My coworker/very close friend/future business partner/person who points out out the weird things I do and the true meaning behind it/ just pointed out that the only time she sees me blushing and giggling these days is when I am talking about my dog.
This is not a good thing, is it?

(for the record, I didn't dress him up and take this picture. My younger, cooler brother did-for proof of his coolness check out the first link in my links)

Motivational Video

So I find myself watching this Beyoncé video nearly once a week.

I'm not even a big Beyoncé fan, in fact, I don't think I own a full album of hers.

But on the night of the 2010 Grammys, this performance gave me maximum, full body goosebumps and I was totally captivated. (Until my brother pointed out how much the female drummer looked like Rhianna and concluded that "she must have held a female band member audition, found the one who looked the absolute most like Rhianna and then given her the most degrading position in the band" briefly breaking my trance like captivity to ponder the undeniable likelyhood of this scenario)

She is 3 years older than me and has done more in her 29 years than I will ever do in my entire lifetime. (not that any of my life goals have ever included singing in an S&M inspired outfit, to a room full of legends, including husband Jay Z in the front row) But she had her own dream and she made that shit happen!

So when I am having those "wonder women" days, those days when I can't stop patting myself on the back for "straight taking care of BIDNESS!!!" (A phrase I may be heard yelling from my desk from time to time, usually after a few too many Tall, Starbucks House blends)
I use this video to knock myself off my over-sized pedestal and realize that I ain't taking care of nothing in comparison to some people.

Conversely, when I am having a self-pity-my-life-is-shit day, I pop it on for a quick jolt of stimulation.

So Beyoncé: (I know you reading this guuurrrl!!) As a thank you, I'm going send you a video of my boss busting me, mid finger waving...ear phones full blasting...getting my weekly hit of Beyonce style inspiration up in my office!

Guaranteed to keep you motivated to stay up where you are!!

Hot Dog Sausage!!!!

4 o'clock. Friday afternoon.

The office is a buzz. There is even a bowl of caramel popcorn in the servery. It's summertime and the weekend is eminent.
The globe is at the most perfect angle to the sun/moon/universe.

I know I said a couple posts back that an official ban has been put on bloggin about men...but I am lifting the ban for a quick second.
Not to talk about men but about my boys, the homies that have made up my posse since I was 12.

Tomorrow afternoon I get to watch one of my best friend's Dad get re-married.

Niall's mom sadly passed away soon after we met in grade 8.

So I have only known the O'Doherty family as being Niall and his two ridiculously amazing siblings, with papa dukes at the helm.

Mr. O'Doherty is your classic, country Irish man who throws the wildest Christmas night party I've ever been to.

The annual event gets started around 10 pm on the night of the 25th.
You are greeted at the door with a shot of Stoli Vodka and a jar to toss your car keys into and it usually ends around 6 AM on the screened in back porch, surrounded by so many faces, some regulars, some you only see on this one night a year, belting out a rowdy, slurry, version of Molly Malone!

It is one of the greatest nights of the year and SO looked forward to by all who attend. And it usually takes me until about New Years Eve to fully recover.

Mr. O'Doherty is the definition of a stand up guy and I couldn't be happier that he has been lucky enough to find love twice in his lifetime.

What makes me almost as giddy as realizing that this kind of luck exists, is thinking about the fact that I get to spend all day tomorrow with my favourite dudes in the world! Eating good food, drinking good drink and dancing our asses off!

For years and years these boys played the most central part to all my plans.
From summer camp to Vans Warped tours to all those nights drinking in elementary school playgrounds.
First day of high school, first day of university, even with me on the day my big brother got married (drunkenly confessing that my speech brought them to tears but that they didn't dare actually cry)

I'm hard pressed to find a meaningful memory that they aren't a part of.

It's so easy to tell my girls that I couldn't live a day without them (and my GOD i don't even want to picture it) but its harder with the boys.

It was easier to drift further from the boys.

Boyfriends get in the way, girlfriends get in the way.

Jobs, distance, travel.

Life comes along and all the sudden you realize that you haven't had a good old fashioned "venga bus" party in a whole year. And that's a crime.

So I hope Papa O'Doherty has hired a DJ with a repertoire that includes at least one Venga Boys song, and if not he better have OMC "How Bizarre" as a back up...or else he is in for a world of pain.

I cannot wait until the wee hours of tomorrow morning, for the sun coming back up over the horizon, and for the sweet, sweet sound of my boys, who are now grown men, screaming "hot dog sausage!!!" into the sky, hoping a hot dog stand will materialize out of thin air.

