Where life plans go to die

I have never been good with attitude of "whatever happens tomorrow, happens". Fuck that. I need to know not only where my next meal is coming from, but where my next 1000 meals are coming from, at least. And I've always been that way.

I knew in University that I'd be a salary girl. A few of my fellow artist classmates were adamant on going the freelance, suffer-for-your-art route, but the mere thought of that made me twitchy.

Even as a child, I would get stomach pangs in the middle of the night because my father was SO CHEAP and would obsess about money so frequently that I was convinced that we were going bankrupt and we'd become homeless at any moment. Turns out, we were doing just fine. THANKS FOR THAT, DAD.

It's not that I'm obsessed with money or wanting to be rich; I just want to be "stable". The last few years with the twins has been a reality check and I somehow managed to accept the fact that we'd be dipping into the red every month until the boys started full time school -- which would be this September, 2013.

Husband and I had been calling it FREEDOM 2013 pretty much since 2008. From the latter part of 2009 until the day I lost my job in November of last year, we had been paying FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a month in childcare.

That would have all gone away next week.

Oh my fucking god, we could finally start paying off our other debts! Perhaps pay off our mortgage a little faster. Or actually contribute to RRSPs for us, or RESPs for the kids (which is laughable at the moment). We were going to have $1500 EVERY MONTH to do whatever the hell we wanted. I had been fantasizing withdrawing that amount at the end of September and rolling around in it; I was totally going to do it too.

See? That pretty much would've been me . . . except with Canadian money, obviously.

And I was OK with waiting for that. It was an achievable goal. There was going to be an end to this annoying clusterfuck that is "not having enough money for the Lightning McQueen underwear that the boys want". Even as I write that, I realize it's a "first world problem" but nevertheless, it was a problem for me.

My boys, at 4 years old, have already begun asking me if things are "too much moneys" for them to have, and it truly breaks my heart. I see history repeating itself, except this time it's a real issue.

I should be getting emotional about my babies going off to big boy school next week, but it's really being over-shadowed by all this crap, and I hate it. So, I'm trying my very hardest not to still be bitter about losing my job, but even in my worst case scenario, I didn't see myself STILL being unemployed by this time. And yet here I am.

Unsure about tomorrow and freaking right the hell out.

Oh, and baby number 3 arrives in 6 weeks...

Tick-fucking-tock.

The Michael Douglas Effect

I was going to write a long rant the other day about the idiocy that is Michael Douglas's claim about the origins of his throat cancer being linked to cunnilingus. (Like dudes need ANOTHER excuse not to go downtown. Gah.) Anyways, I decided I didn't want to waste my energy, so I drew this instead . . .

Abercrombie's a Bitch

I don't know if you've read the lasted "fashion philosophy" by Abercrombie & Fitch but basically, they refuse to make clothes over a size 10 because they only want thin, popular, beautiful people wearing their clothes. A-to-the-motherfucking-Hem. (Here's the full, nauseating article.)

Because everyone over a size 10 is ugly and uncool?
Obviously.

Since the "average" woman's size is a 12/14, I'll like to wave to Abercrombie while they sit up there on their high horse . . .
all by themselves.

What I'd like to ask A&F is whether or not they are, in fact, aware that "uncool" people come in small sizes? Do they have their own version of the Walmart people greeter standing at the door, inspecting each customer's attractiveness before they're granted permission to enter through the velvet rope?

Not bloody likely.

I made these ads to illustrate my disdain for this company. Yay!

Uh huh.

I should mention in that article, there are shout outs to fashion brands that are much more on the level when it comes to enforcing positive women's body images in all sizes, and that's fantastic. 

As for Abercrombie? Adios, douchebags!

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*Creative note: I don't like labeling people on degrees of "coolness" either, but I typed in "nerd girl" and got that first image, so really, a search engine chose it for me ;)

America Saves Poor Little Veronica Mars!

It's truly a heartwarming thing when a nation rallies together to rapidly raise $1 million dollars for a movie about a girl who's . . .

dying of cancer

orphaned from tragedy

impoverished but had a cute YouTube video

ooohhh, that's right . . . Veronica Mars is a fictional character from a mildly amusing TV show played by Kristen Bell . . . who could have easily either self-funded the movie or had no problem finding Hollywood funding with those oddly inset eyes and that million dollar smile of hers.

