File under fuuuuck: I bought property a long time ago and now I have to pay for it!

So, I bought a condo. Ahem, a loft (but I pronounce it lauuuuft, in the way I bet Alexis Carrington would), a year and a half ago. Here's the thing about making major purchases roughly 547 days before you have to start paying for them: you never remember how much you paid, how much you owe, what those bloody maintenance fees are, and you're never prepared for what a kick in the balls it is when your debts catch up to you. I much prefer to rent. I just write one cheque per month that goes to some magical place inhabited by the elves and fairies who keep my apartment toasty warm and somewhat free of roaches. (There was a minor thing last year; it was my filthy neighbour's fault; I had him evicted.) Also, everyone was all, "oh, it'll be at least two years before it's ready," and "you'll be lucky if you ever move in," and "don't worry about the money." (That last one was courtesy of my parents who pronounce 'money' like normals would 'Ikea monkey' or 'Rob Ford.' I don't know where they thought I'd magically come up with this money since I haven't earned a steady paycheque in over six years. But, you know, semantics.)

The move-in date is really near. Like, really near. Like, I have to start getting boxes and stuff, and packing and stuff, and writing cheques neither my ass nor my bank account can cash. It's moderately scary. All I can say about Christmas this year is SHAMPOO SAMPLES FOR EVERYBODY! Hell, I'll see if the bank will accept high-end beauty products as payment. Bring back the barter system, I say.

I've got a new couch lined up, and I bought a fancy vacuum cleaner. But that's about it for furniture. So, if more than three of you come to visit, rest assured the hardwood (ok, it's laminate, but it's good laminate) you're sitting on is devoid of dog hair because DYSON.

Wish me luck, guys. I've never been good with this 'adulthood' thing, or that whole 'earning money' schtick. But please come visit. And when you do, bring leftovers. 

Can we please stop talking about Sex and the City?

My distaste for the Sex and the City franchise has been well documented on this blog and others. I'm particularly resentful of the mixed messages it sends young and impressionable women — the all-consuming search for a man detracts from the strong/independent/successful woman archetype the show seemingly strove to depict. There's nothing wrong with seeking out love, obviously, but I doubt if women with such powerful careers and ambitions can really dedicate that much time to it. Also, I'd like to believe that women in general are much more multifaceted and spend at least some time focusing on current events, culture, physical activity and cerebral stimulation. I feel like brunch with this foursome would be so tedious when all they talk about is dick. You know I'd be the one to be all, "Did you guys hear about that crack-smoking mayor in Toronto? What a douchenozzle!" Also, no freelance writer makes enough dough to support that serious a designer accessory addiction. Trust me, I've had to learn that the hard way.

But I do think that maybe it's time to stop talking about it. I mean, the show ended in 2004, and although we've been assaulted with two fairly terrible, and in the case of the second one, culturally and intellectually offensive movies, in addition to a prequel television series (which I haven't seen but imagine is sufficiently painful to watch), I think it's time we all stepped away from any discussion surrounding SATC. Especially since it always goes back to the original television series, which is no longer relevant today. So why did ELLE run a story last week titled 7 Ways Sex and the City Has Lied to Women? Are we really still turning to this show for guidance?

I'll admit that I still fall prey to referencing it from time to time. Last year I wrote a story about poop (no, seriously) and I made a SATC reference — namely, how one character says that on her first trip away with a new boyfriend, she spent the weekend running down to the lobby toilets to take a dump, which let's be honest, we can pretty much all associate with — and my editor flagged it and asked me to make a more timely pop cultural reference. I realized then that it wasn't worth discussing anymore, and also that I probably needed to watch more TV and/or read People Magazine. (For the record, I replaced it with a reference to 30 Rock, which I think we can all agree is timeless and AWESOME.) But it also made me feel old to be talking about SATC the television show. It ended a long time ago and is off most peoples' radar. (As an aside, I also made a Rodney Dangerfield comment to my boyfriend the other day and he promptly pointed out that if I was going to continue to pass myself off as a 28-year-old, I'd have to stop quoting the likes of Rodney Dangerfield and M*A*S*H.)

As far as divisive topics go, I can see how SATC would inspire debate among a certain generation of women, though I doubt if it's one for the ages. While I recognize its appeal — it looked pretty, depicted an exciting city and indulged in raunch — I think it also belongs to a bygone era of a pre-recessionary America where conspicuous consumption was de rigueur with no didacticism in between. One could argue that Mad Men also belongs to a bygone era of affluence and a shamelessly celebrated distinction between the haves and the have-nots. But it also shines a light on the disparity among race, class and gender, how those disparities reached fever pitch and how they changed the face of the world forever. So, no, I don't believe that Sex and the City taught us anything or highlighted any events of great importance to turn-of-the-century America. And for that reason, among many others, I implore you to stop talking about it.

Today, I am resentful for

It's Thanksgiving Day Of Turkey And Pie Oh My God My Cousin From Atlanta Got Fat And If One More Person Asks Me If I Have A Boyfriend Yet I'm Going To Kill Myself in America. Happy Turkey Day, y'all! I gotta admit, I really wish it was Thanksgiving here too. I could totally go for some turkey right now. And stuffing, uuuggghhhhhhllllllll stuuuuuuffiiiiiiinnnnng. As my dear friends to the south (aka. Canada's pants) scurry home to their respective families to indulge in cholesterol-y deliciousness and the indigestion that comes with listening to their racist aunt's jokes, while insisting that they're grateful for "family" and "turkey" and "integration", I would like to join in the reindeer games by listing all that I'm resentful for today. Jump on the wagon ride of vitriol, won't you? We can pop antacids together!

Let's all hold hands, bow our heads to the magnificent ulcer that lies before us and spew all that we hate in this world of ours:

Kanye West: On canning his collaboration with Nike in favour of working with Adidas, he said: "The old me, without a daughter, would have taken the Nike deal because I just love Nikes so much. But the new me, with a daughter, takes the Adidas deal because I have royalties and I have to provide for my family." Really, Kanye? Really? It's going to take a collaboration with Adidas to ensure you can provide for your family? What's this kid going to get for her Sweet Sixteen? A private jet? According to Forbes, as of June 2013, Kanye's earnings have been estimated at $20 million, although other less reputable websites list his net worth around $100 million. Either way, FUCK OFF, KANYE. (see pic above)

Kim Kardashian: Kanye's equally repugnant fiance/blowup doll is reportedly worth in excess of $40 million. As far as I know, Kim Kardashian has no job, no profession, no education, no marketable skills, and no ability to distinguish between your and you're. Good job creating another winner, Universe.

