Saturday, 4 August 2012


Who cares? I'm richer and prettier
 than you and I'm having more fun 
than you ever will, bitches!
Jaguar PS /

I get it that everyone hates Kim Kardashian. She's  stunningly beautiful, mind-bogglingly rich, she can date whoever she wants and then wake up the next day and say, "Today, I think I'll have some Ryan Gosling." (Except that Ryan Gosling would have to be black. And he would totally do that for her, I'm sure.)

What I don't get is that everyone thinks she's stupid.
Oh but is she? Let's examine the evidence.
She owns several clothing lines, a clothing boutique, a fragrance line, her own line of exercise DVDs, her own line of sunless tanners. She's been in movies and TV shows, and she's the main draw in the interminable Keeping Up With the Kardashians. She has an uncanny knack for doing nothing and still making news.

And all of it was built on a rather dubious talent ... the infamous "leaked" sex tape with Ray J, whom you've probably never heard of but that's because he's not as smart as Kim. (Nor does he have monstrous breasts. That would have helped.) That little "oopsie" earned her a whopping $5 million, which compared to her $35M net worth today is pocket change. 

A stupid person could maybe achieve one or two of these things by accident, but all of them? Not likely.
So, if that's what stupid is, then I would like to publicly make this special request of God: 
In my next life, God, can I please come back as someone even stupider than Kim Kardashian? An idiot? A buffoon? An absolute MORON? Because then I wouldn't have to go to university, work 9 to 5, worry about paying my mortgage, drive a limping 1996 Saturn just because it still works, or do any of the things us "smart people" do.
Thank you and Amenian.


Oh wait, wrong lyrics. Yes well I can't really explain why I went with 
a cowboy hat for a Caribbean party. Sometimes I confound myself.
After much shopping, sweating, toning, shaving, bronzing and flat-ironing, I am officially Caribana-ready. 
For those of you who followed my weeklong trajectory of agony, ecstasy and inner turmoils (curly hair? straight hair? dress? shorts?), the suspense must be well-nigh unbearable. For those of you who didn't and are wondering: "But what about the bloodshed in Syria and the ebola crisis in Uganda?", run along now. You've clearly stumbled onto the wrong blog.

OUTFIT Short white dress
HAIR Straight
SHOES Uncomfortable but cute as hell
HAT Yes please!
I'm not sure where the cowboy theme came from except that I saw the hat and loved it and realized shade might be a good thing on a 40C day.
As for the just-this-side-of-wrongness of the dress, I know. But that's why this blog is called Whorrified, and not Modestified, Normalified or, God forbid, ActYourAge-ified.
That's just me, babies.

Editor's note: Yikes, that dress is short.  
My note: I know. But I've heard Drake will be there and if he sees me in it he's going to ask me to play his ho's mother in his next video, I just know it.

Friday, 3 August 2012


Friday, May 4 , 2012, Santa Lucia

You know how, when you have a hot date coming up, you try to think of something really memorable and unusual to do? Well in Santa Lucia, Cuba, they don't have skydiving or nightclubs or fancy-schmancy restaurants, but they don't let that get in the way of a good time. They just load up a pig in their best truck . . . the one with the handpainted Tigger on it (because nothing says "bad-ass" like a handpainted Tigger truck) . . . and get ready to hit the town. Except that it isn't really a town, it's a village, or rather it will be when about 50 more people move in. (Seconds after I took this pic, the couple in the truck were overcome by the heady romance of it all and started kissing while the pig grunted its approval.) Hope your Friday is even HALF as much fun as this!

Thursday, 2 August 2012


Marie Sutherland, Caribana, GoodLife, Whorrified
I was there for 25 minutes, 10 of which 
were spent taking picture of myself.
When last we spoke, I shared my lavish Caribana preparation plans. I was going to get my hair done, nails done, buy a sexy yet age-appropriate outfit, lose five pounds and tone and polish my body like a butter sculpture. I am abashed to report I have accomplished ZERO of those goals.  

After knocking back two glasses of wine and half a wheel of brie after work last night it suddenly hit me: "Terrific. It is now Thursday. You have two whole days to lose five pounds. Or at least three. Or at least tighten up a little." (It's all about the lowering of the standards.) 

So I am sort of proudshamed to confess that I hit the gym at midnight and did a bracing 25 minutes of hard-core perusing of the weights and shuffling of the exercise mats. I did break into a sweat for a minute or two, so I feel pretty good about that. Besides, I still have ... wait. Shit! I have one day left to get ready! Aaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhh!!!
You're still there?
Please go away. I am terribly busy and I need to curl up in the fetal position in the shower for a moment.
No really. Bye.