It's so refreshing to see a "fundraiser" as important as the making of a Hollywood movie go so extremely well, and so quickly when it's endorsed by celebrities. I am amazed, for real. Especially when small, "faceless" organizations all over the world are screaming for donations for, ohh, I don't know . . . let's say arts education, abused woman & children's safe houses, foster programs, Cancer & HIV research and treatments, disaster relief, etc, etc.

It's awesome to see that America has its priorities straight.

Congratulations on reaching $1 million of every day people's dollars to create a movie that will earn you at least 50 times that amount. Then, those same donors will pay you a second time when they then go see the movie in theatre. I assume you have every single donor's contact details so you can repay them, and at least double their contribution as a token of your gratitude . . .
because you'll totally be doing that, RIGHT?

An apology letter to a cunt

To whom it concerns,

I'm sorry that you have such a sad and boring life that you feel the compulsion to entertain yourself by bullying an amazing woman like my mother. She is loved by everyone that knows her. She is honest, caring and thoughtful -- 3 qualities you completely lack.

I'm sorry that you thought you would feel better about yourself by making up inflammatory lies about my mother and spreading them like diarrhea from your over-inflated ass.

I'm sorry you thought you could get away with your infantile (that means young or immature) behavior without consequence. My mother might be able to rise above it, but I'm not nearly as nice or forgiving as she is.

I'm sorry that you never graduated high school and feel insecure that everyone around you is more educated than yourself. I tried really hard to keep my words to no more than three syllables each.

And finally,
I'm sorry that I will likely never have the displeasure to see your smug face again. It would give me intense joy to return the favor and cause you even just one tenth (that's a fraction, by the way, or I could use 10% if that's easier for you to understand) the pain and stress that you have caused others.

The next time you're on you knees, it better not be for praying because that would make you the biggest (literally) fucking hypocrite north of the border. You'd be better off filling those loose lips of yours with something much less religious.

You are a putrid human being and quite frankly, a cunt.

Suck on it,

Lady E.

Does this look like a "Bring Your Own Porn" establishment?

If you've been around my blog for a while — or at all, really — you'll know that I like'a the sex. Sex is good. But in saying that, I'm also not a skanked out slag that has no morals or tact; there is a time and place for everything, including porn . . .

When you are dining out in a restaurant is not one of those times!

Ooh, yes. While my good friend was waiting on a table of two moms with their children in tow, she overheard some strange moans coming from the next table, and more specifically from a 50-something man's smart phone. No headphones. Volume turned way up.

They were the sounds of a woman getting filled out like an application, if ya know what I mean - and I think you do. Are you fucking kidding me?

In a public place! Where people are trying to have a nice dinner! My friend, being both appalled and non-confrontational, asked one of the guys from the kitchen to have a word with the man. And here's where it gets even better, because when it was time for my friend to take their order, he had the nerve to complain to her about having been asked to turn off his device! She defended the request, mentioning that it wasn't exactly "appropriate content" for either the staff or other patrons to be overhearing.

And apparently, this guy was either the world's most pathetic liar, or was born yesterday . . . in a bubble, because his defense was, "I didn't know this type of material was on the internet!"

Yeah, right. Just like I had no idea how that bottle of Calvin Klein perfume appeared down my pants when I was fourteen.

Uuuuuuh huh.

So, really. If you know someone that cannot even go out to dinner without pondering ways to thicken their Alfredo sauce, then it might just be time for an intervention . . . or at the very least, please order take away from now on, for fuck's sake!

Ew.


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Completely unrelated!
I had the awesome pleasure in meeting 
Jenn from Fox in the City this weekend. 
Here's her take on how those shenanigans all went down.

(PS. That's totally my West Side gang sign.)



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A Whore Week

Well, here is another Friday that is about to pass this November, and I have to say that from my perspective this month is still kicking my ass. Last week, Thing 1 contracted impetigo, which is like the daycare version of herpes, as far as I'm concerned. Fucking disgusting germ factories, they are - the institutions and the little people inside them. But this all will soon be a distant memory, however, since they will be stopping daycare in a few short days. Why, you ask?

Ohh, because I lost my job. Ya know, no biggie . . .

I mean, holy motherfucking tripping balls.

I realize that it's nothing too huge in the grand scheme of things and that it happens to families every second of every day, but when it happens to you, it really does feel like a giant kick to your stomach.