Dont Call It A Comeback

Kayne just leaked a new track off his album and I've had it on repeat ALL morning long.


His track record over the last little while had me thinking that the Mr. West, responsible for getting me back into hip hop back in 2004, had lost his magic touch.

Between 808's & Heartbreaks (no hate, I respect that he put out a ballsy album but it wasn't true to form) and the Taylor Swift incident...I had pretty much thrown in the towel and settled for listening to College Dropout, Late Registration and The Graduation on an infinite loop for the rest of my life.

BUT his first single "Power" and now this latest leaked track with Beyonce has fully restored my confidence.

Kanye fell off the map for a while, rumour has it he interned at Fendi in Italy...

Whatever it is he did, it WORKED! and he is back with the familiar, fool proof, based up tracks and "did he just actually say that?" lyrics!!

So now with all my worries assuaged, I can go back to sleeping well at night...Thanks Yeezy!

PEEP IT!

Too Much Boo Hoo Not Enough Ha Ha

I've been writing this long, drawn out blog for over a month now.

It started off the same as always;
I got a bee in my bonnet about being dead inside, about not having it in me to crave relationships the way all my other girlfriends do. What from my past made me like this? and what in my future might this "disorder" affect?

Ordinarily, I get totally obsessed with exercising my demons in writing. My pulse gets erratic, my palms sweat and my general functionality is, temporarily but very noticeably, restricted.

As I worked on this latest attempt to publicly "therapize" my inexplicably warped view of relationships, it didn't feel it.
That necessary yet painful expulsion feeling was missing.

I thought long and hard as to what the cause may be.

I briefly dabbled with the idea of writing a blog on why I had lost the urge to write blogs...When it hit me:

I don't care anymore.

I'm fucked up and hey that's cool with me.

I want a man who doesn't exist.

I want a tall, dark, handsome, rugged man (like always has stubble, maybe doesn't even own a razor? type of rugged)

He wears a t-shirt and jeans during the work week, a tool belt on the weekends and his dog is his best friend.

He is super manly, like loves sports and meatloaf and beer and drives a truck!
He doesn't induce my claustrophobia panic attacks, he isn't needy, he isn't overly affectionate, he doesn't always have to be touching me, he doesn't mind that I am not all that lady-like, and he's not into PDA*


*sneaking off to do bad things in public places doesn't count as PDA. I'm talking gay PDA, like making out on a blanket in Trinity Bellwoods PDA.


Basically my dream man is the Denny Duckett character of Grey's Anatomy fame.
But Dr. Izzy Stephen's cut the L-VAT wire and now Denny is dead.
Dream Man dead = no point in stressing and trying to find him!! Liberating.

I am taking a hiatus from blogging about men.

I am taking a hiatus from talking about men on all platforms really.

I don't know if it's that the subject has been talked to death.
Or if it's because lately I find myself stuck in dimly lit corners of bars talking to silly boys of no interest to me, just so that I have something interesting to say at breakfast the next day.
Maybe it's the realization that intelligent, stimulating conversations that do not involve men happen every day!
Or I am realizing that the more we talk about them the more layered our fucked-up-ness becomes!!
More than likely it is because I am insanely self absorbed and don't have a man to talk about right now so I have lost all interest in the opposite sex (ding ding ding!!)
Maybe I am a lesbian!!

Again, I don't care!!!

Hiatus starts NOW...now lets see if I can make as far as the bathroom down the hall, without the mention of "those whom shall not be named"

Payce!!

Shoo Fuck.with.er!!! Dont bother me!

Fuckwith-er: (pronounced fuck- with-her) (noun);

A species of human which hurtles through life corrupting everything around him or her at break neck speed.

Typically a fuckwith-er can be identified by a debilitating "me" complex, similar to that of a terrible-two-year old, whose brain is not yet developed enough to fully grasp the broad concept of human interaction.

A fuckwith-er doesn’t appear overly dramatic to the untrained eye, but their obsession with themselves creates a similar fallout to that of a comet entering the earth’s atmosphere, burning everything it rubs up against.

Watching this species in its natural habitat can be most fascinating, as long as you’re not the person getting burned.

The fuckwith-er regularly confuses himself with a smooth operator. This confusion is heightened in direct proportion to the amount of drinks consumed, and it’s this aspect of his behaviour that is most entertaining to an observer.

In his mind he is a stealth manipulator, manoeuvring through a crowd with Clooney-esk charm and affability. Bystanders watch in awe, slack jawed, basking in the glow of his sheer brilliance. If you are an experienced and cautious enough observer, you may be lucky enough to catch him on a bathroom break, high-fiving himself in the mirror.