Miley Cyrus: Child, what're you doing? Put that tongue away before you catch something that can't be cured with an aggressive course of antibiotics.

The Religious Right: Listen up, cuz bitches be makin' decisions about our own bodies; workin' tirelessly to ensure our daughters will have access to proper healthcare and education; speakin' our minds to ensure we land in positions of power; dressin' however we want because no one is allowed to take advantage of us or pass judgement on us merely based on what we look like; and fornicatin' however often and with however many people we damn well please. A-fuckin-men. Go away now.

Mayor Rob Ford: *cringe* *shudder* *shame* *barf* *no will left to live or vote ever again*

Played Out Misogynistic Tropes: I watch a lot of home renovation shows because I like seeing how a fresh coat of paint, some new furnishings and PICKING YOUR DAMN CLOTHES UP OFF THE FLOOR can make such a dramatic difference in a person's home. These shows are kind of my happy place. But if I see one more husband smile condescendingly at his wife as he agrees to shell out an extra $1500 for a new front door and follow it up with, "happy wife, happy life," I'm going to lose it. Because you know the subtext to that comment is, "if I don't concede on this, she's going to bust my balls for eternity." Thing is, in most couples I know, it's the husband who's a whiny, clingy baby who throws a temper tantrum when things don't go his way. (Christ, I need new friends.)

The Guy Who Lives Upstairs: Holy shit, dude. Are you aware that you live in an apartment building and are surrounded by other people who are trying to sleep/work/hear their own thoughts? Turn down your goddamn electrohousetribaldrumbass crap. Oh, and, while you're at it, get some taste in music.

I think that's it for today. For today. I don't know about you guys, but I feel *much* better. Let's eat!

(Happy Day, World)

Tell me less, tell me less, where did you get that dress?

Woke up at 7am, walked the dog and managed to get in a workout. Woot! 

Breakfast was surprisingly good considering I didn't have any fresh blueberries to add to my Spelt Flakes. 

Thank the coffee gawds for good espresso, amirite? 

Taking Floyd out for an early walk tonight as I have to put the finishing touches on dinner for Boyfriend & his son. On the menu: homemade minestrone and baked chicken. Yum! (Hopefully) 

Baby, it's *cold* outside! 

Having a good hair day — whut! — thanks to the new Shu Uemura Cleansing Oil conditioner I've been using. Sometimes it pays to have my job! 

Happy birthday to my BFF. You're my inspiration! 

What? You don't care to hear about the minutiae of my day? Are you sure about that? Because I'm pretty sure that everyone in your social media feed is filling you in on much more intimate details of their quotidian life. And yes, WHO FUCKING CARES?

Let me start with this, I know that the vast majority of people who use social media — be it Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, a blog (ahem) or whatever else makes you accessible to the cyber world at large — participate in it without actually contributing anything of value. And I'm not excluding myself from this group. I totally get that it's a platform for expressing a view, uneducated and inane though it may sometimes be, but is it too much to ask that if you don't have something of concrete value to say, at least make it entertaining? I mean, you obviously want my attention, so earn it. My favourite thing to do is read peoples' status updates on Facebook. And by favourite I mean most reviled pastime that ultimately serves to indicate how many self-involved, unfunny and borderline sociopathic people I know. (Oh no, I don't mean you.) Some examples:

The My Love Life Is Sooooooo Awesome friend

This is the girl who feels the need to share every time that her partner/spouse did something that was moderately considerate to prove that she is not involved with a narcissistic douchebag, okay? Look he bought me flowers. I have the best boyfriend ever! We're going out for dinner. My husband rocks! Three years ago today I met/married/got knocked up by the most wonderful man in the world. And he's so hawt! We're all super stoked for you guys and stuff (I mean, no, not really, but you know) but we can't help but think that you're overcompensating for something. Getting flowers from your boyfriend is great [subliminal message directed at Boyfriend, who never reads this blog. #fail] but it doesn't make him the best boyfriend ever. And if it does, then I have to wonder what kind of shit this guy gets away with when flowers are the benchmark for Best. Evar. Also, no one will be surprised when you guys break up. Because, obvious.

The I Am So Dedicated To My Healthy Lifestyle friend

Ugh, please, stop talking about all the grain-free, gluten-free, vegan shit you're eating before you run your daily 10K. Day four of gluten-free cleanse and I feel great! What's worse: running in the rain or not running in the rain and feeling guilty? Oooh, gotta run an extra three miles to burn off last night's wine. lol Set out for a 5K this morning and did 10 instead. Oops ;) We get it: you're dedicated to your body, it's a temple, you just want someone to celebrate it for being a wonderland. But we don't need to hear all about it. Seriously, we don't find it interesting. Like, in the least. I'd rather read a steady stream of updates from a colonoscopy than hear about how much mileage you've racked up this week. People do physically taxing things every day for a living — firefighters, construction workers, miners — you don't hear them bragging about it. You want to go for a run? Cool. Just step away from Facebook.

The You Must Be Apprised Of My Every Thought friend

This might be the most annoying person on Facebook. It's the feed of the least interesting man in the world. Man, it's getting dark early these days. Wow, it's cold out there. I think I'll put cream in my coffee today instead of milk. Oops, should've stuck with milk! Wearing red socks with blue shoes. Watching the Breaking Bad finale and OMG! And on and on and on. This person updates their status every few minutes and the stream of consciousness is so mind-numbingly boring and uninspired you almost want something bad to happen to them just to jazz up their updates/life. Here's a thought, friend: don't share every thought with me. If we were sitting across the table from one another right now, would you feel compelled to tell me, in the span of 78 seconds, that you're sleeping so much better now that you've changed duvet weights and the first snowfall reminded you of that time in university when you made out with that dude and you haven't had a migraine in over a week? Yes? Ok, we are no longer friends.