Mortgage? Debt repayments? Car? Insurance? Groceries? TWO OF FUCKING EVERYTHING?

We were "just" scraping by and were counting down the days when the boys started "free" school in the fall. Well, didn't that grandiose plan just get flushed down the proverbial shitter? I've been employed continuously since my first job as a golf caddie when I was 12, so I'm not quite sure what to do about this whole "not having a job" thing.

I think I'm meant to cook, clean, take care of the child'ens, and shit, right?

Well, fuck me; that sucks.

I commend anyone that can stay home and happily raise their children, it's hard ass work. I know this, but I've also known that it's never been something I would be good at. I will admit that I love my kids the most when I only see them a limited number of house per day. I love working and creating - it is when I'm my best me. And that's the me that is the best me for my kids to have as a mom.

Does that make sense? I'm going to go ahead and assume you said, "Yes!"

And through fights with my work (who are trying to withhold pay that I've earned), to ruining relationships over a decade old, to realizing we'll have to be eating a lot of 27¢ packets of instant noodles for dinner and could very well lose our home, and my son's face is peeling off into crusty bits, I'm trying to focus on the fact that it's all superficial shit at the end of the day. We'll bounce back, eventually.

And maybe I'll get ripped off for the ump-teenth time by the same douche muppet.
And perhaps we'll have to get a different address.
And I'm sure that Thing 1 will survive.

But my friend around the corner is dying.

So yes, I had a fucktastic week that proceeded to bend me over and ram a fat one up me, but it could be worse. It can always be worse.

"Well, I say we get drunk, because I'm all out of ideas." (Metatron, Dogma)

Yup, it's about that time, folks.

Cheers!

Breaking Amish: Illustrated

I've always had issues with the Amish and Mennonite ways of life, ever since I was a teenager and spent a week with a Mennonite family and I was all like, "Your shit is ridiculous!" They fascinate me in an infuriating way. Don't get me wrong, I have issues with pretty much all organized religion, mostly for all the same reasoning: hypocrisy. Anyway, since the first time I saw that there was going to be a show called Breaking Amish, I absolutely knew that I would have to watch every episode. With the controversy that it's mostly "staged" (aren't all "reality" shows staged?), I take it with a grain of salt, but there are some core conflicts about the Amish way of life that have been addressed -- ones that drive me to literally eat my hair (I do that when I'm stressed; I realize it's disgusting, let's move on, shall we?). I thought instead of streaming a list of complaints, I made some illustrations for your viewing pleasure . . .

And that's all I really have to say about that.

Hard Lessons & Broken Records

I began writing this with a heavy heart since recent events have left me quite speechless — which I will be the first to admit that it doesn't happen often. It is one thing to bully someone to the point where they take their own life; it is an entirely new level of hell that one is striving towards when you continue to mock and disparage that person after they have died. What is the motherfucking point of spitting gas on a fire that has been extinguished? It's disgusting and sociopathic, if you ask me.

You want to know the one time I would slap my own teen? If I found out that he was contributing to that fucking mess, that's when. Just in knowing that we, as a generation, have raised these kids to hold such little value and honor in other people's lives makes me physically nauseous. And what does that mean for our future as a society . . .

I clearly remember incidents when I was in middle school where the "mob mentality" would take over and 4, 5, 6 people would bully and laugh at a single person until they cried or ran away. Can is still be called a "mob" when everyone is isolated in the comfort of their own middle class rooms, sitting nicely behind a computer? Fucking cowards.

I know there has been a plea for all these mindless douchebags to stop posting negative comments about the deceased girl and to "think what they are doing." But that's just it — they do not think. They believe it's all fucking hilarious and they won't see the err of their ways for likely another 5 years to even a decade. And for the REALLY thick ones, it won't sink in until they, themselves, become parents (which is ironic considering those are the people that give me a strong "pro" argument for involuntary sterilization).

And like a broken record, I am once again expressing that this is one of the key reasons I had to resign from teaching high school. SO MANY TIMES I just wanted to kick them hard in their asses and say, "You're a fucking asshole. Don't be an asshole!" These thoughts mostly came about while I was sweeping ripped out hair that covered the floor outside my classroom from the latest fight which usually involved two (or more) 12 year old girls trying to kill each other over the affections of a 12 year old boy who's balls hadn't even dropped yet.

