Saturday, 1 September 2012


Doug Ford, Rob Ford, Krista Ford,
You got yerself a misbehavin' chile 
up thur in Canada? Y'all send her here to the 
Ozarks an' we'll learn her some manners.

© Scott Griessel |

If they were smart, the Ford clan would let Krista Ford's regrettable advice to women hoping to avoid sexual assault  (basically, "don't dress like a whore") die a natural death. 
But no.

Toronto Councillor Doug Ford ramped it up yesterday by going all hillbilly on his daughter, noting "That's not the way we raised her." (So the quiet, courteous example you set for her didn't take, then?) 

Well that was bad enough, but what literally kept me up for the entire night was his description of the "punishment," and I quote: "We chewed her ass out from one end to the other."
Didja hear that, Honey Boo Boo? Y'all think YEW have it bad? Y'all don't even wanna thank about gittin' Papa Doug riled up! Cuz he'll CHEW YER ASS OUT FROM ONE END TO THE OTHER! 

EDITOR'S NOTE: If you can bear even one more word of this Viral Whore saga, click on Open mouth, insert foot for the full story. 


I don't know how we shopped before cellphones. Really, I don't. I bring mine right into the changeroom with me. I enjoy imagining the look on the salesclerk's face as she sees the clothing I wore into the changeroom come hurtling over the door, followed by the sound of rapid-fire shutter clicks. 

But aside from that, they're an indispensable fashion tool. For example: Last week, I came across the cutest little dress at the Bramalea City Centre. I'm embarrassed to tell you how cheap it was but I will say this, if you guessed $11, you'd be guessing too high. Yeah, really. I don't care if the sucker is ugly AND doesn't fit.Ten dollars? I'm buyin' it.

And yet, because I am what Scottish people call "frugal" and everyone else calls "cheap," I demurred. 
Would I really have anywhere to where this? Didn't it kind of call unwanted attention to my goat-legs? And most importantly (because in my heart of penny-pinching hearts I already knew there was no damn way I was leaving the store without that ten-dollar dress), which colour should I get it in?
Then I hit upon a brilliant solution.
I took a picture of myself in the dress, juiced it up with the Warhol-ish photo app and texted it to my daughter: "Saw dress for $10. Which colour do u think?" 

Within minutes, I had this reply: "Who cares which colour? TEN DOLLARS!" 
(If, when I was pregnant, I had sent God a list of requirements of personality traits I SIMPLY HAD TO HAVE in a daughter, she couldn't have turned out better.)
And then she added, "but definitely the pink. And please Muther: Not the hat."
"Too late!" I wrote back. "And thanks. White dress it is."
"I said pink!"
"Thanks! Luv u!"
"You're crazy. Luv u too!"

Editor's note: You've got to feel sorry for this woman's children.

Friday, 31 August 2012


Hello, nubile woman whose 
name escapes me. I would like 
to take you to my storage unit 
and show you my asana.  

Sometimes when I get lonely, which is almost never because all I do is work and go to the gym, I remind myself that it is better to be able to enjoy one's own company than to simply flop onto whoever happens to be available, no matter how deeply disturbing they may be.

These words came forcefully to mind when I heard that former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell is snogging man-whore Russell Brand. Or, as I like to call him, "Creepy Jesus." (Exhibit A: photo of Brand at left. If Jesus were a 40-year-old perv who founded his own cult and urged his followers to abduct Elizabeth Smart, I imagine he would look something, or perhaps EXACTLY, like this.) 

Creepy Jesus, a reported "former" sex addict, is recently divorced from pop star Katy Perry. After (and maybe even during) Katy, he moved briskly on to Isabella Brewster, but then, at the London Olympics, his ADHD horn-dog radar was diverted by yet another shiny object: Geri Halliwell. 

Now the British press is all a-twitter, staking out Geri's London home and getting photos of Creepy Jesus exiting at all hours of the day and night. 
At the same time, they're suggesting it's not what you're thinking ... which is sort of like the boy you have a crush on kissing you and then telling you "I just like you as a friend." IT MESSES YOU UP, MAN!

Anyway, Britain's The Sun reports the oddball couple is just "bonding over a love of yoga," noting "Geri says they have a spiritual connection" and "they practice asana together."

  Contortionist pelvic thrusts while clad in spandex?
  So nice! So wholesome! 
  Not gross or disturbing at all! 
  My skin is not crawling! 
  I believe in Xenu! 
  I will give my entire paycheque to you,  Scientology master! 

  More Kool-Aid! 

  More Kool-Aid! 



*Second in a never-ending series
On weekends when he has custody, 
the man-whore appears to be a 
great catch. But that guy doesn't 
exist when the kids aren't around. 
(Disclaimer: The man above is a model 
and not an actual man-whore. At least 
not that I'm aware of . . . although
God knows it's possible because 
they're everywhere. Hmm. That wasn't 
much of a disclaimer, was it?)