A fuckwith-er is blissfully unaware that, in reality, he is giving his spectators a sensation similar to what it feels like when watching an amateur magician lighting his own hair on fire during the pyrotechnical portion of his gig: a mixture of horror (‘cause of the hair burning part) and guilt (for wanting to laugh at this soon to be disfigured fellow).

I am lucky enough to be very close with one member of this rare species. For many years, my weekends have consisted of watching him fuck with anything and everything he can get his hands on.

Sometimes the motivation for his fuckwittage is clear: he is trying to get laid. But, more often than not, the motivation is buried so deep in his psyche that even he has no idea why he is acting so recklessly.

Back in February, my lil fuckwith-er screwed up SO badly, I was forced to quarantine him. I felt like a new puppy owner doling out my first dose of tough love, reminding myself that he needed to experience what it feels like to suffer the consequences of actions taken.

This past Saturday night I was feeling overly forgiving and decided I was going to see if this two-month absence from my life had any effect.

This little experiment proved only one thing: fuckwith-ers are hardwired to fuck with you for life.

Sure enough the evening started off fine, but by last call he had started so many fires among friends, acquaintances, and fellow bar patrons that the level of damage was almost impressive.

I waited for him to finish off with the classic closing scene: a traditional brawl with the bouncers... but thankfully this was narrowly avoided as he sailed into the night with his latest conquest (a friend whom I had begged him not to hit on.)

You see, once a fuckwith-er's targets have been set, all reason and judgement fades into a blurry mess of white noise resulting in severe tunnel- vision. Their field of sight is so restricted that they are barely even able to make out what their end-goal is. They just have this undeniable urge to disturb the shit and can’t rest until they can declare a job well done.

Still feeling the after effects of this weekend by hump-day has pushed me to design a new experiment for myself in which I weed out anyone or thing that makes shit worse instead of better...

Straight forward? Simple?

A pilgrimage, if you will, toward a mystical drama- free land... which more than likely does not exist.

I don’t wanna go all totalitarian dictator on everyone here, but I am declaring personal war on this kind of folk...

Shit, call it an official apartheid for all I care.

My life is now an F.F.Z. (fuckwith-er free zone) and I invite you all to join me and to swallow my propaganda whole.

Slow Day

So cliché to write about boys. But if writing is a release of what is stuck on my mind then so be it to death.

Someone recently said of me that I am the type of girl who, when the guy meets me, he’ll know right then and there.

I think the implication was that when it comes to me, you have to be all in or all out.

It sounds limiting but at the same time… I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I have a big personality, and no desire to take it down…even a notch. So I fully understand and support a love it or hate it approach to me.

That’s how I have always pictured it happening for me. Instant.

Boy walks in, opens his mouth, says the most intelligent/hilarious/coolest shit you have ever heard…I retaliate with something smarter/funnier/cooler .
We then fall in love, get married, have kids, get old and die together. Without even an ounce of hard work put in between the two us. Easy. Breezy. Lazy

My biggest fear is falling victim to the trap.

The trap being: a boy liking you being enough of a reason to like him back.

I used to think of myself as someone who could make it work with anyone.

However, announcing this little introspection at a recent dinner with my nearest and dearest was met with uproarious opposition. A “you’re delusional” quip even got dropped.

I thought this way because at one point in time, I was making it work with “anyone.” And this self-reflection was something I was almost proud of.

At dinner one night, I sat across from “anyone” while he droned on about operating budgets, failing to notice my eyes glazing over, and I literally thought to myself “I can make it work with anyone. I’m a real catch!!”

Anyone rarely made me laugh and I don’t recall him ever saying anything remarkable. He was a nice enough guy, but when it came down to it the only thing interesting to me was that he was interested in me.

Being interested in someone interested in me caused dependencies to form, habits to be confused with genuine feelings and in the end my heart got a beating over something mediocre.

Clichés abound here but Im going to throw in another. I am in a really good place right now, and I don’t want it compromised with subpar fuckwittage and unnecessary drama.

So yes, my demand for fireworks, supernovas, earth shattering encounters, are of prima donna-esk proportions. But im hoping it will keep me out of the trap.


Meeting that dude that makes all the bullshit worth the effort has yet to happen for me in the first 25 years of my life, but I’ve got a good feeling about the next 25.

Stay tuned for the inevitable, "I met this guy, and I guess he is sorta cute, and a lil bit funny, but I am sure that he is the ONE" blog.