I realize that it's a different social climate than 20 years ago (when I was 14), but mean bullies have been around for thousands of years – it's in our human nature – not one of our more admirable traits, but there it is. Call it insecurity; call it ignorance; call it over-inflated entitlement; hell, you can even call it Darwinian, but it's always been there - it's just the medium that keeps changing and evolving, each ugly head being more hideous and cruel than the last.

These are 5 ways to defeat a bully, and all five (in one way or another) are ways I have personally done to overcome the suck ass years that we have all had to battle though:

1. Ignore them. Getting upset is what gives them a hard on. Don't give them that pleasure! They'll likely be pumping your gas in 10 years (or doing nothing but playing video games and reminiscing about how  cool they were in high school and living in the basement apartment of their parents' mansion well into their thirties), so who the fuck cares if they call you a nasty name? Let them have their moment - it might be one of the few they get in their sad, little lives.

2. Beat them at their own game. They post something about you? Post something about yourself that's even funnier. This also goes back to #1. If you cause a stink about it, it will snowball into something that will get out of control until you feel you can't breathe. They will feed on that like starving vultures.

3. Punch them in their fucking face. OK, so this is probably frowned upon the most, but I gotta say, it worked for me . . . twice. Same dude; he wasn't so bright. And he grew up to be a Minor League hockey drop out and date rapist, so really, I don't regret assaulting him for a single moment.

4. Leave. Strategically, it's not the easiest solution, but if you're simply just fed up with their douchebaggery, change schools. It's best to not make a public event about it or else it will just follow you to your next school. And obviously, having a car helps. The further you can go, the better, because assholes have spies. I moved schools twice, although it wasn't from a specific bully per se, but there were a lot of asshats that just really annoyed me.

5. Become a fabulous success. I'm still working on this one, ahem, but success as revenge is (I think) just about the best incentive/motivation to do good things in your life. Take something negative and let it be the driving force to do something positive! Rise above their stupid, juvenile bullshit and take solace in knowing that after you graduate, you will be stronger because of it. You have the choice to close that door behind you and never look back. Killing yourself accomplishes nothing. Start over with a new phase of your life and have some goddamn fun. Blog about it, for fuck's sake!

Whatever we need to do to help process the fact that we lived through the bullshit and came out the other end . . . a little dirty but still alive - kind of like when Andy escaped through the raw sewage and into the fresh water in Shawshank Redemption.

Yup, that's high school.

The Whitney Season 1 DVD is available now folks and people who were mean to me in high school.
— Whitney Cummings (@WhitneyCummings) October 9, 2012

Yes, Whitney, exactly this.

I think a show on NBC prime time is just about thee very best way to tell your bullies that you are absolutely awesome. Everyone else can suck it!

And to all the victims and their families that have had to experience a tragic ending, my heart truly aches for you because it should never have to end like that.

When Sexting Goes Bad

If you follow me on The Twitter, you might see me dropping a "sexting" joke every now and then, and you might be surprised (or not at all surprised) that it's usually coming from truth, not make believe smartassery. The truth is, I enjoy sexting. And a hipster can come over and fellate my USB stick, because I've been a sexter before it was called "sexting". I began this hobby over a decade ago, when I first started dabbling in online dating and it was then called "cybersex". After the initial flirting went well, good old MSN handles were exchanged and often things turned into some steamy internet chats.

AND I LOVE IT.

I simply enjoy expressing my sexuality through words. I realize that many people don't get anything out of it, and some find it repugnant, but I think it's fabulously good, clean fun.

There's always been the on-going debate about what constitutes "cheating" when you have a spouse and what doesn't. Meh. Obviously, I'm on the "doesn't" side (there's bigger fish to fry in this life as far as I'm concerned), but I realize that my view isn't gospel, so whatever. Chacun à son goût. I will say that that whole scandal with Anthony Weiner was laughable to me . . . and not just because of his unfortunate last name.

I just hope that if I ever run for public office that all my sexting photos DO come out because for every one that I've sent, I've taken at least 10 to get just the right angle, so I know they all have my boobs looking smokin' hot, so bring it on! "Vote for me. You've seen my DD's. Yee-haw!" I mean, isn't that why people bother listening to Jenny McCarthy? Ahem.

Anyways, this means that over the last 10 YEARS or so, I have had (needless to say), many online/virtual friends. M-A-N-Y. Some lasted for a few weeks or even months, and some were one time anomalies, kind of like in real life relationships, really. Things in my personal life would change or get hectic and I wouldn't sext anyone for months, but everyone had been cool with boundaries and space and above all . . . HINTS of nonavailability . . .

