Saturday, 28 July 2012


How to know when you are getting older: Clue No. 1
You know that thing you hate, that thing where people slide their glasses 
down their nose and peer over the top of them at you? You start doing it.

'Scuse me there, sonny, could you pass me my blood pressure meds?

Wednesday, 25 July 2012


THEN: Would you care for 
a delicious bowl of Yang?
NOW: I'm sorry, you'll have to 
wash your hands in the toilet.

For some bizarre in-utero-fixation reason, my cat likes to sleep in the sink. When he was younger (and smaller) he liked to curl up in a nice cosy bowl. He's weird, is what he is. Editor's Note: To this day, it's a mystery to me why I even own cats. I'm a dog person. Do you hear me, Yang? A DOG PERSON! Now come on out of the sink and let me hug you.


The outfit that drives 
street urchins mad with desire.

I can't decide if it's because I'm getting older or because I am a shameless flattery whore, but some greasy-looking dude who may or may not be homeless paid me a compliment this morning and it totally made my day.
Here in Toronto, we're in the clutches of a ferocious heat wave, so this fellow was strutting down the sidewalk shirtless, perspiring, unkempt ... and whistling. (His secret? He's happier than us working stiffs.) 
" 'Scuse me, miss," he said as I passed him. "You got a light?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't," I said, doing my special patented shrug-smile-keep-walking move developed specifically for incidents such as this.
"OK, thanks anyway," he said pleasantly. "And you're pretty, by the way."

At another stage of my life, I might have been like, "Yawn. Another compliment. Whatever. Call me when you're Ryan Gosling."
On this day, however, I was feeling sweaty and dishevelled and unattractive. (We women like to do this to ourselves, because there aren't enough bad parents, mean bosses or shitty boyfriends out there who can be trusted with the job of bruising our self-esteem.)
Perhaps this is why his compliment had the unsettling effect of making me blush and titter and thank him, for God's sake.

Is it pathetic that a complete stranger I would otherwise have ignored brightened my day? WHO CARES? Some days, you take your compliments where you can get them. That's the lesson here. 
Well that, and the fact that the next time he or any other grubby-looking fellow asks me for a light . . . or a beer, or cash . . . he's getting it. 
"No, thank you, my good man! And you're cute, by the way."


This is what one 125 ml serving of "skinny" looks like. 
(Warning: You're gonna need more than one.)

Skinnygirl Cocktails.
I have to admit, the name is catchy. Because who hasn't longed to lose a few pounds at one time or another, hasn't longed to be "skinny?"
It's that word, man. Pair it with "cocktails" and you might as well just run through a dark alley yelling: "Free Crack! Who wants free crack?"

Skinnygirl is the massively successful brand of "lite" booze being hawked by Bethenny Frankel. She's been in The Real Housewives of New York City and Bethenny Ever After, but these days she makes a lot of her money by feeding your desire to be thin. 
Never mind that she looks like she might feel a lot better if she put on a few pounds; that won't make her a dime. Skinny! That's what sells, goddamit! 
Anyway, my point is, I was in the liquor store last night and her latest offering, Skinnygirl Sangria, was on sale. 
Well the only thing I like more than booze and being skinny is saving money. So I hovered. I picked up the bottle. I didn't like the price, even on sale, but the girl on the bottle is very skinny, so I continued to waver. 
Two more women came up and wavered too.

"I'm curious about this drink, but I can't bear the thought of giving this woman my money," I said to one of them.
Her eyes lit up immediately. "I know, right?" she said.
Yet still we stood there, wavering in silent unison, trying to decide why we weren't quite buying it (literally). Then I had a thought: just how "skinny" is Skinnygirl?
So I read the calorie info.

"110 calories" (why that's barely more than an apple or a few prunes!) and then the crucial bit: "per 125 ml."
 Well ladies, 125 ml is half a cup. I don't know about you, but  the last time I stopped at  half a cup of liquor was when I was on medication and under strict orders not to drink any alcohol whatsoever.
On any other day, it's a cup, cup-and-a-half, heck maybe even two cups.
As for those snooty 110 calories, there are less than that in 125 ml of white wine, red wine, beer - even most coolers. 
Sooo, Skinny Frankel-Girl Cocktails? Thank you, no.  I'll have a glass of my favourite $10 shiraz instead. In fact, make mine a double. It's only 170 calories, after all.