Looking happy and relaxed because we hadn't been besieged yet. (Editor's note: 
I insist on dim lighting whenever possible, it's much more flattering to women my age. 
Soon I will only allow my picture to be taken during lunar eclipses.)

I went on a boat cruise of Toronto Harbour last weekend. It was fun. Scary fun. Free drinks fun. It was "I'll have another Porn Star and so will she!" fun. (Editor's Note: My mom occasionally reads this so I will just say here that a Porn Star is a shooter, equal parts Hypno and Sourpuss. That will mean nothing to her, but it will reassure her there were no actual porn stars on the boat...that I was aware of.) 

Anyway, after an hour on this boat, two things became painfully obvious: 1) A party boat is a cross between a nightclub and prison and 2) The male inmates haven't got a clue how to talk to the female inmates.

For the record, I'm not on the market, and after the ham-fisted hit-ons my girlfriends and I endured that night, I plan to stay that way. "The market" is a rough place to be these days.
What's needed here is a flirt-ervention. I'm sure it's not easy to strike up a conversation with women, but there are basic rules that can help make it a little more pleasant for all involved. Here, based on our experience on the HMCS OhNoYouDidn't, is a list of "don'ts" for first-time conversations:
  • Don’t call me “Dude.”
  • Don’t talk about sex. (Dude! I don’t even know your name yet.)
  • Don’t insult me. ("How old are you, anyway?"   "Old enough to know I could dump you overboard and then tell the Cap'n it was an accident." )  
  • Don't grovel:  ("If I buy you a drink you're probably gonna take off on me, right?”    "I didn't ask you to buy me a drink, but if you do, then yes, I am probably gonna take off on you when someone with cojones comes along.")
  • Don’t approach me if you’re so much shorter than I am that it makes you self-conscious and cruel. (“What are you, like 6 feet tall?” "No, I’m average height, whereas you are practically a chew toy. Why is this my fault?")
  • Don’t call me a cougar just because I'm older than you. Cougar implies that I am hunting you. If YOU approach ME despite my polite efforts to discourage you, that doesn’t make me a cougar, it makes you a poacher.  
  • Don't pretend we've met before. I remember who I've met, and if I don't remember there's probably a reason for it. So either way, it's a lame tactic.
  • And lastly, don't take yourself or anything else too seriously. We're all just stuck here together on the boat. Let's try to have some drinks and laughs and go home happy . . . together, or not.

Wednesday, 1 August 2012


I mentioned yesterday that my countdown to Caribana had begun. (Yes, I know we're calling it the Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival now, but if I called it that in front of my West Indian friends I'd be laughed off the Lakeshore.) In this thrilling down-to-the-wire series, you get to observe my daily preparations as I groom myself for what millions consider the biggest party of the year. 
Yesterday's dilemma was the outfit. (Not going well. I was at the mall last night for two hours and all I came home with was a top I don't like and a blister on my heel.) Today’s dilemma is much more grim. Today's dilemma is . . .

This would usually be easy, but this year there is an issue, that being the scorched filaments (please see Hairdressers behaving badly) that are now residing where my healthy hair used to be. So the contenders are . . . 

CURLY: Ordinarily, going natural  would be the best choice for Saturday's sweaty, humid bacchanal. Alas, hair this damaged doesn’t want to form a decent curl. It wants to droop from one's head like a hanged man and make moaning noises. 

STRAIGHT: Getting my hair straightened makes it look healthy and sleek as a mink pelt. It's a cunning illusion that makes me extremely happy for about an hour ... until the sweat and humidity turn it to clown fuzz. (Editor's note: Are you seeing the cat in the sink in the background? He is SO not normal.)



Peau de soie bag over head

*For more info, check out the official website at Toronto Caribbean Carnival 2012


Tuesday, 31 July 2012


I look at this and I hear the soundtrack from Jaws. You hear it too, right? I'm not weird, right? I'm not!

Sometimes your life can be altered with a single sentence.
"I love you" is a big one.
"I forgive you" is another.
"I missed my period" is a real doozie. 

But sometimes, the life-changing sentence doesn't seem all that important at the time. 
Like the time John Tesh told me (and everyone else who was listening to his strangely addictive Intelligence for Your Life radio show) that when you flush a toilet, the fecal germs can be propelled 20 feet into the air. "Landing," he added in that unctuous, ominous voice, "on your countertop, your towels, and even your toothbrush."

Whoa! What? My TOOTHBRUSH? You mean there could be pooh on my toothbrush?
Well once you've thought that thought, you can't unthink it.
And sadly, I thought about it a lot. (Every time I flushed, for weeks afterwards...the math is mind-boggling.) Eventually I relaxed because I realized with these ridiculous low-flow toilets, you're lucky if you can muster up enough of a vortex to just empty the bowl, let alone "propel" fecal germs 20 feet.