UNTIL LAST WEEK.

It started out like any other sexting exchange and it was great! And then he texted again the next day. And again. And again. And again at fucking ridiculous times in the middle of the night, which I had told him once before wasn't cool with me. Here's two vital tips for all you guys out there:

1. If a woman doesn't respond to 3 texts in a row, just stop. 3 is good number. She either isn't interested or she's dead. Either way, you ain't going to get to see her posing her supple breasts for you, so just drop it.
2. When a woman gives you one simple rule, don't fucking break it. Period. 

In the nicest way I possibly could, I told him he was coming on a bit strong and I just can't be available for sexy times as much as he would like me to me. I mean, com'on! I know I have an overly active sex drive, but between work and family and my seemingly constant illnesses, my window for opportunities are slim, to say the least. (And this would mark the SECOND time I had had to tell him this as well, apparently not stopping his daily texting frequency whatsoever.)

That is about the time when he went off on a tangent that would rival both my 3 year olds put together, and mentioned to me that I had slipped into "cunt mode" and that I was nothing but a "fat, unhappy housewife".

A. It's MRS. CUNT DRAGON to you, douche muppet. Buy the fucking mug.

B. I replied with, "Actually, I'm a fat, moderately happy professional wife, to be clear."

And then I blocked him from my life, because HELLO, CRAZY. I could very well have shot back with personal attacks about him (which would have been eeeasy), but I wasn't going to lower myself to that or waste my time with a Stage Five Clinger. I guess I should feel lucky that it's taken this long for someone THAT thick to come into my virtual life and get all psycho up in my beh'ness. 10 YEARS. This is my first cray-cray in ten fucking years. If by some off chance he is reading this, I think you need to chick-it-y check yourself before you wreck yourself!

Also, being my very first peer to verbally abuse me by stooping so low as to making fun of my weight SINCE I HAVE BEEN IN MIDDLE SCHOOL, I feel like he really deserved his own award, don't you think? Something like this . . .

And I made another one, because they were actually quite therapeutic

and I couldn't choose between the two.

I though the "housewifey" rubber glove giving the ASSHOLE sign was rather poetic.

I have no idea why this guy is still single . . .

Anyways, all the best!

Smiting you,

Lady E

The End of Days: A Preview

For the last few months, a Canadian national retailer has been dying a slow and seemingly painful death. The strange thing is that I've never even liked Zellers – their products and customer service sorely lacked in quality compared to their American competitors. I wish is wasn't the truth but that has been my experience.

FINALLY, it's the end of days for Zellers. Every week, the savings increase by 10% and the scavengers come flocking. Of course, I had to check it out every week – especially since I have twins, so buying everything in duplicate sure helps when it's 50-80% OFF. We got 2 new tricycles for $30 each. Score!

(I don't know this kid, but he was more than eager to pose for me.)

Then, I did something that I might not be overly proud of – I went to another Zellers and then another, and another to check out their spoils of a defeated retail war. My grandmother's obsessive shopping gene kicked in, which is my only line of defense at this time. I journeyed to one particularly close to The Big Smoke where the population is a lot more dense (in volume, not intelligence maybe), and this is what I found:

Which perhaps isn't too bad for those of you non-OCD people, but then I turned around and saw this:

Fuck that, yo!

People scrounging through merchandise on the floor. Throwing it, stepping on it, kicking items aside, treating it like it was a free-for-all! If this is what the Apocalypse (Zombie or otherwise) would look like, I just hope I go out quickly, because I have no patience for this fucking chaos. Not one bit. I love a good bargain as much as the next person, but if the shelves are in disarray and there's no civilized shopping to be had, please just put me out of my misery, because this made my heart hurt:

A world without organized, freshly re-stocked merchandise is not a world that I'd be interested in. Period.

And without further adieu. . .

Dear gods of Target,

Please hurry up and give this store a baptism of fire 
before you even think of moving in; just take my word for it.
Looking forward to being inside you!

Thanks.

Sincerely,
Lady E

The tale of Dr. Alle Gory

There once was a respected doctor in the little village that was nestled beautifully between an emerald green lake and a mountain range that resembled enormous chocolate chunks which had been gently sprinkled with icing sugar.

