Saturday, 22 September 2012


You do? Good, because your foot is going to be spending a lot of time in your mouth 
if you don't commit this post to memory.

In this ongoing public service series, we attempt to take male sensitivity training to the next level. This is not an easy task, but nothing worthwhile is easy, so we mustn't be discouraged. In today's instalment, we review "things you must never, ever say to a woman." This lesson was prompted by an actual conversation between a male co-worker in his 30s and a female in her, ehm, more-than-30s, about a presentation to be made the next day. It was all going calmly enough until she told him who she would be referencing. And then suddenly . . .

Her: (Shrieking) "Oh my God, you just insulted me!"
Him: (Baffled) “What did I say?”
Her: “You said I’m old!”
Him: (Blushing) “No I didn’t, I said I think you should provide more information for the younger people."
Her: "Aaaagghhh!"
Him: "I mean, cuz, they won't know who you're talking about."
Her: "Aaaagghhh!"

At this point, other co-workers started chiming in.
"Nice one!" 
“How could you say that?”

Him: "What? I just meant for the people who weren’t born yet."
Me: (Hissing) "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Him: "But, the generational difference . . . "
Everyone else: “Jeez Louise. Get him out of here before he gets castrated.”

OK, guys, here's the deal. Any time, ANY TIME, you think there is a legitimate point to be made about a woman's age, three hundred brazillion red flags should go up. A deafening alarm should go off in your head. And a jagged metal trap should (figuratively speaking of course, no need to get violent here) clamp down on your jaw and prevent you from uttering a single goddam word. This is just the way it is, and the sooner you learn to roll with it, the better.
Some other deadly topics you should avoid:

Visible weight gain. Do not comment.
Visible fatigue. Do not comment. Tell a woman she looks tired and this is what she hears: "HAG! HAG! HAG!"
Suspected pregnancy. Do not ask. (The only time it is safe to ask a woman if she is pregnant is if she's lying on the floor screaming and you can see the baby's head. In all other cases, she may just be getting fat.)
Suspected cosmetic procedures. Do not ask. Just tell her she looks great and everyone gets out alive.

And that's it. That's all there is to this lesson. It's that simple. So go in peace, my male friends . . .  and in silence. It's safer that way.

Friday, 21 September 2012


Kelsey Grammer, their daughter Mason, Camille 
and Camille's implants, before the split. (And is it 
just me or does that poor kid look like she's thinking, 
"Just once I'd like to have a picture of me where 
CreStock  photo


Kelsey Grammer pulled a hissy fit of Billy Bob Thornton-esque proportions last night before the Piers Morgan show. Kelsey was supposed to spend an hour blathering with Piers about . . . oh I don't know, whatever lame shit he's up to these days, my eyes glazed over when Frasier ended, really. But then Piers' "people" went and flashed a photo of Frasier's Kelsey's ex, Camille, and her breast implants enjoying a day at the beach. I'm not sure what the point of that was, but apparently Kelsey felt the point was to poke him in the arse with a red-hot "GOTCHA," because his immediate reaction was to storm out of the building and refuse to ever talk to Piers Morgan again.

So I'm guessin' there's some animosity between Kelsey and the ex. Which is fine; as a frequently divorced woman myself, I totally get that. I heartily approve of it, even. However, I would never be so silly as to let the entire United States of America have a field day with it. 

Besides, if he really detests Camille that much, he may want to rethink his tactics. Because I wouldn't have been interested in photos of what's-her-name before this incident. But now?  Now everyone wants to see them. Even you, I'm sure. (Take a quick peek HERE, while no one's looking.) 
What I find interesting about the photos is not that Camille looks hot at 44 (most of my 44-year-old friends do), but rather that her industrial-strength implants appear to be mounted on cantilevered pulleys that move in completely opposite directions at all times. What is also interesting is that she seems quite happy about her new single status. Giddy, even. Whereas Kelsey seems as pinched and tetchy as a senior citizen bending over for his monthly prostate exam.

Kelsey, lighten up, man. First of all, you look foolish. Second of all, you just gave the insufferable Piers Morgan a total ratings goose. And third, that one person you clearly despise? The one of whom we must not speak? You just made her day. And possibly even her career.
Now off you go. See if you can find another talk show host who wants to chat about your new show, "Boss." Or Toss. Or Spaz or Pizz or whatever the heck it's called. I don't know and I don't care, because right now, I'm much more interested in Googling "Camille+Photos+Breasts."

Thursday, 20 September 2012


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

Nah, we're just mates, innit? 
Me 'n' 'im just do our
  arsaners together.