Public toilets, now that's another story altogether. 
I realized that one day not long afterwards, when the roaring flush of a toilet at the mall reduced a toddler to terrified sobs. Now THOSE toilets, I thought, are 20-footers for sure.
Well that was the beginning of a new era of obsession.
Since that thought dawned on me, I find myself scrambling to get out of the stall and out of range before the flush hits full velocity. If the door sticks and I'm trapped in there for a few seconds, I am mortified. MY GOD! I screech inwardly. IS THERE POOH ON MY HAIR NOW?

I examine the countertops suspiciously, as if the naked eye will reveal that they are teeming with ecoli. I daren't put my purse or glasses or, God forbid, my lunch bag, down anywhere in that crap-splattered room. I turn the taps off with my wrist and open the door with paper towels. 
So in a matter of weeks I have progressed from a normal person who can flush and still stand there chatting calmly with a friend to a panic-stricken ninny who lurches for the door, shoving people aside so my speedy exit isn't impeded: "OUT OF MY WAY! OH, PLEASE, JUST LET ME OUT, THERE'S A SHITSTORM GOING ON IN HERE!"

I have you to thank for this, John Tesh. Intelligence for Your Life, indeed.
Do me a favour, Johnny, will ya? Next week, maybe you could talk about pomegranates and how good they are for you. Or that catchy song by Carly Rae Jepsen, or golden retriever puppies, or why you never see those weird black-velvet paintings anymore.
Anything that doesn't mention the words "flushing," "fecal,"  "germs" or "toothbrushes." 
I and my anxiety disorder thank you from the bottom of our toilet.

Monday, 30 July 2012


I had a conversation with a neighbour today that led me to a shocking realization: Not everyone thinks the entire year revolves around Caribana. (Properly known as The Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival, but that's like pronouncing Queens Quay 'Queens Kway.' It instantly brands you an outsider.) 

In truth I've just started looking,
so it's the only contender.
So this neighbour, who owns a landscaping business, was miffed because one of his workers wants Friday off. 
"Get this," he scoffed. "He wants to get ready for Caribana! Get his hair done, buy new clothes . . . It's ridiculous!"
"Well, actually, it's not," I said. "I'm taking Friday off for the very same reason. And Friday might not be enough."

If you've been to Caribana, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, you should change that. You don't have to be of Caribbean heritage, although it helps. I think my Brazilian roots have something to do with my fondness for it (they certainly explain my tendency to underdress and overparty), but really, anyone who likes a parade, good music, good food and the occasional celebrity sighting will love it.

Just remember: It is a fashion show and you are on the runway whether you like it or not. And now, the Getting Ready for My Caribana Closeup begins...

Criteria: Must be skimpy, colorful and just this side of scandalous. 
Comfort: Optional
Price: Cheap, but totally deny it if asked.

*More Caribana stories here and here

*For more info, check out the official website at Toronto Caribbean Carnival 

Sunday, 29 July 2012


Well, hello there, big bad wolf.
Scratch any grown woman and you'll find a scar left by a bad boy. We've all dated at least one of them. The lucky ones smarten up fast and move on, the masochists waste a few years blaming themselves first, and a regrettable few of us actually marry the bastards. The question is, why? Why are good girls so powerfully drawn to bad boys?
Well, there's the whole opposites-attract thing. 
Good girls usually get that way because they were sheltered from the more thrilling teen experiences (I'm thinking booze, weed and sex, but that's probably hilariously tame by today's standards). 
This may keep your little princess from being impregnated by the village recidivist, but it also gives the forbidden a tantalizing allure. And all along, our parents are unwittingly priming the pump by reading us bedtime stories that teach us good is boring and bad is thrilling. 

Take Little Red Riding Hood, for example. The mounting tension in the whole Wolf-in-the-Bed scene while Red tries to figure out why Grandma has hair on her face is our first introduction to stimulation and foreplay. 
You grow up on a diet of those books and it's no wonder nobody gets your heart pumping quite like that first bad boy to cross your path. 
We remember that excitement, that thrill. We associate it with love and expect it to have a good ending. After all, "they all lived happily ever after," right? Every damn book they read us promised us that. 

Most of us never outgrow it. (Note the veiled erotic longing in this poem at Gypsy-Rose-Lee, for example. That girl's headed for trouble. Wolf trouble.)

So parents, if you have daughters, for the love of Grimm, stop reading them toddler porn. (A good Robert Munsch book never hurt anyone.) If they absolutely rebel and beg you to read Little Red Riding Hood, simply substitute the words "David Suzuki" every time the wolf's name comes up. It'll not only save your daughter's innocence, but it'll put BOTH of you to sleep within minutes!