The My New Life As A Stay-at-Home Mom Is The Best Life friend

My heart really goes out to these women, even if they do annoy the shit out of me. Because I never believe that deep down inside they're happy with their decision. As far as I'm concerned, it's a classic case of the lady doth protest too much. I haven't been this sleep-deprived since my first time defending a case. But it's worth it for the cutest offender ever! You know you're a busy mom when you forget to eat lunch. Running after my kid is so much better than running after the morning bus. In other words, you can't shake the memories of your past life and you miss the shit out of it. You know what? That's okay! It doesn't make you a bad person. But all these inane updates about your newly boring life do. Enjoy your fucking kid and the luxury of not having to work, and shut up about it.

Me? I'm the friend who writes status updates about her dog (lame, I know) and about current events (so obnoxious) and who editorializes on politics (keep your bleeding heart liberal comments to yourself, right?). I also repost stories that I find interesting, which usually pertain to women's issues or how awesome dogs are. And from time to time, when I'm traveling, I'll update people on the things I'm doing, which are almost always awesome, because it's usually a press trip which means I'm traveling on someone else's dime doing things that would otherwise be waaaay out of my price range. So, yeah, I'm not saving lives with my status updates. But when needed, I try to make them poignant; more importantly, I almost always try to make them funny. Because what's social media for if not to lighten up someone's day with the brilliant missives that you come up with but have no one to share them with other than your dog and the four walls that enclose you both? And lemme tell you, Floyd doesn't have the most sophisticated sense of humour.

*This post was brought to you by PMS and hypocrisy.

MySpace spaces out

Apparently there were big layoffs at MySpace today. Apparently MySpace still exists?* I imagine that the office is made up of a bunch of guys in flared, whiskered jeans who rollerblade to work and lose their shit if their stylus goes missing. They really go for girls who wear super low-rise jeans and whose thongs can be seen peeking out of the top anytime they bend down to readjust the strap on their square-toed sandals. When they go to a bar, they order apple martinis and snack on Girlfriend's Booty. When together, MySpacers talk about music (duh), Napster (so sad), and really dig this new entertainment genre called Reality TV.

I think the last time MySpace was legitimately referenced in pop culture was in the 2009 movie He's Just Not That Into You. (And yes, I went to see it in the theatre. And yes, it sucked balls. And yes, shut up about my sometimes super-lame choice in films. Excuse me, "films.") Even then I thought the reference was incredibly outdated. Like, who still used MySpace to find dates? Why not just put an ad in the personals in the newspaper while you're at it? Better yet, go to a singles bar. Or put on lipstick and a tight top, go the supermarket, sidle up to a single man who is ideally stationed in front of the cantaloupes and wait for an opportunity to say something about how you never know if a melon is ripe until you squeeze it. (In case you couldn't place it, these references were all gleaned from episodes of Three's Company. A show that predated even MySpace, hence emphasizing how outdated the concept of MySpace as an online dating vehicle is.) (There's a lot of explaining going on in this blog post. It's possible that I'm not as effective at getting my wry commentary across as I think I am. Or that I completely underestimate your intelligence. Either way, this might be a big #fail.) (It won't be long before hashtagging anything becomes an indication of #olds, btw.)

But in all seriousness, I'm sorry for the people who lost their jobs today. That sucks. Though in fairness, you had to see it coming. Good luck finding other work. And maybe steer clear of social networking sites that weren't founded and lorded over by a guy named Zuckerberg. Cuz you know anything that dork creates is going to #liveforever.

*IDK, I just recently got rid of my television set that had a slot for a VHS tape in it. I'm not exactly what you'd call on the vanguard of technology, or life.

Please, no more mo'

It's a great time to be alive, wouldn't you say? Your [insert favourite sports team here] just won the [insert championship thingy here]. Your [insert gender] just agreed to [insert major life milestone]. Your [insert favourite living relative] just told you the best [insert positive conversational exchange]. Your [insert descriptive modifyer] boss just gave you [insert pleasant surprise]. And I think we can all agree that the end of Kate Middleton's brief affair with bangs is a major victory for humanity. 

But what I love most about these modern times is how we, as a society with morals, principles and eyes, have ceased to engage in certain aesthetically offensive practices. I mean, au revoir French manicure! Give the cold shoulder to frosted tips! Feathered hair beware! Shrug off shoulder pads! Check you later, houndstooth! (I actually really love houndstooth. Just got carried away there. Sorry.)

So why, GOD WHY, are men being encouraged to grow a mustache? I get that November has been rebranded as Movember and it's all about raising awareness for men's health issues, and that it's essentially the male response to the over pinkification of October. But why must we pander to these outdated, cliched tropes? I don't associate my womanhood with the colour pink any more than men attach their manhood to facial hair. For such important causes, it pains me to see marketing companies employ such hackneyed tactics. Besides, do you guys want to get laid this month? Cuz I know countless women who are repulsed by the sight of a mustache. Also, way to harsh my birthday month buzz, Movember.

I think what's even more unsettling about this mustache craze is that it has somehow permeated popular culture. Stores now carry mustache stencils and mustaches on a stick for the hipster's selfie mugging pleasure. Men have started to grow their mustaches in the off months of December through October, ambivalent to their horny-taking-away powers and wondering why they're suddenly reduced to going home alone at the end of a long night spent drinking organic microbrew while dissecting Pablo Neruda and making plans to hit up the American Apparel sale tomorrow. (On second thought, maybe it's not just the mustache that's keeping these guys from getting laid.) But I'll tell you what: that mustache isn't helping.

I'm all for health and cancer awareness, and I can see how breast cancer month may have overshadowed the severity of male-specific illnesses which led to this campaign. But I beg of you, please, no more mo's. Bejewel your Adam's apple. Grow a full beard. Shave your scrotum. Just don't subject us to this:

or this:

or this:

Cuz, fellas, you will never be as good as this:

And even he had his time.

I'm not selfish; you're just an asshole

People love to throw around the word "selfish", especially as it relates to those who haven't followed in the socially-decreed normal footsteps of life as established by the Judeo Christian Conservative Guilt-tripping Mothers' Union (a coalition that I totally just made up, but you know totally exists. Like the Stonecutters). Do you rent? Selfish. Are you single? Selfish! Childless? SELFISH.

A recent Gallup poll study, published yesterday in the Guardian, stated that single people are hurting the US economy because they're not spending as much money as marrieds. See, your mother always told you that life would be better (read: you'd get to buy more stuff) if you just got married already. Of course, the reason married people spend more is because they live in a dual-income household and because, as the article points out, marriage trends indicate that the majority of people don't get married these days unless they're already financially stable, and let's not overlook the absurd amount of bank people make on their actual wedding day. But single people are so damn selfish, and cheap. Just go out there and find someone, anyone, make them marry you and contribute to the economy, dammit. I mean, aren't we all tired of these single people shrugging off their responsibilities to the well being of the state? 