Sometimes when I get lonely, which is almost never because all I do is work and eat, 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, top 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."

Asana? Yoga? 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!  MORE KOOL-AID!!!


And because you women can't be trusted 
not to tear the flesh right off my bones, 
I've had a 6.7-metre chrome impersonator
made in my likeness. Enjoy him while you can. 

Some things sound, in theory, like a very good idea. Like a big, shiny, macho, 7-metre tall David Beckham statue, for example. A statue such as the one that has come to Toronto for a brief but sexy fling. ("Stay." I meant "stay." Sometimes my hormones take over and decide they're going to do the thinking. Which explains some of my mood swings and all of my ex-boyfriends.)

The gargantuan chrome-plated Becks was installed yesterday at Toronto's Eaton Centre, where he towers over the H&M store wearing nothing but skivvies. He is also extremely anatomically correct, which, when you factor in the 6.7-metre proportional equation, is really quite arresting.
So yes, obviously, so far this is sounding like a brilliant bloody idea. But whoever cooked up this publicity stunt didn't really think it through, or they'd have realized that, in actuality, lives could be at stake. 

This I know for a fact, because, well . . . first, let me say in my own defence that you couldn't really blame someone for throwing herself at such a statue and shrieking "Choose Me! CHOOSE ME!" the first time she laid eyes on it, could you? Or for almost toppling the poor shiny bugger over onto all those shoppers looking on, pretending they hadn't been about to do the very same thing. I mean, he's just so very shiny. And those skivvies! They were just asking for trouble erecting him here in those things.
Anyway, nobody was hurt, and big shiny Becks didn't actually topple over, and I subsequently made a substantial purchase of a belt and a blouse and a pair of jeans, so that should make up for any embarrassment I may have caused the staff.  

And just in case you're thinking, "My God, the woman is barking mad," here's a link to a photo of this blatant MILF bait so you can see for yourself. Click here, at Big Shiny Becks. Yeah, that's right. You'd have lunged at that like a water buffalo in high mating season, and you know it. Thank the living lord Jesus (and his previously unknown wife), it's only here until Sunday.

Monday, 17 September 2012


I'm playing it pretty cool after realizing I'm sitting beside actor Tai Bennett at TIFF.

This may be more information than any of you needed, but if I let that stop me, this blog wouldn't even exist. So the information is: I am no longer a TIFF virgin. After many years of saying "I should do it," I finally did it. I went to the Toronto International Film Festival. And because "first times" aren't always great, I made sure to do it with a trusted friend who has done TIFF many times and knows what she's talking about. As in:
  • "No you are NOT wearing those ridiculous red stilettos because we're going to be walking and lining up for hours."
  • "No we are NOT bringing your life-sized Ryan Gosling doll; Ryan won't be there and even if he was, he wouldn't sign that thing." 
  • "No we are NOT staying up till 2 a.m. the night before, talking about your blog and thinking of rude words that rhyme with Kardashian. We have to be there at 7 a.m. to get tickets. Good night."
And she was right about everything. (Except my Ryan Gosling doll. I've never been away from him for quite that long and it just didn't feel right. Then when I got home he was in an entirely different position than the one I left him in, so he clearly had some kind of episode.)
I didn't realize TIFF entailed so much walking and waiting and lining up and I was a little cranky about that at first. But just when I was on the verge of barking, "This is crap! I HATE TIFF!" in that drama queen way that always emerges when my bladder is full, my stomach is empty and my feet hurt, the lights went down and my very first TIFF movie began.  
And that's when everything changed.

We saw Imogene with Kristen Wiig, Annette Bening and Matt Dillon. People laughed and cried and chatted with strangers sitting beside them and interacted with the show in a way you don't see at regular screenings. It was, quite simply, magical.
Next, we saw The Reluctant Fundamentalist, a political thriller starring Liev Shrieber, Kate Hudson and a knock-your-socks-off Riz Ahmed. I was really getting into TIFF mode now, so before it started I chatted up the urbane young man sitting beside me, who told me he was visiting from Los Angeles and had seen oodles of movies that weekend, including "John Dies At the End." 
"I've heard of that," I said. "How was it?"
"I liked it," he said. "I'm in it, but I have to say I liked it."
Wait. What? So I'm losing my TIFF virginity AND I'm seeing awesome movies AND I'm sitting beside an actual actor? Well of course I do what anyone would do. I tousle my hair fetchingly and shove my cellphone at my friend.

