Sunday, 18 February 2018

BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE PERSONAL BLOGGER OF JESUS

Whorrified, Marie Sutherland, Christians, barbecue,
SISTER MARY WHORRIFIED bends over her cheese tray in holy prayer. "Dear Jesus, please smite the dirty Christian who stole what was rightfully mine. Amen."

I had a religious experience last week, and if you know anything about me at all, you can probably guess it ended badly. As do most of my religious experiences. And all of my marriages. Without boring you with the details of how I got conned into it, let's just say I went to a Ladies' Night Church Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza and came away with a fresh appreciation for how cut-throat those Christians can be.

It all started with the prize tickets they gave out at the door. That's nice, I thought, maybe I'll score one of those knitted tea cosies the church ladies make so that the world's ugliest yarn won't feel unwanted. That'd be just my luck. (Which, in hindsight, might have been where I went wrong. Snide goeth before a fall: Proverbs 16:18.) 

There was dinner and skits and singing and then finally, the promised gift giveaway extravaganza got underway. Within minutes, I'd won a book, a box of bonbons and a tube of hand cream.
But what I really wanted was the big shiny barbecue I'd spotted amongst the giveaway loot. 
"Bless me Father for I have sinned but holy Moses wouldst I ever loveth to win that friggin barbecue," I chanted in my most virginal voice. 
And then suddenly ... praise the lord ... like the miracle of the loaves or whatever, my ticket number was called, and I rushed that stage like you've never seen a woman in six-inch stilettos rush anything. However, one hates to appear greedy (especially on one's first visit to what one has suddenly decided is going to become a regular thing), so I hesitated when I got there. "What do I do?" I asked one of the other women whose number had also been called. "Do I just pick any prize I want?" 
"Hold on a sec, honey, I'll ask Pastor Kay." (Not her real name, because holy crap, the last thing I need is the evangelicals coming after me.)
And then she turns around and she grabs the barbecue! 

I stared at her in unholy astonishment. 
"Did you just take the barbecue?" I said. 
She smiled and shrugged. "You can pick any prize you want," she said.
Lord forgive me, but I didn't want any other damn prize. I wanted to knock her down and snatch that barbecue. But then Jesus stepped in and whispered that it would look a bit sinful to start kicking good Christian women at their own ladies night, so I sullenly chose a lovely stupid cheese-serving tray and flounced back to my table.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to talk myself out of the seething resentment I was feeling, and then I went home and seethed some more. And do you think I could sleep a goddam wink that night? "Why, Jesus? WHY? WHY DID SHE TAKE MY BARBECUE RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME? Can't you strike her with the clap or something? You have the power ... supposedly." 
Yeah. It wasn't pretty. 

It's now been three full days and the rage still hasn't left me. Every time I look at that stupid cheese tray it courses through me like lava. I'm obviously going to have to regift the fucking thing. (Hey Liz, guess what you're getting for Christmas?) But in the end, just like pregnancy, the hours of maddening agony and communing with our Lord and Saviour yielded something wonderful: I found Jesus. And have now become his personal blogger. He actually finds me quite hilarious and, more importantly, this will give me a fantastic edge at the next Ladies' Night Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza (Monday, Jan. 6, 2014; I checked). Ha! Cheese tray, me arse! *makes sign of the cross*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I have a terrible feeling this is going to end with you being burned at the stake.
MY NOTE: That's for witches, you moron!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *hides behind wall, fist-pumps air, returns* Oh, right. How silly of me.

Saturday, 20 January 2018

I TAUGHT MY KIDS TO APPRECIATE NUDITY. AND READING.

neil gaiman, louise penny, ocean at the end of the lane, piggly wiggly, best books 2014,
HI KIDS! I HAVE TWO SPECTACULAR ONES I'D LIKE TO SHOW YOU!  Books. I'm talking about books. What did you think I was referring to? Weirdos.

We here at Whorrified believe very strongly in the power of nudity reading. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of curling up nude on our vast, sun-dappled porch with bewitching books that transported me to another world. Of course, that was before I discovered vodka, but still. A very formative era. 

As a young mother, my mom saw to it that I was surrounded by literature. Likewise I, as a young mother, took pains to expose my girls to good books. (Particularly this one, which they adored in spite or perhaps because of the fact it gave them nightmares.) I also almost constantly ran around the house in the nude, which is why I was thrilled when my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom, asked for books for Christmas this year, proving she remembered the literature, not the trauma. (Either that or she's blocked it all out. I'm sure her therapist could be bribed to tell me.) 
After 11 months in the company of a creature whose life revolves around breast milk and poop, she fears she's getting baby brain. "I can feel myself getting stupider," she texted plaintively. "Can you pls lend me some of your favourite books for Christmas?" 

I didn't have too many of my favourites on hand, but I did give her Judith Hearne, Rebecca, The Number One Ladies Detective Agency and a few others. She texted me at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday to say "Holy crap, I stayed up all night reading Rebecca!" She couldn't have made me prouder if she'd texted: "I just figured out Ryan Gosling is my real dad!" 

So today I went to the mall and bought two books I've been meaning to read, with the express intention of passing them on to Piggly's mom and my other secret daughter when I'm done with them. They may or may not choose to read them in the nude (although why would anyone choose "not"?), but I have faith that they, too, will pass on the rich tradition of reading to their daughters. Aside from my already-proven legacy of ethereal beauty, I can't think of a better gift I could leave to my fellow man.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *sigh* Of course she neglected to mention this, so if there's anyone still reading this flammable nightmare she calls a blog, the "two spectacular things" she's referring to are: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman and How the Light Gets In by Louise Penny. Goosebump-inducingly good reads, both of them.

Saturday, 13 January 2018

I EAT SUSHI NOW. YEAH, I'M AS SURPRISED AS YOU ARE

AFTER OUR SUSHI DINNER, MINI ME AND I WENT TO THE MOVIES
and annoyed the hell out of everyone by taking selfies and giggling.


So, big news: I eat sushi now. Yeah, don't bother rereading that, it's not really big news, I'm just being a drama queen. Although it is big-ish news for me, because I friggin hated the stuff for years and never understood why all my friends are always oohing and aahing over it. Cold rice? Raw fish? SEAWEED PAPER? Jesus Christ, people, have you never heard of The Keg? 

Anyway, it's all about the Achilles heel, and mine is Piggly Wiggly. And her mom my daughter, aka Mini Me. Lately she's been asking me to do all sorts of things I would normally shat all over, and I, in my feverish need to help her through an unexpectedly gruelling new phase of her life, have been capitulating. Which is how it happened that, after I stopped in on Friday for a quick hit of the most adorable baby ever, I somehow wound up agreeing to stay for dinner and a movie. The movie being The Judge (three out of four stars) and the dinner being Ye's Sushi (four out of four WTFs). 

"Er, but I'm not really fond of sushi," I hedged. 
"That's because you haven't tried Ye's sushi; it's the best," my daughter urged. "Plus they have lots of other stuff, you don't even have to have sushi at all."  

ye's sushi, piggly wiggly, whorrified, marie sutherland,
MINI ME DAINTILY APPLIES HERSELF TO AN ORDER OF SUSHI  
Despite the fact that there are dozens of plates of less-healthy food right in front of her.


And in fact, I had no intention of having sushi at all. I ordered a large glass of wine and everything non-sushi on the menu while simultaneously complaining that I just can't seem to shake this last pesky 10 pounds, while petite little Mini Me nibbled on low-fat futomaki and murmured, "How are the cream-cheese filled deep-fried wontons?" 

To make a long story short, I eventually got around to trying the sushi and pronounced it "almost edible ... if you smother it with enough wasabi." In fact, the more I tried it, the more I didn't absolutely loathe it, so I guess it's an acquired taste. Which seems pointless because why should one have to try to acquire a taste for something when loving chocolate, Brie cheese and a beautifully charbroiled steak comes naturally? It's like trying to acquire a taste for sobriety. (Which I did once. I'm better now.)

Anyway, the bottom line is that sushi sucks it was a lovely night out with my daughter. But if that kid ever convinces me to abstain from drinking I would like to go on record as asking you guys to have me put down. Seriously. It's what any good friend would do. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well I've met your Mini Me and she's pretty persuasive. So I'll keep this large pellet of rat poison handy just in case. 
MY NOTE: *gasps* How did you find that? I had it carefully hidden in your personal box of cereal!

Thursday, 4 January 2018

THE ONLY REASON NOBODY DIED IS BECAUSE OF THIS LIST

piggly wiggly, whorrified, granddaughters, babysitting list, daughters,
MY DAUGHTER LEFT ME A TWO-PAGE, DOUBLE-SIDED LIST 
of instructions on how to care for her children in her absence. I'm actually quite flattered. If it were anyone else, she'd have left six pages.

I'm deducing from the unusual surge in hits this morning that hundreds of you are either Russian bots trying to hack into Whorrified or are simply thinking, "She hasn't posted a thing since last Thursday; let's see if the lazy bitch is even still alive ..." If you're the former, tell Putin I said "он полный мудак." If you're the latter, thank you for giving a shit. (I could have died and no one would know until the smell of rotting booze alerted them.) In fact I'm fine, I've just been completely immersed in grandchildren FOR THE ENTIRE WEEKEND.

Although some of you are already familiar with Piggly Wiggly, I actually have two other, older granddaughters about whom I (almost) never write because their mother is a tigress who guards their privacy with a ferocity some might call terrifying. I've been strictly forbidden to Whorrify them in any way, which is her prerogative and I respect it completely, even if I spend my nights trying to think of ways to get around it because holy cow, are those kids photogenic. 
So you can imagine my surprise when I got papal dispensation recently to share the tiniest nugget of information. And here is how it happened:

It was my eldest daughter's anniversary last weekend. She'd planned a surprise getaway with her husband and asked me to babysit their girls. This was no small honour, as the last time they went away overnight without their children was ... um, let me think: never? Yeah. Never. I'd been booked months in advance and had been given comprehensive verbal instructions, but my daughter was taking no chances. There was also, she admitted sheepishly upon my arrival, a note. A two-page, double-sided, painstakingly detailed note explaining literally everything from what the kids should have for dinner to how to turn on the pilot light on the fireplace (with hand-drawn diagram) should it go out. (I particularly enjoyed the footnotes, such as "Billy Elliott video NOT appropriate, lots of F-words and other language.") 


"HEY GIRLS, COME WATCH THIS SCENE FROM CAPTAIN PHILLIPS! NO REASON ..."

But while some might see this as a slight, a slur, an insult to my capabilities as a babysitter, I actually found it adorable. Because I know my daughter. I know that this is classic Type A behaviour. And I know this note was as much for her benefit as it was for mine. Leaving her children for a weekend was a big deal for her; the only way she could be okay with it would be if she could parent from afar: "For breakfast, the girls really like pancakes with white chocolate chips," "Please check on the little one twice before you go to bed, sometimes she gets too hot!" You don't have to be a genius to read the motherly love between the lines there.

My daughter knew her note might seem a little over-the-top. She also knew I would "get it" while simultaneously longing to mock it on the Interwebs for the gratification of my non-paying audience, so, as a gesture of appreciation, she said: "You're dying to blog about my note, aren't you? Fine, you can blog about it but no pictures. And no names!"

However, as a wise if somewhat slippery boss of mine once said, in fact way more than once said: "It is easier to seek forgiveness than permission." So I didn't seek full clarification on the "no pictures" fatwah and am therefore posting a small shitload of pictures here for your non-paying viewing pleasure. Meaning major parental laws were skirted here, you guys: the least you could do is click on every single ad on the page in appreciation! 

SO WHEN YOU SAID 'NO PICTURES' YOU MEANT OF THE KIDS, RIGHT? 
Because I couldn't resist taking about a dozen selfies in your marital bed. Gawwd it's luxurious!







Monday, 21 August 2017

I TOOK TWO KIDS TO THE CNE AND WE'RE ALL STILL ALIVE!


HOW CUTE ARE THESE TWO? HONESTLY
Kiara, 12, (left) and her sister Shakira, 16, seemed shy but the second the cameras started rolling Shakira went all Sasha Fierce on me. LIKE A BOSS! 
Video courtesy of my moron editor


If you're wondering why it's been Radio Silence here on Whorrified for a few days, it's because I've been in jail. (Kidding. If they didn't lock Scout Willis up for this terrorist attack on our senses I think my Travelling Corn Dog Show and I are safe.) No, the truth is, a friend has two cousins visiting from Barbados, so I offered to fulfill my selfless court-ordered community service role as a global outreach ambassador by taking these perfectly innocent children to the CNE and showing them a good time. 

Meaning I forced them to perform for my moron videographer, gave them fake chores to do while I cooled off in the beer tent ("See if you can find 'Ricoh Coliseum' on that useless map they gave us, will you? Take your time ..."), took them on rides that scared the living crap out of them and then traumatized them by forcing them to watch me perform my traditional Consuming of the Corn Dog ritual. It's a foodstuff I wouldn't THINK of ingesting on any other day of the year, but the CNE corn dogs? I don't know what they put in those damn things but I will tell you this: if there's a grainy cellphone video out there of Rob Ford consuming one of them in somebody's basement I will not be surprised. 

Anyway, the moral of this story is that the entire day went off without a hitch, meaning no one got sick, injured, drunk or lost. No, wait, that's not quite true: Kiara did give us one hell of a fright for about 15 seconds there, going missing in the teeming throngs at the exact moment I was slathering my corn dog in various lubricants. But I got down on my hands and knees and begged for divine tubular intervention, and she came pelting back just in time to catch me inhaling my last gobble. You can't tell me that's a coincidence.

Barbados, Canadian National Exhibition, CNE, corndog, the ex, toronto,
SHE WENT THAT-A-WAY! 
I consulted the Mystical Corn Dog for directions as to the whereabouts of our missing Kiara AND IT OBLIGED!



Sunday, 30 July 2017

THE CARIBANA AFTERMATH: NSFW OR QUEASY STOMACHS


So it's over. And I survived. It's rather telling how deeply relieved I am every year when Caribana ends and I find myself still standing, still conscious, not in a hospital bed, not wearing someone else's underpants and not smiling out from Wanted posters on signposts. 

VENUS RISING FROM 
THE PORTA-POTTIES
 I was gone so long they almost had to 
send a search party out for me, and I sure 
as hell am glad they called THAT off, 
because here was the description: 
Age? We can't tell you. She'd kill us. 
Sex? Oh definitely. With just about anybody. 
Outfit? Well it's more like a get-up, really. 
Name? Whor ... Never mind. We see her. 
She's over there siphoning beer 
out of the kegs again.
Every year, just in case that last one happens, I make sure to have a friend take a good-ish photo of me, which can be supplied to federal agents if need be. It's bad enough to be wanted by the law without having to suffer the indignity of a bad mugshot as well. This woman here can tell you more about that. 

I have to admit I haven't a clue who she is, I'm just using her to make a point. And also I admire her obvious good breeding and the fact that she, like a lot of women I admire, does not see the need for the constant tedium of pants.

And speaking of pants, that is not what I wore to Caribana. Because Caribana is all about the sexy, the slinky, the embracing of your inner Rihanna. (Except for the thong flashing. And the nipple piercings. And the drinking of so much Bajan rum you'll butt grind an entire island. In fact, maybe Rihanna was a bad example.) 

Anyway, this post has spiralled badly out of control so I'm just going to assume I'm not sober yet after all and end with: "It was fun. Damn good fun. And now I must get back to my prayer book ... " *keels over backwards in dead-dog, legs-upright position*

Editor's Note: Pssst! I know where she hid the GOOD pictures and I will be posting every one of them just as soon as I make sure she's really out and not just trying to trick me. Last week I went down the basement stairs for that one!

Monday, 17 April 2017

I HEREBY NOMINATE MYSELF FOR 'BEST FRIEND' STATUS

giant tiger, best friends, relationship advice, editorspick,
HAD I KNOWN I WOULD BE SPENDING HALF AN HOUR on the floor of a Giant Tiger store while on a distress call, I'd have done my hair and worn something nattier.

The call came, as most urgent calls do, at a most inconvenient time. I had just finished a workout at GoodLife and was dressed in my most craptastic sweats and, because some genius civic planner put a Giant Tiger right next-door to my gym, I figured I'd grab a few groceries before heading home to swill vodka and ignore the housework for the rest of the weekend. No one will accuse me of not budgeting my time wisely. 

So there I was, weighing the merits of no-name brand freezer bags versus the vastly more expensive but superior Glad freezer bags, when I felt my phone vibrate. GODDAMIT! I huffed, it's probably one of my obnoxious exes calling to tell me he can't live without me. BLAHBLAHBLAH if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one. 

But then I saw the name on the caller ID and realized it was actually someone I like. In fact a dear friend.
I hesitated the merest fraction of a second ... I was mid-shopping, after all ... and then answered.
"Good morning you contagious slut!" I said breezily.
The slight pause was my first clue.
The catch in her voice when she said "Fuck off you dirty whore," was my second clue. She usually says that with such affectionate panache.
"Hey," I said, a little offstride. "You okay?"

RELATED: Whorrified's super fantastic excellent dating tips
RELATED: A girl must do whatever it takes to feel better

Well that was all it took. A flood of hiccupy tears and confessions followed and so I stepped out of the checkout queu, pacing and clucking and huffing, "He didn't! No way! The bastard!" at all the right places, but it soon became evident this was a much more indepth crisis. This was, in fact, a meltdown. 

So as my friend poured her heart out about her very bad Friday night and her confusion over who was actually to blame for what had transpired ... (Bestie Rule No. 1: It's ALWAYS his fault. Even if it's her fault) ... I was drawn more and more into the orbit of crisis and out of the orbit of shopping until finally I figured "Feck it," and just plopped the grocery basket on the floor and sat down beside it and gave myself over completely to listening. 

Finally, after about 15 minutes, my friend started to sound like herself again. 
"What's all that beeping?" she asked. "Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm sitting on the floor of Giant Tiger, with my grocery basket beside me. In my hoodie," I said. "Everybody's looking at me like I'm a vagrant. If Giant Tiger had a budget for security, they'd be harassing the hell out of me right now."

My friend laughed. It was a good sound. 
"Omigod," she said. "You're trying to do your shopping and your crazy friend calls and has a five-alarm crying jag. You should blog about this!"
"Oh, honey, trust me," I said, as I snapped a selfie. "I plan to."
"That's hilarious!" she chirped. "You cheered me up so much! Thanks for listening. Oh ... and, er, you won't mention my name, right?"
"Of course not, you herpes-infested harlot," I retorted.

"Thanks beyotch," she tossed back. "You're the best."
Ahhh, friendship. It makes up for all the shitty things being a woman has to offer.