Same goes for the childless assholes, amirite? I was at an event recently, surrounded by a few mothers who were talking about their early experiences with their children. All the usual points were trotted out: What a miracle! I was so tired! Did you scar? I wouldn't let my husband fuck me for almost a year! And then one of them, an Earth Mother type who proudly stated that she breastfed her son until he was almost five, played the oldest mommy card in the book: "The first time I held my child I thought, I've been so selfish all my life. Now I know what it means to be selfless." Because, obvs, all you (us) childless whores will forever and always be selfish.

I'm not sure what it is about birthing a child that automatically makes women feel like they've reached this state of nirvana-like selflessness. You didn't sacrifice yourself to the gods in an attempt to spare your marginalized people from massacre. You had unprotected sex with someone you love, or at least don't hate, and entered this experience (hopefully) willfully and fully aware of what it entailed. Pushing a baby out of your uterus doesn't make you Jesus, it makes you one of billions of women who do it all the fucking time. And yeah, dude, it's super hard and painful, and power to you for doing it. But it doesn't automatically make you selfless. If anything, it may make you even more selfish, since you are driven by a narcissistic desire to create life in your own image. Your entitled mini-mes will get to enjoy the spoils of middle-class fortune while you get to tell your friends that he gets his strong calves from you.

I don't have kids, and I very likely never will. But that doesn't make me selfish. I've comforted friends well into the wee hours, sat by my family in moments of stress and hardship, cared for my brother in the aftermath of an accident, encouraged and supported my boyfriend when things seemed bleak, and spent hours at the emergency vet clinic offering solace to my ailing dog. And I did it all because I wanted to and felt compelled to do so out of sheer, unadulterated love. I don't need to get married or give birth to know that I have the ability to put my own needs aside to help someone else. It's called being human. And to not infuse that kind of action into every aspect and every stage of your life, regardless of your marital or parental or financial status, well, that just makes you plain ol' selfish.

The woman who created a new eating disorder

In the ever expanding landscape of humiliating/insulting pursuits in the name of shameless self-promotion, a 23-year-old struggling actress in Toronto has started a blog called A Penniless Girl, Bad Dates & Plenty of Oysters. Her goal is to have as many first dates as her extensive restaurant wishlist calls for, at no personal expense, natch. Her modus operandi starts with, "I've got a pretty face & a pretty extensive Urban Spoon wish list," and concludes with, "Follow me to learn who I screw over, bang and love as I navigate Torontos [sic] diners, drive-ins and dives."

Many enraging elements collide in this blog for me, making it an emotional and intellectual mushroom bomb. Not the least of which is her inability to differentiate between "to" and "too", her erratic apostrophe placement when using the possessive, a clear lack of knowledge on correct comma use, and the scattering of ampersands and cardinal numbers throughout her copy. An English major, this gal is not. I'm not so out of touch that I don't realize that 20somethings don't adhere to the classical rules of grammar and syntax, but if the campaign to revere all that is young and nubile, and which is eternally put forth by Hollywood, US Weekly and cosmetic dermatologists, is going to continue to subliminally worm its way into my atrophying cerebral hemispheres, I'm going to have to insist that its messages are at least correctly written and phrased. Also, I doubt if la Société, Jabistro and Canoe fall into the category of diner, drive-in or dive.

She often employs the philosophical articulation "haters gon' hate", which will precede a photo of herself hosing down a car in a bikini, or a self-deprecating selfie where she pulls a silly face while orchestrating a #superdupercute look. She also continuously references her pretty face. Frankly, I think it's refreshing for a young girl woman to be confident about her looks. She is pretty and she has a lovely figure, but why would I hate her for that? I'm tired of this generation distorting what it means to display self-confidence and assuming that they will be hated for it, especially by other women. The only reason a hater will hate is if you parade yourself and your confidence out there like a douchebag, as if saying: "Look at me! I'm hotter than you. Deal." But express your confidence with class and dignity and just an iota of humility, and others will celebrate it along with you. I don't hate you, but I do find you incredibly annoying. #annoyersgonannoy

Finally, I can't shake the unsettling sensation I get from a person, regardless of age or gender, plainly setting out to take advantage of people. She makes her point very clear that she's not looking for a boyfriend but a meal ticket to some of the city's finer restaurants. She doesn't do second dates and since being exposed on Reddit, says she's zeroing in on newly arrived Canadians who haven't heard of her and her blog. If it were a man doing this, we'd be calling for his head. Obviously, a lot of what she writes is sheer bravado with a healthy dose of irreverence, but it doesn't excuse the fact that she is blatantly using men for their money, in some cases treating them badly and in others expressing an obligation to sleep with them. This is the worst possible message to broadcast to women of her generation, or any other.

It's possible that she thinks she's going to cute her way through this while deluding herself that she's making a valid social statement — IDK, maybe about the state of modern love or gender manipulation or how fast her metabolism works — and trying to position herself as a credible restaurant critic. And let's face it, she'll get away with it. She probably will land a gig as a restaurant reviewer for some alt-weekly.com of sorts and develop a following of nose-thumbing young foodies who will continue her mission to exploit men for a meal. She'll soon learn, however, that that "living" will barely cover the cost of a side dish at her favourite resto, and that eating alone kind of sucks. Because if there's one thing the internet doesn't do, it's delete things that happened in the past. Good luck shaking this image, sister.

Hands (and tweets) off my tits

There's a bra on the market that tweets every time you take it off and is the latest item to join the list of pink, head-scratching products to raise awareness for breast cancer. (A pink head-scratcher? I've got the trademark on that one!) Apparently, it has some gizmo in it that, when unhooked, sends a signal to a cell phone that then communicates with a server which generates a tweet. Since this idea was cooked up in Greece and is sponsored by Nestlé Fitness, its tweets are in Greek and presumably tell you to drink your Ovaltine eat more Nestlé Fitness cereal. It's being worn exclusively for two weeks by a Greek TV star whose mission it is to get women to perform a monthly breast self-exam and presumably to let everyone know when she's taking her clothes off. It's altruistically porny! I don't know what the tweets say since they're literally all Greek to me, but I really hope it's more than just "Heyyy y'all, I'm naked and raising awareness for breast cancer. #Nestlecereal #fitness #titsmcgee #opa #stephanopoulosforprez".

I'm all for a product that will help raise awareness for breast cancer, or any cancer, for that matter. It's a creeper of a killer and a real fucking drag as diseases go. So yeah, fuck cancer and all that. But I fear we might be moving into losing-sight-of-the-goal territory here. It's intrinsically intrusive for a woman to wear an item of clothing that lets her (so far) 2,189 followers know when she's removing it. And I shudder to think what could come of this technology if it landed in the wrong hands. The policing opportunities it gives to abusive partners, overprotective parents, Mormons, corporate conglomerates to ensure customers are advertising their brand at any given moment (I'm looking at you Victoria's Secret) are too scary to consider. Isn't our underwear the last frontier of privacy in a world that is already over-exposed through social media and Snapchat?

Sure, it's pretty funny and innovative as concepts go. And I'm a firm believer in laughing your way to a healthily chicken souped-up soul and stuff, but tweeting the goings-on of my underwear to the world may be taking it a nipple too far in the quest to save our tits. Also, these t-shirts make my blood boil:

The last thing we need is to give douchey bros carte blanche to make comments about our breasts under the guise of cancer awareness. I don't want strangers functioning under the delusion that they have any business knowing what's going on under my bra. Hands (and eyes and ears) off my tits, please. 

If we're going to reverse the fat-shaming phenomenon, let's choose a better spokesperson

Here's the thing: Most women (if not all. I mean, probably all, because life and society kind of suck) have some sort of hang up about their body. The greatest source of my displeasure used to be my hip/thigh area, but over the last decade it has grown to include my abdominal region, my muffin top zone, and the territory around my armpit fold where excess skin has accumulated thus preventing me from wearing anything strapless ever again. John Mayer may have tried to convince me that my body is a wonderland, but I've only ever seen it as an undulant war zone.

I don't want to be this way. I know that I'm a total cliché. And when my friends and I begin to descend into that rabbit hole of shame about our various body parts I'm the first one to speak up and say that we need to stop. We need to be proud of our bodies for what they can do, I say, whether it's run a marathon or swim two miles or digest a late-night pizza and a bottle of wine (at my age, that's an accomplishment), and stop beating ourselves up for not being an idealized, and largely unattainable, version of our fantastical selves. Because women are more than just their exterior bits. I mean, don't get me wrong, I want my exterior bits to look as good as they possibly can. If I didn't, I wouldn't spend hours of my life getting my hair and nails done, and half my rent on designer shoes. I'm not a hippie, for God's sake. I'm just tired of the inner dialogue that keeps wedging itself between me and a grilled cheese sandwich.

And much as I want to envelop every woman who is insecure about her body in a warm, fleshy, doughnut-scented hug, and tell her that she looks beautiful with vanilla icing in the corner of her mouth, I simply do not share in the feminist outcry that accompanies the media focus on a celebrity's weight gain. Especially when that celebrity has built her entire career on the tautness of her tits and the assiness of her ass, and is essentially solely responsible for her own objectification. Kim Kardashian is a perfect example. (I don't agree with attacking a woman for her pregnancy weight gain, and I'm not referring to that here. But she and her weight were a topic well before the pregnancy.) This woman, whose "job" is to...uh...well, I don't know what her job is, but she launched her career as a sex-tape maker and starrer inner (kids, please don't major in this) and from there built an empire on her sexy sexiness. Putting aside the fact that it's an embarrassment how people of this ilk — whose only goal in life is fame for fame's sake — are proliferating all across the modern Western landscape (go First World!), Kim Kardashian is the worst example of a woman fortunate enough to have a self-created platform in the public eye. She has orchestrated the entire conversation surrounding her image about her body, and as such that conversation won't veer off course, regardless of whether it's positive or not. Today, she posted this:     

Is this what we're meant to defend? When you go from playing the fat-shamed victim (or allowing the public to do it for you) to posting pictures like this of yourself, you've lost the argument for all women. So let's drop this bullshit of standing up for female body empowerment when this is the message that's being sent out. She is saying: Yes, haters gonna hate, but look at me now that I've dropped the baby weight. (Because I just assume that being Kanye's baby mama means you start to talk in uncontrollable rhyme.) Is this the woman that everyone has been tsk tsk'ing the media for fat-shaming? Is this the kind of response we as a gender want to employ to prove our point? I don't think it's fair for Kim Kardashian to be zeroed in on for having put on a few pounds anymore than I think it's right when women beat themselves up for doing the same, but I sure as hell am not going to go to bat for someone who thinks a semi-nude picture of her ass and sideboob is an adequate response or defense. Especially not when the only conversation she's ever sparked about herself was about the state of her body. I'm smarter than that. And so are you.

When a t-shirt says too much

Let me start by saying this: I have very little tolerance for the messages put forth by American Apparel. As a clothing brand, it's decidedly meh. It has no merit from a style standpoint, and the quality is mediocre at best. Plus, with all the media reports and on-the-record statements made by American Apparel workers about the labour abuses they suffer, the whole sweatshop-free-made-in-America tagline loses its credibility in my books. I also think that the founder and CEO Dov Charney is a grade-A creep.

More than anything, though, I dislike American Apparel for its shock tactics. Their advertisements often have a sexual bent, as if in this era of readily available internet porn sex is still considered subversive. And I generally don't respond well to images of very young-looking girls with vacant eyes spreading their legs wide for the camera or tugging suggestively at their underpants. Call me a prude, but I guess I'm simply not okay with the blatant and unapologetic objectification of women, and especially girls.

Now the company is coming under fire for producing a t-shirt depicting a woman masturbating while she's menstruating. The image comes courtesy of Toronto-based photographer/artist Petra Collins, and was originally featured in a women's art show called Gynolandscape in neon sign form. The piece is rather aptly named Period Power. Needless to say, the t-shirt has caused a lot of hand wringing, pearl clutching and general panty bunching. In defense of the t-shirt Collins said to TIME Magazine: "I'm really interested in what is hidden from our culture. We are always repressing or hiding what is natural to a post-pubescent body. We're taught to hate our menstrual cycle and even to hide masturbation."