The village thrived as every citizen offered something unique to the town, and the doctor's job was to take care of everyone... until one day, a faceless and evil entity crept into the village. This villain whispered ideas into the villagers ears, telling them that they didn't need the good doctor anymore. There was this thing called "the internet" that could surely show them how to do everything that the doctor could do - and this way, they would be saving so much money and time, just by taking care of their maladies themselves.

What a catastrophically devious plan.

The faceless villain could be heard throughout the land as he joyfully chuckled with his deep and sinister voice. It sent chills down the doctor's spine and she cringed. The creature swiftly left the village and moved on to the next, as if he knew exactly what was about to occur.

Soon after, Dr. Gory's patient list became sparser and sparser as they dropped their appointments one-by-one, like a wilting daisy losing its petals. Around the same time, she noticed that some villagers started to look, well, off, for lack of a better word. They would limp a little, but then smile at the doctor, likely to create the illusion that everything was alright.

They became absolutely convinced they didn't need the doctor when convenient wysiwyg techniques were accessible to them. And yet more and more of the ill advised citizens began to look injured, or sick. Some looked like they had strange rashes and other ugly deformities on their bodies. One man even tried to remove a growth from his leg by himself! Dr. Gory ran over to this horrific sight and offered to help, but he winced and protested, "No, no, no. It's fine. I played around with the saaaaame tools that you have and for the most part, I think I've figured it out."

Alle stormed away, pulling at her hair and gnashing her teeth in frustration.

The citizens became sicker and more grotesque to the point where the disheartened doctor couldn't even look out her window without seeing carnage. A fatally false sense of "knowledge" had been given to these people with those seductive tools and things called "free apps" and "filters". And the saddest part was that they either didn't notice how awful they looked or they were just in severe denial and refused advice from the one and only person that was truly qualified to help them.

The doctor wept under her face mask as the village collapsed before her very eyes. There was nothing left of her once beautiful village. All that remained was an ugly ghost town filled with corpses and old flyers rustling in the wind like tumbleweed. As one flyer slapped against her ankle, she leaned over to pick it up. It read:

Seeing this horrific mockery of everything she had learned and worked towards for the past ten years must have been the breaking point for this poor, broken doctor. Alle slowly looked up to the sky and let one single tear drop escape her eye as she ripped up the flyer. She let it drop to the ground and with resolution in her mind and conviction in her steps, she got in her car and began to drive it full speed towards the calm lake. There was a great CUR-SPLASH as her vehicle pounded into the water. Giant air bubbles violently screamed to the surface as the car quickly sank to the bottom, along with the doctor inside...

But of course, I wouldn't have to worry about such nonsense because since I'm just a graphic designer and not a doctor, no one would ever bother to undermine my profession and think that they could do my job.

THAT WOULD JUST BE
UTTERLY. FUCKING. PREPOSTEROUS.

Let's get political, shall we?

It's very rare that I get political on my blog, mainly because Canadian politics is about exciting as watching two snails fuck. But hey there, I just spent 5 days in the great land to the south, which was more than long enough to be exposed and affected by the looming presidential campaign.

While we were driving down the I-whatevernumber highway, there were actually a few moments when I wasn't asleep in the passenger seat. Call it a messed up case of serendipity, because during one of those times, we passed a billboard that looked like this...

The. Fuck.

I winced and let out a moan so horrific that my husband jumped a little in his seat thinking that I was about to shit out a demon.

(Just a short while ago, I remember that Lost in Idaho spotted this billboard WHICH WAS EVEN WORSE, but I didn't have the displeasure of witnessing that one first hand, thank gawd.)

I've pretty much exhausted my mind being angry/upset/heartbroken over this so I'm going to try to keep this fairly brief.

*clears throat*

THESE TWO ISSUES SHOULD NEVER BE ELECTION PLATFORMS. PERIOD.

Why do I even have to say this? The very fact that they are still "issues" are extremely upsetting to me to begin with. Unless you are actually gay or Pro-Choice (which obviously these billboards are NOT aimed towards), these issues do not affect the day-to-day well being of your family as American citizens whatsoever!

A president "SHOULD" be elected because they can improve and/or maintain your family's security, whether it be economically, socially, or otherwise.

Healthcare.
Employment.
National debt.
Foreign Policy (to an extent).
Education.
Social Security.
Gun control.

These are all valid electoral platforms.