Drunken footnote: Here, for your buzz-killing pleasure, is a sampling of the calories in alcoholic beverages, as quoted on the heart and stroke foundation website
  • Beer 1 bottle (342mL/12oz): 140 calories
  • Wine (125ml/4 ½ oz): 90 calories
  • Coffee Cream Liquor 17% alcohol (45mL /1 ½ oz):172 calories
  • Vodka 40% alcohol (50ml/1½ oz): 109 calories

Tuesday, 24 July 2012


Prince Harry, Las Vegas,
One of the chief advantages of knowing you'll
never be king is being able to flash your privates
 to women who'll never be your subjects.

© Martin Applegate |


Wow, I have written two posts in less than a week about the Royal Family. I never thought I'd see the day. Not because I don't think they do enough scandalous things to warrant two posts in less than a week, but because I find most of them more boring than algebra lessons. 
However. Harry. Now there's a royal I can really get behind.

I mean, for the love of nudity!
It's as if he were hell-bent on embarrassing the Royal Family at every turn. And he is succeeding beyond anyone's wildest dreams. 
Speaking of wild dreams, in his latest escapade, Dirty Harry meets a bunch of hussies at a Vegas hotel bar and invites them up to his VIP suite, where they all proceed to play strip billiards and get donkey-butt naked. 
As the night wears on, one of the well-raised young lasses covertly pulls out her cellphone and gets pictures of Harry's bare British arse. TMZ has the photos and the full report (and I'll tell you, I don't know how they do it, but if I were the president, I would want THEIR PEOPLE in all the top positions at the CIA!).

A beleaguered representative for the Royal Fam tells TMZ that they "have no comment to make on the photos at this time." What they did not say on record is that they most certainly WILL have a comment to make on the photos at such time as the Queen regains her ability to breathe and Chahles stops making that dreadful choking noise. "At that time, we will rigorously paddle Harry's bare bottom ... and not in the good way!"

Hmm. I feel like I'm forgetting something.
Oh yes! THE PHOTOS! Anybody want to see those? Here's the link at TMZ (or, as I like to call it, That From Which I Cannot Avert My Eyes): Naked Harry!



They say God never gives you more than you can handle. To which I say: What are you, nuts? Whoever thought up that little pearl of wisdom has never known what it's like to have hot flashes while simultaneously experiencing a skin-blistering heat wave such as the one smothering Toronto right now. 
So God, if you are reading this . . . well first of all, welcome! And feel free to post a comment! . . . I would respectfully like to inform you that you have given me more than I can handle. I know you are terribly busy with Afghanistan and Mitt Romney and other disasters, but please, when you have a moment, a little Alaska would be nice right about now. Amen.

Sunday, 22 July 2012


Although I do wish "double shot of Bailey's" was a menu option.
Here's a quick but surefire patriotism test: What is the ultimate Canadian icon?
If you answered "the maple leaf," you're WRONG.
If you answered "the Maple Leafs," you're WRONG, on so many levels.
If you answered "the ookpik doll," you're WRONG and OLD.

No, my good friends, the ultimate Canadian icon is the Tim Hortons cup. And this is how you can tell: Wander into any unfamiliar neighbourhood, even a sketchy one (I might be home, pop in and say 'Hi!'), and stop the first person you see holding a Tim Hortons cup.
Then say this: "Hey bud, where's the nearest Timmies?"
I guarantee you will get a warm and friendly response. Having recognized you as one of their tribe, they will go to great lengths to tell you exactly how to get to the nearest Timmies: "Heck, just jump in my car and I'll take you there!"

We Canadians laugh in patriotic bonhommie at the lameness of the Tims television ads, we buy and grumble like crazy when the Roll Up the Rim to Lose campaign is on, we huddle over our coffee doing the Canadian winter warm-up ritual: both frostbitten hands wrapped around the cup.
I won't get into a debate about whether it is the best coffee, since a colleague and I almost came to blows last night over her defence of the execrable, diesel fuel-esque Starbucks, but I will just say this: it IS the best coffee.
What's that? You don't agree? No problem, it's a free country: and now I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave and never come back.