Within the context of its original showing I can see how Period Power is poignant, relevant and even thought-provoking. And I agree with Collins to a certain extent. As a teenage girl I definitely remember being embarrassed by my period, surreptitiously slipping a feminine product into my pocket and slipping out of class to go to the bathroom. I also recall being mortified by the thought of another girl hearing me tear open the packaging of a maxi pad because THEN SHE'D KNOW. But was I taught to hate my period? No, my hatred grew naturally out of PMS symptoms and cramps, thankyouverymuch. And of course as teenagers we're ashamed of masturbation, mainly because we can't really decipher our feelings about sex and sexuality, and because traditional social and religious mores tell us that we shouldn't want to experience pleasure in that way. Which is, of course, total bullshit.

So, yeah, the image is breaking taboos. As an art piece. Put it on a t-shirt that sells for $32 at a retailer known for pandering to the lowest form of exploitation just to get a rise out of people and it kind of loses all its potency as a commentary on the perpetuation of Puritanical beliefs in modern society. And it's kind of gross! It's gross in the same way that a picture of a gaping wound would be gross, in the same way that those pictures of cancer-stricken organs on cigarette packs are gross, in the same way that a picture of a dirty diaper would be gross.

Do I think that a t-shirt showing a bleeding vagina that's being stimulated by a hand with a *really* tacky manicure is going to liberate or empower women in some way? Nope, sorry. If I was ashamed of my period when I was a teenager it was because I was ashamed of fucking everything when I was a teenager. They're called your awkward teen years for a reason. And the same goes for masturbation. Besides, I really don't think these issues are in the forefront of our continual struggle for gender equality, either. I don't think that putting a bleeding vagina on a t-shirt is going to do anything to close the wage gap in the workforce or prevent women from being fired or demoted for taking maternity leave or put more women in seats of power.

I'm glad that some ad companies are taking it upon themselves to remove the humiliation from menstruation for young girls. The HelloFlo campaign is nothing short of genius, frankly. But you know what? Parents, specifically mothers, should also do their part to let their daughters know that menstruation is natural and healthy, and nothing to be ashamed about. Same goes for masturbation. Because I really don't think a $32 t-shirt from American Apparel is going to get the message across.

You can never be too rich or too fat

Aren't fat people the grossest? They're all lumpy and jiggly, and you just know that they always smell bad. They eat all the time, and probably have cookie crumbs and Doritos powder perpetually lodged between their rolls of disgusting fat. And some of them even have the audacity to go around looking and acting happy. WTF, amirite?

One such person is Rebel Wilson. Like most of North America, I was first introduced to Rebel in the hilarious comedy Bridesmaids. She played Kristen Wiig's audacious roommate who was the worst combination of mean and stupid, a role she delivered with sweet-voiced venom and deadpan brilliance. She was as revolting as she was endearing. Then I saw her again in the surprisingly good Pitch Perfect where she played Fat Amy, a self-appointed descriptive modifier that she uses "so that twig bitches like you don't do it behind my back."

From where I stand, or rather sit in front of my TV, it looks like Rebel's having a good time. She's widely regarded as funny, she's worked with some very cool broads (the aforementioned Wiig and Kay Cannon, who wrote the screenplay for Pitch Perfect and has also worked as a producer on shows like New Girl and 30 Rock, which means she's worked with TINA FEY OMGSHESMYHERO), and she generally seems fun. She's even starring in a new ABC comedy called Super Fun Night. I mean, the evidence is all there, peoples. I don't know her life or anything but it looks like things are on the up and up. But you know what would make it all a bajillion times better? If she lost a ton of weight! Because no one can truly be happy if they aren't skinny, obvs.

Today, reports say that undisclosed weight loss companies are clamouring to sign Rebel on as a spokesperson a la Jessica Simpson x Weight Watchers and Jennifer Hudson x Jenny Craig. And since Rebel is currently on a primetime TV show, viewers would be able to track her transformation from week-to-week, which...isn't creepy at all...? (*cringe face*)

Apparently, Rebel is considering the offers but a source says she would be doing it "strictly for the money," which I think is the best answer EVER. Considering la Simp's Weight Watchers deal rang in at a whopping $4 million, why wouldn't Rebel sign on simply to make a shit ton of dough? The notion that any of these celebrities who front weight loss companies are doing it for anything other than the money is the biggest joke of all. It's a sick joke, mind you, when you consider that neither Hudson nor Simpy nor the likes of Kirstie Allie or Mariah Carey need the money. But most people do require some sort of incentive to lose weight, whether it's a particular outfit, a school reunion, a revenge plot, or health and cholesterol levels and all that other stuff that can't be measured in smug satisfaction or money (aka. boooooring). Hell, if Jenny Watchers came to me and offered me a million-dollar contract to shed the five pounds I've put on since last Christmas you'd see a cloud of dust gather behind my gym shoe-clad feet faster than you can say "can I get extra cheese on that?"

I hate the fact that weight loss companies are preying on Rebel because they think she'll be the best and most relevant fat-to-skinny story today. Because who are they to make judgements or assumptions on her happiness or her health or her personal goals based on her body type? But the fact that she unabashedly says she'll do it just for the cash? Fuck yeah, sister. Take 'em to the cleaners. And then take them to the drive-through.

Why some people should think before they write

I came across this post on Thought Catalog last week called, "5 Things Women Should Start Doing Again." And I thought it would be kind of self-helpy and all "you must learn to practice self care" (I just said that in my annoying, breathy yoga voice), and it was going to talk about taking more bubble baths or some shit like that. Because apparently, to the average white woman, a bubble bath is like Polysporin for your soul. So, it's safe to say that I went into this post with some pretty solid preconceived notions of its inevitable suckitude. And I wasn't wrong.

Except instead of being irritating in a learn-to-love-youself-by-administering-a-daily-self-hug way, the writer dug up all these old tyme-y practices and rituals that women did when life sucked way worse because there weren't such a things as dry shampoo and stretchy pants. Her list included:

1) Getting our hair set once a week
For starters, women do do that, it's called a standing weekly appointment at the blowdry bar. I know women who do this and they practice maintenance in between by using humectants and hair sprays to ensure the humidity doesn't get to them, and dry shampoo towards the end of the week when their hair starts to smell like a jockstrap after hockey practice. (Do hockey players even wear jockstraps? IDK.) 

I, for one, wouldn't commit to a weekly hair appointment unless there was financial compensation involved. The idea that I'm being forced to sit in a chair for an hour or more without the freewill to get up and walk in circles just because -- a little insight into my daily life, peoples -- makes me rashy. It's one of the main reasons I don't have a job. But let me tell you as a person who makes her "living" writing about beauty trends, that insouciant, je ne sais quoi, voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir hair is glorious and liberating and very in style and won't make you want to stab the person tugging at your hair with a round brush in the eye with the sharp end of a comb. Because if Orange Is The New Black has taught me anything, jail blows.

2) Using fancy stockings with garter belts
This one kind of enrages me. Why in all holy fuck would a woman want to complicate her life further with a garter belt? Aren't pantyhose evil enough on their own? With their suffocating control tops and blistering toe seams and look-at-them-the-wrong-way-and-you'll-get-a-run flimsiness, I'd just as soon never buy a pair again. Reintroducing a garter belt into your life is akin to using a maxi pad from the past, which, if my memory of Judy Blume literature is accurate, involved some sort of belt-like contraption and sounded almost as cringe-y as a Blume-ian description of an adolescent girl making sense of the feelings she gets *down there* from her crush.

3) Hosting Barefoot Contessa-esque parties
Before I get into this lemme say one thing: I freakin' love the Barefoot Contessa. I think that broad is feisty and smart and I will use her recipes for roast chicken and pork tenderloin until the day I die. And I don't care what my mom's friend says, Jeffrey is *not* schtuping his mistress in the city all week while the Contessa cooks for and entertains her gay BFFs.

I won't tear into the writer for her obvious ineptitude in the kitchen. Clearly, she is hella incapable of hosting a "Contessa-esque" party. Me? I invite people over for dinner all the time. I may not have the idyllic lavender-laden Hamptons garden of la Contessa -- but then I also didn't have a career as a top-level investment banker before cashing it in for a Cuisinart mixer and imported truffle oil. I only have myself to blame -- but I can certainly throw together a two course dinner with loads of booze and not break a sweat. I'm no Contessa, but my guests always leave sated, a little bit drunk and sometimes even with leftovers in tow.

4) Day drinking with abandon
Far be it from me to discourage drinking of any kind at any time of the day. I've had business lunches in Europe where the wine flows freely, though not excessively, and my boyfriend is a martini at lunch kinda guy (circumstance permitting), so I judge not. But I'll admit that I don't love drinking in the middle of the day. It slows me down too much and often means that I won't get anything accomplished in the afternoon. I may also still be shellshocked from an ex-publisher who used to come back from lunch shitfaced on a regular basis. He'd make passes at the receptionist, hurl sexually harassing comments at the rest of the staff and practice karate in the middle of the office lobby. I really wish I was making that up.

The writer opines: "We need to bring out the parasols, and the lil crustless finger sandwiches, and lay out in random public areas to enjoy the hell out of our mid-afternoon buzz. Men should know, when we arrive on a sunny day with our big-ass hats and sunglasses, to ask us if we prefer a bellini or a cucumber mojito." And then maybe force their will upon us, prevent us from being independent and free thinking, and possibly ask us to "fetch" them their slippers when they get home from a long, hard day at work?

Day drinking? Yes! Reverting to a time when women would lounge around as useless objects waiting for their every need and whim to be satisfied by a man? Fuck no. Oh, and, parasols? Bite me.

5) Wearing incredibly fancy shit for no reason
I must say, I kind of agree with this point but I think she phrases it completely wrong. "Incredibly fancy" implies a sweeping gown or a tuxedo, and while the writer does make mention of throwing the cashier at your local corner store for a loop by showing up in a ball gown to buy tampons -- I mean, why? -- her point is so far off the mark that its merits are obscured. I agree that as a society we could use a little cleaning up. There is no excuse for wearing sweatpants or yoga pants in any context outside of the gym or yoga studio. None. I don't care if you were just running out to take the kids to school or if you were just popping into the market or if you're about to embark on a14-hour flight. There have been major advancements made in the field of fabric technology that mean you don't have to look sloppy to be comfortable. Jeans have loads of stretch in them, as do maxi dresses and long skirts and trousers. Athletic running shoes are not the only kind of footwear that will keep your feet supported and comfortable. There are driving moccasins and loafers and oxfords and streetstyle sneakers and cute flats. There really is no excuse for looking like a slob except sheer laziness. And I'll admit, some days when I'm walking my dog I glance down at my outfit and think, "good Lord, I look like a homeless Olsen twin," and I'm ashamed. Let's all share some shame on this front, shall we? And make a concerted effort to clean our shit up a little bit.

In conclusion, live your life with dignity, respect for yourself and others, and with a healthy cache of booze in your house. But don't bring back old practices that were indicative of a patriarchal society that viewed women as pretty objects to look at but not hear. Because both women and men have worked too hard to overcome that bullshit, and we're still working really hard at it. Now, let's all have a drink.

Is this what they mean when they say carbs are evil?

Remember the Atkins diet? Gawd, what a drag that was. I think I tried it for, like, 28 hours once. I recall being especially perplexed by what my breakfast options were. There are many non-carb breakfast foods, obviously, but I experiemented with this in the days where I only used my stove for making coffee and my oven served as storage for my shoes. Seriously, I was a *total* cliche in my 20s. So making eggs first thing in the morning simply wasn't going to happen. I quickly learned that I wasn't a very pleasant person without carbs, anyway, and ditched Atkins in favour of the coffee-and-cigarettes diet. Because I'm smrt.

I'm glad to announce that nearly a decade later, I'm still happily consuming carbs. And I will never apologize for it, either. I've never met a pizza I couldn't pulverize, I've never pooh-poohed a potato and I've certainly never passed up a bowl of pasta. Until now. Last week Barilla chairman and resident fascist Guido Barilla said in an interview with Radio 24: "I would never do [a commercial] with a homosexual family, not for lack of respect but because we don't agree with them. Ours is a classic family where the woman plays a fundamental role." He went on to say that he doesn't support adoption by gay couples, but does support gay marriage, which has a whiff of the daddy-hits-me-because-he-loves-me about it.

After a boycott was called on all Barilla products, the chairman clarified his comments and apologized cryptically by saying simply that "the woman plays a central role in a family." I don't really know what's worse, that Mr. Barilla has completely cut lesbians out of the equation, that he doesn't think the gays are worthy of his products, or that he believes that a woman's place is in the kitchen. You'd think that as one of the world's leaders in pasta production the guy would have had some media training by now, or that he'd have a PR team that knew to keep him away from reporters. As far as gastronomic gaffes go, this is like Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch: we didn't see it coming, we can't believe it happened, and it has made us pretty nauseous. 

Art for (F)Arts' Sake

 
Something happened at some point along the creative way. When I wasn't looking (because I was probably doing tequila shots at the bar), all artistic writerly pursuits became thinly veiled attempts at getting a movie deal. Seriously. It's like the only reason anyone writes anymore is because they hope it will turn into something meme-y and money-y. I mean, I get it; I'm a writer, after all. We don't make a lot of money, so obviously if you're going to pursue your passion, why not tailor it to garner you some dolla-dolla-bills? And hey, the fame? That's just gravy.

But I woke up one morning and hipsters everywhere (ok, mainly in New York) were blogging about some bastardized, half-cocked concept of "love" hoping to land up with a million-dollar Miramax deal and Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. This is "art"? I smell bullshit.

Let's start with those two twee gag-muffins from 40 Days of Dating (http://fortydaysofdating.com/). The premise: two utterly nauseating cliches of New York singles in their "marrying years" decide to embark on an experiment to date for 40 days and see if true love blossoms. She is the prototypical girl who loves too much and just wants to find love and gosh, golly, gee ain't love grand?! And he's a douche. (No further explanation necessary.) They chronicled every barf-tastic detail, which included going to couples' therapy, because what self-obsessed navel-gazer wouldn't go to therapy and then chronicle it for the world to read? They even went so far as to film a day they spent together where they held hands constantly. Seriously, like, even in the bathroom. Cuz that's what married people do, I guess? (It's becoming all too clear to me now that the reason my boyfriend hasn't popped the question is because I insist on closing the door when I pee.) The end result, not surprisingly, is that they didn't end up together. Because hipsters don't cop to a Hollywood ending. Unless it's in Brooklyn, in which case, the more food truck lobster tacos offered on bended knee the better. And wouldn't ya know, those two douchenozzles now have a movie deal.

Next up: some idiot broad, also in NYC, whose boyfriend once told her, after scarfing a turkey on whole wheat that she made for him, that she's "300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring." (http://300sandwiches.com/) What a charmer. Think of it as Julia and Julia meets salmonella poisoning. Precious nuggets on the topic of this "challenge", as she calls it, include: "Sandwiches meant more to him than nice gifts, regular sex or any other incentive I could use to get him closer to putting a ring on it." And: "It would take me about a year to make that many sandwiches." Now, my math skills are questionable at best, but aren't there 365 days in a year? Why, then, has she been working on this for 15 months? These two aren't just sickeningly obnoxious, they're also cripplingly dumb. Movie deals are probably pending. And I'm fixing my noose.

What's the take-away from all this? Is it that we've become so incapable of creating legitimate art that we have to debase ourselves with trite, specious experiments in love to be relevant and even celebrated? Where do we point the finger? Reality television? Capitalism? Hormones? Twerking? One thing is for certain: when our alien overlords one day sift through our collective internet browser history, we'll be a lot less embarrassed when they come upon the vast encyclopedia of pornography at our fingertips than these pathetic blog attempts at defining love and art.

Comedy, Thy Name is Kanye

This morning I was reading a humour blog called Vogue UK. If you haven't read it before I beseech you to do so. They post some really funny shit almost on a daily basis and use hilarious phrases like "fash week" instead of fashion week, because obviously they're laughing too hard at the funny things they write to get a whole long word like "fashion" out in one go. For instance, they once put this picture of Victoria Beckham in a Best Dressed of the Week gallery. It's so jokes, amirite?

Well, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today — sorry for yelling at you for using the wrong towel to dry your body this morning, Boyfriend. But seriously, why does the male species find it so difficult to distinguish between a towel that's meant to dry your hair and one that's meant for your body? IT'S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE. But I'm totes over it now. — so I knew that my fave humour blog would pull me out of the Tuesday doldrums with something aptly entertaining and side-splittingly hilarious. And I was right!

Today, Vogue-slapmyknee-UK reported on an interview Kanye West gave to BBC Radio 1. Now, that Kanye is one heck of a comedian. I mean, this guy has some real talent and I often wonder what it will take for him to get a sitcom. In the interview, he opined on the leather pants trend: "Whether I'm at a dinner with Anna Wintour, or ... giving Fendi our designs and getting them knocked down… [We] brought the leather jogging pants six years ago to Fendi, and they said no," he said. "How many motherfuckers you done seen with a leather jogging pant?" He's implying that Fendi, a fashion house that dates back to 1925 and is responsible for originating the idea of the It Bag, has *stolen* his idea of designing leather jogging pants! AHAAAAHAAAA. I mean, never mind that Gianni Versace did it back in the 1980s, or that Sophia Kokosalaki, when designing for the experimental leather label Ruffo Research, showed leather jogging pants back in the early 2000s. Sure, he could have slipped in those references to make his joke funnier, if somewhat pedantic, but hey, he's a modern guy and his jokes are phrased in a modern context.

He then hilariously went on to say this about Saint Laurent creative director Hedi Slimane: "So when I see Hedi Slimane, and it's like, 'OK, this is my take on the world,' yeah, he's got some nice $5,000 jeans in there, it's some nice ones here and there, some good shit here and there, but we are culture. Rap is the new rock and roll. We are culture. Rap is the new rock and roll. We are the rock stars. It's been like that for a minute, Hedi Slimane. It's been like that for a minute. We the biggest rock stars, and I'm the biggest of all of them."

Ok, so that wasn't so much funny-ha-ha as it was funny-hmmm. That Kanye's pretty smart, after all, and very conceptual, so it's not surprising that many of his comments would fly over the heads of us normals. This is, after all, the same man who named his child North. Presumably so that he (or she? I STILL CAN'T FIGURE OUT THE SEX OF THAT BABY) will never lead a group of campers astray. "Which way do we go?" "I dunno, just follow North. He [or she?!?] always travels in the direction of his [or her] name." That's gold.

I gotta say, I'm humbled by Kanye. I couldn't come up with material that funny if I tried. Remember when he said this: "I am God's vessel. But my greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself perform live." And this: "I am not a fan of books." And this gem: "I don't even listen to rap. My apartment is too nice to listen to rap in." 

Funny, funny shit. So funny I may cry.