"Psst, girlfriend, quick, take my picture with this guy before the movie starts. He's a celebrity!" 

Editor's note: Geez, this woman. "Me! Me! Me!" What she fails to mention and what is far more interesting than the state of her bladder or her hair is the fact that the actor she met has a name. That being Tai Bennett, in case any of you want to watch for him in John Dies at the End. (And I sure hope he doesn't play "John." Because that guy dies, at the end.)


Look at this face! Someone must be dating 
this face! And I want to know who. 
WHO, gaddamit?

I went to The Eden Mills Writers Festival on Saturday. I don't usually go in for "festivals" unless they are outdoors and involve Caribbean food, dancing and feathered costumes, but this one had the lure of Jian Ghomeshi as a keynote speaker. For those who aren't aware, Ghomeshi is the guy who brought CBC Radio back from the near-dead. He's the butter-smooth host of Q, purveyor of thoughtful, indepth interviews, endurer of world's biggest interview buffoon, Billy Bob Thornton, and a first-time author. (1982 arrives in bookstores this week.)

He is also the closest thing grown women have to One Direction. 
The excited, estrogen-loaded lineup to see this guy was unbelievable. There were tween girls, teen girls, young women, middle-aged women, old women, mothers with infants, lined up by the hundreds, out the door and around the block. Anyway, Ghomeshi read from his book and then opened the floor to questions. "Ask me anything. It doesn't have to be about the book . . . it can be about absolutely anything." 
And the one question I wanted to ask, because no one ever asks it, is "Are you dating anyone? And if not, why not?"  

I wanted to ask this not because I am secretly interested in dating him (or anyone else for that matter), but because this has actually become one of the Sphinx-like mysteries of Canada's social scene. I mean, the guy is 45, whip-smart, funny, gregarious, successful, attractive, apparently decent, family-oriented and heterosexual. Yet you never, ever hear about his romantic involvements.
"He's a workaholic," explained one friend. 
"He's shy," said another. 
"No, he's just . . . like, probably most women just seem stupid to him," opined another.
"Actually he probably dates like crazy but Canadians don't report about stuff like that," said yet another.
None of these answers satisfied, because none of them were coming from the ghomesh's mouth.
Being of a nosy inquisitive nature, I should have been the one to put up my hand and ask the question. But I couldn't because I didn't want everyone to gawk at me and think, "Yeah, the cougar wants to know if you're available." 
So until Canada gets a plague of paparrazi locusts such as has afflicted the U.S., or until I drum up the nerve to ask him my damn self, this will remain a mystery. 
In the meantime, I will have to content myself with looking for clues in 1982. So far, "Wendy" is looking like a person of interest . . . 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Here's a clue! In this interview (, Jian describes himself as "romantic!" And . . . well that's all he says about that, but still. It's a clue. Sort of.
SMARTER EDITOR'S NOTE: Holy shit. And then this happened ... 


At the head of the puppy mill operation we have mom, Kris, far right; then Kim in the 
green dress; Khloe in red; Kourtney in white . . . and the two mysterious new arrivals. I have no idea what their names are but I'd like to vote for "Kash-Money" and "Ka-Ching."

Well here's something you don't see too often: A PHOTO OF THE KARDASHIANS! Yes, I know, we need another of these like Nicole Kidman needs more botox, but what's unique about this one is the terrifying math that's going on here. I mean, last time I looked, there were only three of these kritters we had to "keep up with." Now suddenly, two more of them have appeared, apparently miraculously exiting the womb at a fully formed 15 years of age. These creatures are multiplying at a speed that cannot be explained by logic or nature. How does brood mare Kris Kardashian-Jenner-O'Jay manage to keep producing all of these profitable girl children, anyway? And more to the point, can someone make her stop? I realize that her birth canal has made more money than the Franklin Mint, but she is really starting to  scare me. 


I can see God! Wait, no . . . that's not . . . AAAARRRGH!
 Shutterstock photo

You know those people who are always telling you you should try yoga? That it will make you limber and zen and introduce you to a spirituality you never thought you'd experience until the afterlife? 
Don't you secretly long to tell them to bugger off? I know I do. 
Well guess what? Now you can. Not only that, but you can feel good about it, because you just may be saving their pious, limber lives. According to this article at 'healthzone', certain poses that look death-defying because they are can kill you. Quite literally, kill you.
This is fantastic news. I had been looking for an excuse not to ever have to do yoga, and excuses don't get much better than this.
Pious, limber friend: Why won't you come to hot yoga with me?
Me: Because I might DIE! End of story. Now can we drink?