gets an breast reduction say they took 3 pounds off each tit, I am like, yeah, go girl. CANADIAN HEALTH CARE PAYS FOR IT. Cautionary tale: I know of a woman at my gym who was in the double D range like moi and at 5’10 could carry it AND they were spectacular! Just like a milk maid from a porno movie! But she wanted them smaller so she could buy “pretty bras!” Yes, your tax dollars at work so homegirl can shop in all the drawers at Victoria Secret. She got them reduced and meh, couldn’t even really tell that much but now her hips look so much bigger .

5. Big boobs get the last laugh. For some reason, people think they can say anything to you when you have big boobs. “You’re going to sag when you older,” said my friend when we were 18. She was one of those types of girls who walk around naked all the time like Lena Dunham(!). And back then I thought, kudos to you for not caring that you have a loose hunks of beef shwarma hanging from your crotch but shut up, “That’s just rude,” I said. “It’s true,” she said, “You’re going to sag and I’m going to be perky forever,” or something to that effect. You know I can still get worked up over that bitch. And although I don’t actually know what happened to her, I have seen some post-lacto members of the A-cup sisterhood, and if I’m going to go down, I’m going to take your deflated baby socks with me, ho. And two words: Susan Sarandon. She is our Grand Poobah.

But really in all earnestness, all boobs are good boobs, take care of the ones you’ve got, sisters, and don’t be afraid of the waves!! Kate has taught us that. I also made you another flashing gif and yes, while she might be little meaty, she is like a big messy slice of pizza after a night of heavy drinking. Fuck yeah, Kate Upton, you go girl: