Thursday, 8 March 2018

SAY HELLO TO MY LEG OR YOU'LL HURT ITS FEELINGS

I GOT MY HAIR STRAIGHTENED ON SATURDAY
Which means two things: My leg is feeling much better ... and it's going to rain all week.

It's been two weeks and two days since our traumatizing hamstring accident in the Bermuda Triangle, and we are finally feeling like ourself again. So much so that, as you can maybe see from that picture up there, Marie got her hair done and went shopping on Saturday. She bought herself a rhinestone-encrusted chain that says "Bad," which couldn't be more age-inappropriate. So you know she's back to normal!

And if you think it's odd that that paragraph was written in the third person, that's because I failed to mention that it was written by my injured leg. That's right. My leg. It's an actual person now. It has a personality and identity and feelings. It hates mopeds. It likes hot water bottles and massages and attention. Lots of attention.  
That'll happen when everyone who sees you talks about your leg as if it is a separate entity.

"How's your leg doing today?"
"Here, let me get a blanket for your leg."
"Is your leg comfortable in the backseat there? Should I pull up my seat to give it more room?"

And my personal favourite, the affectionate stroke-pat, as if they're addressing a puppy instead of a lifeless stump.
Friend: *patting leg* "Hey there, how's that leg feeling?"
Me: "Oh, it's happy today. It saw a leg going jogging this morning and it pouted for awhile, but I took it to the mall and bought it a new purse and it cheered right up!"

After a while the attention just went to its head and now I don't even know if I like it anymore. It actually had the nerve to leave me a note last night telling me it didn't really like what I made for dinner and also could I please remember that it wants a pony for its birthday. But that's okay because the better my leg feels, the less attention it gets. Within weeks, people are going to forget that spoiled little stump ever existed!

LEG'S NOTE: And if she thinks I'm giving up this good thing that easily, she is underestimating her own goddamn leg! It would be a shame if she tripped and reinjured it, wouldn't it? A darn shame . . .

Wednesday, 7 March 2018

OFF TO THE RACES (AND THERE'D BETTER BE LIQUOR)

IF THERE IS A BETTER-LOOKING WOMAN AT NASCAR 
I will eat my shirt. What's that? Coors Light girls?  Goddamit! Thank heavens my shirt has spaghetti straps.



Have you missed me? You poor dears. I've been remiss in my snarking the past few days but it's only temporary. On account of I have a real job that actually pays the bills and from time to time they do require me to do some actual work instead of just sitting there looking bored but pretty while I Google "Ryan Gosling, nude, waist down." 

So this weekend I'm at the NASCAR Camping World Truck series races at Mosport, and not only am I at the truck races but I am actually going to drive one of the pace cars on the track. Which, if you knew my pained relationship with moving vehicles, is actually pretty hilarious. I would venture to say that the Bermuda incident was one of the happier endings I've ever had in a vehicular relationship. In fact, in any relationship of any kind. 

Anyway, point being, kind of otherwise preoccupied this weekend but rest assured that if anyone famous shows up and starts twerking or stripping or trying to name their baby Pole Position (oh trust me, it's possible), I will tattle. Immediately. 
In the meantime, please enjoy this stunning picture of my freshly styled hair the night before the races. Because thanks to the relentless goddam humidity of an August that thinks it's July, it didn't last long. Not unlike my virginity.
Good lord. I think I'm done here ...

Tuesday, 6 March 2018

AND ON THE THIRD DAY, SHE ROSE AGAIN. BARELY ...

Me, looking fabulous yet naive,
aboard the dirty red whore that 
almost killed me two days later. 

Anyone who read the post
about my catastrophic moped accident in Bermuda, in which I shredded my hamstring like pulled pork, already knows I'm indisposed. If you missed that jolly vignette, you can read it here


For the rest of you, an update: I still feel like crap.

It's disheartening to see how slow my progress is, it's maddening to not be able to do a blessed thing, including hobble to the latrine, without howling out loud and turning the air blue with curse words.
On the plus side, I'm becoming a whiz at crutches. My leg may be withering away but my biceps are beefing up nicely. 

I'm catching up on my drinking, my reading, my movie-watching, my observing of the comings-and-goings of the neighbours, my meticulous inventory of the areas of the house (visible from a supine position on my couch) that could use cleaning. Thankfully my daughter is coming to visit on Sunday. I'll have the mop and Pine-Sol ready. She loves that.

And then this bedraggled bag lady broke into 
my house and gave me a crutches demo.

Friends and family and neighbours have been fantastic, bringing me so much food I'm starting to think they're fattening me up because they think I'm going to die and, dang it, let's at least make sure she tastes good afterwards!  "Oh come on, Marie, you can manage a few more bites of this rum cake! There's a good girl! Heheheheh."

Oh and lastly, I've been getting some! Lots, actually. Best ever, in fact. Why should a shredded hamstring stop me from enjoying that?
Sleep, I'm talking about. What did you think I was talking about?  

All right, it's obviously time for some happy pills. They don't do much for the pain but they make me find myself absolutely hilarious. Have a happy Easter, everyone. And if you must drink, don't drive a moped, because you might run over zombie Jesus, freshly risen from the dead. (It's the pills, people. I can't help myself.)

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!