© Lisa James |
My goodness. Friday again? Already? For some of us, this means liquor! And chips! And that's about it! For others, this means date night. Which means you'll get your hopes up and spend hours getting ready for someone you'll later decide wasn't worth it. (Sorry. I should have had a spoiler alert there.) If only there were a guidebook, a Magic 8-ball for Grownups you could consult BEFORE you spent all that time changing your sheets and getting a Brazilian.
I can't offer you a Magic 8-ball, but I can offer you part two of a series we began last Friday (See Girls' Guide: Part 1), where we learned that dating is a dangerous sport. In part one, we got a good look at The Cheapskate. Today, we examine an even more noxious species: The Man-Whore. (Also see the Russell Brand-Geri Halliwell post, above. When I get a theme opportunity, I run with it.)
Typically, this species migrates into dating territory later in life. Freshly divorced and in his 40s, the man-whore is obsessed with having all the fun he missed when he was 22 and married. This guy will flirt like there's no tomorrow. He'll appear to be crazy about you, but that will wear off faster than you can say "So you'll call me?" This guy isn't interested in a relationship, he's interested in, in this order: Sex, sex, beer, sex, porn, laundromat, sex, beer, KFC, sex. Unless it's his weekend to have the kids. On those days, he's interested in, in this order: kids, McDonalds, kids' movies, bedtime stories, Skype, online porn, sleep, kids, bicycle rides, Sunday night, "Bye! Daddy loves you!", beer, sex. 
* Next week: Even worse. The B.O.Y.V. Man-Whore.

Thursday, 30 August 2012


You know how sometimes, you look at your kid and you think, "How the hell did YOU come out of ME?" Because the child couldn't be less like you and if you hadn't been there for the whole drag-me-to-hell vaginal delivery, you'd seriously wonder if perhaps this little creature was someone else's DNA problem?

Walking her dogs in her bra.
Butt crack boy.
 Zoom in and feast your eyes!

Yeah, I don't know that feeling. Because all three of my daughters are chips off the old block in one way or another. And one of them IS the actual block, just  younger and more terrifying.

That would be my middle daughter, Jade. Aside from the fact that I am a 5'8'' horse of a woman and she is a petite 5'1" porcelain doll of a woman, she and I are twins separated at birth, by 25 years. 

She has all the same "issues" I have (no need to go into details ... although "unable to keep a secret" is definitely one of them), the same obsessions, same scandalous fashion sense,  the same smile and, above all, the same sense of humour.

At least once a day, this beloved spawn texts me a photo of something outrageous she has espied on the streets of her hometown, Kitchener-Waterloo. (The thought that she is packing her cellphone camera at all times, probably even while driving, quite literally toasts the cockles of my heart.) 

My little Latina netinha.
 Always smiling, and
always packin' camera. 
Because we are in the dying days of summer and because I like to laugh at other people, I am sharing these photos with you, along with Jade's cheeky observations. If I get hit by a Guinness truck tomorrow and can no longer carry on Whorrified's good work, I will die at peace knowing this little lady will step right into my slutty red satin shoes.  


I would ask that you refer to me 
from now on as Saint Snooki 
of the Bulging Brassieres  
While obsessively scanning the Internet for tidbits to feed my celebrity fetish, I came across this one: An article by a mommy blogger imploring us mean bitches to stop picking on Snooki because SHE HAS HAD A BABY NOW.

Excuse me?
Since when is this a direct route to sainthood? Because if that's the case, I've had three kids, so I should be sitting at the right hand of God passing the Virgin Mary the K-Y Jelly she loves to spread on her toast. (Oh, she doesn't have to know. Come on, people, she's a virgin!)

Anyway, this blogger, who writes well and fairly convincingly, urges us to remember what it was like to be young. (I ... no, sorry, I can't. That was two hundred and seven years ago. It's just too hard.) She writes, and I quote: 

"What if all the moms of the Internet united to give her some respite from all the venom? Let's remember how it felt when we held our babies for the first time. How we suddenly understood the love that only a mama can know... Snooki is a new mama now. And I'm going to go even one step further and be happy for her. And I think you should too."

And for a moment there, I feel myself softening. I feel a flicker, a twinge, of conscience. 

But it turns out it was just gas or something, because seconds later I feel fine again and I think, "Oh hell no." Just because Snooki gave birth to a cute little tot doesn't mean we have to forget that she's a cheap, tacky, fame-obsessed ninny. In fact, I look forward to YEARS of increasingly good Snooki material as the lad grows up to become ... oh, i don't know ... the president of the United States, maybe? Or a dance instructor or something.
In the meantime, I will say this: I don't wish Snooki any outright harm. But as a Twitterer by the name of Mr. Lady noted of Snooki yesterday afternoon: "If you build your empire on being an idiot, well, I have little pity for spades getting called spades."

Editor's note: To read the full blog by MamaPants on BlogHer, please click on Let's Be Happy for Snooki.


