Monday, 17 April 2017

I HEREBY NOMINATE MYSELF FOR 'BEST FRIEND' STATUS

giant tiger, best friends, relationship advice, editorspick,
HAD I KNOWN I WOULD BE SPENDING HALF AN HOUR on the floor of a Giant Tiger store while on a distress call, I'd have done my hair and worn something nattier.

The call came, as most urgent calls do, at a most inconvenient time. I had just finished a workout at GoodLife and was dressed in my most craptastic sweats and, because some genius civic planner put a Giant Tiger right next-door to my gym, I figured I'd grab a few groceries before heading home to swill vodka and ignore the housework for the rest of the weekend. No one will accuse me of not budgeting my time wisely. 

So there I was, weighing the merits of no-name brand freezer bags versus the vastly more expensive but superior Glad freezer bags, when I felt my phone vibrate. GODDAMIT! I huffed, it's probably one of my obnoxious exes calling to tell me he can't live without me. BLAHBLAHBLAH if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one. 

But then I saw the name on the caller ID and realized it was actually someone I like. In fact a dear friend.
I hesitated the merest fraction of a second ... I was mid-shopping, after all ... and then answered.
"Good morning you contagious slut!" I said breezily.
The slight pause was my first clue.
The catch in her voice when she said "Fuck off you dirty whore," was my second clue. She usually says that with such affectionate panache.
"Hey," I said, a little offstride. "You okay?"

RELATED: Whorrified's super fantastic excellent dating tips
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Well that was all it took. A flood of hiccupy tears and confessions followed and so I stepped out of the checkout queu, pacing and clucking and huffing, "He didn't! No way! The bastard!" at all the right places, but it soon became evident this was a much more indepth crisis. This was, in fact, a meltdown. 

So as my friend poured her heart out about her very bad Friday night and her confusion over who was actually to blame for what had transpired ... (Bestie Rule No. 1: It's ALWAYS his fault. Even if it's her fault) ... I was drawn more and more into the orbit of crisis and out of the orbit of shopping until finally I figured "Feck it," and just plopped the grocery basket on the floor and sat down beside it and gave myself over completely to listening. 

Finally, after about 15 minutes, my friend started to sound like herself again. 
"What's all that beeping?" she asked. "Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm sitting on the floor of Giant Tiger, with my grocery basket beside me. In my hoodie," I said. "Everybody's looking at me like I'm a vagrant. If Giant Tiger had a budget for security, they'd be harassing the hell out of me right now."

My friend laughed. It was a good sound. 
"Omigod," she said. "You're trying to do your shopping and your crazy friend calls and has a five-alarm crying jag. You should blog about this!"
"Oh, honey, trust me," I said, as I snapped a selfie. "I plan to."
"That's hilarious!" she chirped. "You cheered me up so much! Thanks for listening. Oh ... and, er, you won't mention my name, right?"
"Of course not, you herpes-infested harlot," I retorted.

"Thanks beyotch," she tossed back. "You're the best."
Ahhh, friendship. It makes up for all the shitty things being a woman has to offer. 

Friday, 14 April 2017

ON THE PLUS SIDE, WE DID REMEMBER TO SAY GRACE

Piggly Wiggly, Things on Piggly's Head, Whorrified, Brampton,
ME: HAHA! IT'S THE EASTER PIGGLY!
Mother Hen: "Who put that baby in the swing
 without buckling her in? I WANT NAMES!"


I realize I thoroughly Easterblogged you yesterday, but I thought I'd update you with a few pithy anecdotes about the beautiful madness that is my family. We gathered at my younger daughter's home, the rule being that the person with the youngest child, the biggest house and the healthiest food gets to host the party. If I were her I'd start stocking the larder with pork rinds and tube cheese before the constant hosting drives her to a breakdown. The poor girl hasn't been guestless since the baby was born.  

The best part of our family get-togethers is the juxtaposition of eccentrics. On Easter, there was my firstborn, the mother hen ("Has everybody washed their hands?"), my second daughter the organic hostess, her husband, their baby  Piggly Wiggly, my brother, my Mom (the author), my moron editor (I had to bring him; the homeless shelter was closed) and of course, me (the eye candy).

We were gabbing and gossiping and enjoying the traditional Easter dinner of madras chicken and osso bucco favoured by all families who don't eat ham because it reminds them of a certain pig dog, but I had the niggling sense that something wasn't quite right. 
Finally, after the third shot of Hornitos, it hit me. "Hey! We haven't put anything on Piggly Wiggly's head!" 

A deadly quiet fell over the room while we looked at each other as if to say "Nobody thought to bring a hooker wig? What kind of family are we?" But then Piggly's mom produced a pair of bunny ears and we all took pictures for a solid half-hour. "Try one with the flash!" "Turn her around and take her from this angle!" "See if you can get her to smile; tilt the ears; try it with backlighting; just one more!" 
If that child doesn't grow up thinking Easter is about how Christ died on the cross to escape the throngs of madras-scented paparazzi, it will be a miracle.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why do those bunny ears look so familiar?
MY NOTE: Because I was wearing them the night you met me at the Playboy Club. Which reminds me, you never did tip me.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Take if off the paycheque you've owed me for about three months now.
MY NOTE: *whips out notepad, affixes pentagram sticker beside 'Moron Editor' column* Great idea!

Wednesday, 12 April 2017

I'M OBVIOUSLY GOING TO HAVE MY WORK CUT OUT FOR ME

easter, piggly wiggly, things on piggly wiggly's head,
OH, YOUR FAMILY HAS EASTER EGG HUNTS?  
Well Piggly Wiggly's mom is more of a "Let's put things on the baby's head" kinda hostess. 
(See the interactive image below for more kneeslappin' good times.)

Happy Easter, everyone! Like most lapsed Catholics, I sometimes have to remind myself that this is in fact a deeply religious observance as opposed to just a three-day weekend which, after the week I just had, is as much of a miracle as the fact that Jesus our Saviour rose from the dead to hunt Easter eggs. 

I will be spending the blessed holiday with family at my daughter's home, where I can cuddle my beloved Piggly Wiggly and make sure her mom doesn't get out of hand with the head ornaments. This sort of thing can rapidly escalate from amusing prank to dangerous habit, as I learned when I tried it on the pig dog using a bowl of scalding chowder instead of a wig. The drama! The screeching! The mess! Although the aroma of chowder-dipped swine was oddly delectable and lingered for days afterwards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pour a martini and bark orders at the moron who's cooking the osso bucco I will bring to my daughter's and tell everyone I made myself. Oh ... and my wigs. I have to sort my wigs. If we're going to be putting things on Piggly Wiggly's head all bloody weekend, the least I can do as her grandmother is make sure they are worthy. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: *samples sauce, kisses fingertips* Magnifique! It's like velvet!
MY NOTE: *tosses empty bottle of Grey Goose in general direction of stovetop* Stop tonguing the osso bucco and come help me find my transvestite hooker wig! It's my favourite. 

EASTER EXTRA: HOVER OVER the pic below for captions.