I witnessed an incident Monday evening involving a young woman and her partner at a No-Frills in Brampton. It was the kind of incident women would have various reactions to. Me, personally, it just made me sad.

feeling jealous because your husband
looked at THIS, you've got a problem. 
And the problem isn't me. (I've got my 
own problems. Such as why I can't 
stop myself from appearing in public
in a visor that should have been 
put down years ago.)

I've been thinking about it ever since, and have decided I need to write this letter of advice and support to her. So. To the young woman in No-Frills wearing a denim skirt, heavy eyeliner and an unhappy scowl: I couldn't help noticing that you were giving out all kinds of stink-eye to the many women your husband was ogling. Because I was one of those women, and therefore one of the recipients of your stink-eye. What I want to tell you, my sister, is that WE are not the problem. HE is.

I can already see that you are destined for a life of unhappiness with this boor. You are young and pretty and probably very nice, but he is making you doubt all of that.
We've all had one of these charmers in our lives, and here's the thing: They don't change. They just get worse. 
If you ask them, they deny it.
If you confront them, they blame you. 
You start to believe them, especially when the wrinkles and extra pounds creep up. And trust me, the wrinkles and extra pounds always, eventually, creep up. 

And speaking of wrinkles and extra pounds, notice that I showed up at No-Frills in my sweaty gym gear, frizzy hair and battered camouflage visor. I looked, to be blunt, like shit. And yet your hubby's wandering eye strayed my way ... because I am female and within 50 yards of him. With this type of "man," that's all it takes.

It doesn't have to be this way.
My advice to you is this: Dump the turd. 
Seriously. DUMP THE TURD! Do it now, before you breed with him. 
Because although you'd never know it if you spent a Saturday evening at my house, when the girls are gathered and the wine and smack talk are flowing freely, there are some really nice dudes out there. Dudes who will appreciate you. Who will respect you. Who will make you feel good about yourself. Who will actually help you do the grocery shopping instead of turning it into a stomach-wrenching ordeal that leaves you exhausted and full of self-loathing. You should find one of them.They are out there.
But first, you need to DUMP THE TURD. 
That, my sister, is all I wanted to say. Well that, and also I hope you visited the meat department, because there was an amazing deal on pork loin chops. $2.49 a pound!

Monday, 27 August 2012



A little bird told me . . . what I already knew. I've lived here for three years now and for three years I have been saying, "WTF? Where are the nice restaurants? Where are the quaint neighbourhoods? Where are the urban planners? How do they sleep at night?" It is a bulging, charmless goiter of a city that was allowed to get too big, too fast, a colony of suburbs gone stark raving mad. I once asked a neighbour: "What are some fun things to do in Brampton?" She laughed and said, "Go to Toronto." (Oh come on, Marie, you must be able to come up with something nice to say about your town! Hmm. Well, it has some pretty trails. I walk on one of them every single day and it really brightens my mood because I see flowers and bunnies and butterflies and signs that have been despoiled by birds with a sense of humour and perfect aim. Other than that? Uhm, yeah. No.)

Sunday, 26 August 2012



So here I sit, cradling my cup of coffee (with a splash of Bailey's) and watching the parade of smartly dressed neighbours get in their cars and go off to church. As I do every Sunday morning. And, as I do every Sunday morning, I experience a brief pang of I'm not sure what. Longing? Guilt? Regret?
Anyway, it passes as soon as I take a sip of  my coffee (with a splash of Bailey's. A fairly generous splash. In fact, it might be more accurate to say Bailey's with a splash of coffee).

You know that saying "Once a Catholic, always a Catholic"? You don't? That's because you're not Catholic. Anyway, trust me, it's true.
I was raised Catholic, did the whole first communion, confirmation, weekly mass and confession thing. (Although at the time, I didn't have much to confess: "I hate my friend because she has boobs and I don't." "I spent my milk money on chocolate bars." Fer feck's sake.)
Ironically, now that I'm old enough that my confessions would melt Father Angostura's ears off, I don't go anymore.
What happened was I turned 18, started researching my church ... and realized I disagreed with almost everything it stood for.

I haven't darkened the door of a Catholic church for many years now. I hear they're very happy about that. Apparently having someone heckling in the back pew just ruins the mood.
Still, it left its mark: Every time I get into a car, I make the sign of the cross. Every night at bedtime I say a prayer for my loved ones. Every time I get on a plane . . . well we don't have enough space here to describe the neurotic rituals that sets off. 
And there are certain things I miss about church: the sense of purpose, the sacred rituals. Particularly Sunday brunch. I was a big fan of the brunch.

Am I worried about blowing my shot at heaven? Well I  sank that boat a long time ago, but who wants to spend eternity with Vic Toews and Bill O'Reilly anyway? No, I've found that you can be an agnostic and still be a fairly spiritual and decent person. 
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and warm up my Bailey's with a little coffee. Have a wonderful Sunday, enjoy your church . . . and what the hell: if you're there anyway, you might as well say a prayer for me.