Whether David and Mike (who have lived together across the street for over a decade) can legally get married, or whether 14 year old knocked up Nancy from next door is allowed to safely choose to stay pregnant or not... is... guess what? NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS. If Dave & Mike get hitched, or Nancy gets an abortion, be not afraid — the price of gas won't go up as a result of either events. Humm...

Source {ology.com}

I know I've said this on The Twitter a long time ago, and today I will say it again: I don't care if the leader of my country is a Pagan worshiping cross-dresser who likes to be choked a little bit whilst taking it up the ass, but if he/she can ensure my children have safe streets to play on, an affordable education and a roof over our heads, I don't given a flying fuck. Why? Because their personal opinions, tastes, preferences and desires are none of my business. And equally mine shouldn't be any of their concern either. It seems obvious enough to me, doesn't it?

I guess not.

I'm not even saying that you cannot have these opinions. You are entitled to your opinion, even if you're wrong. Ahem. You don't agree with gay marriage or abortion? Fine. But you cannot and must not dictate how someone else lives their life by forcing your opinion upon them. When this happens, basic human rights are forfeited and it ceases to be a free country.*

This is the year 20-motherfucking-12 and there's a chance the world could smash into a comet tomorrow anyway, so can everyone keep out of each other's personal business and elect a president for reasons that are actually relevant to successfully governing an entire country?

Thanks in advance,

Lady E


PS. Love your outlet malls.

PPS. I'd also like to note the sponsorship of that particular billboard, which I think The Bearded Iris might agree that it just twists the knife of this ridiculous message that much further, don't you think? Ugh.

*Please do not misconstrue this statement as an argument that can be used for gun control. No one has ever died because they accidentally jumped in front of a gay marriage.


//end rant.

Osh Tosh B'gosh

Whether or not you've heard by now, Daniel Tosh did something quite repugnant. In saying that, I'm not going to entirely rant about how much of a douche muppet he is - why? Because I am trying to assess this situation from some kind of middle ground (or at least 70/30). I realize that simply because I have a vagina that would very much like not to be raped, it might not be possible to be unbiased, but there it is.

I would like to think that we're not all complete idiots and when you go to see a show with the likes of Daniel Tosh and Dane Cook headlining that you are going because A) You somehow appreciate their sense of humor and actually paid, or B) Got free tickets and understand who they are but still have thick skin enough to stomach their routine for 90 minutes, or C) Have no idea what you're getting in to because you've been raised in a protective bubble filled with cotton candy.

I would be in the B group, for the record.

Everyone has their limitations to what we do or do not find funny, mostly due to our own unique life experiences and tragedies, so what some would find horribly offensive, someone else thinks it's hilarious. For example, I made an abortion joke on Twitter last year that single handedly lost me almost 30 followers... but I laughed at myself so hard I was nearly in tears - and some people loved it, so I wasn't entirely alone.

And I have laughed at religious jokes.
I have laughed at racist jokes.
I have laughed at sexist jokes.
I have laughed at Helen Keller jokes - actually, they're some of my favorite to tell.

And I also have NOT laughed at religious jokes.
Nor have I at racist jokes.
Nor have I at sexist jokes.
Umm... sorry, Helen.

But I get it. 
And I don't internalize them as personal attacks if I think a joke is in poor taste. We cannot control what we do or do not find funny, but we can control our contextual understanding of every situation and take them with big chunky grains of salt.

So when Daniel Tosh starts making a joke about rape and how hilarious it is (OBVIOUSLY HE WAS BEING SARCASTIC), I would have sat there and zoned out. Since he was allegedly "going on about it" he was very likely struggling to get a laugh and dying a slow comedic death, regardless of the heckling from this offended girl.

Should he have responded to her heckling by saying that it would be funny if she was gang raped?

FUCK NO! WHAT A FUCKING MORONIC THING TO DO.

Slow fucking clap to you, Daniel.
It's obvious that his inability to defend himself with nothing but a juvenile, asinine "I know you are but what am I" type of insult just demonstrates the true depth of his comedic intelligence.

I'd like to think that if it was me, I would have been able to say something like, "Actually, Daniel, it wouldn't be quite as funny as YOU getting raped by 5 guys, or at least one giant guy who's nickname is Tripod."

And only then would I have made my grand exit.

The terrifyingly beautiful thing about the internet is that once you do something so incredibly stooopid, it gets out there for the entire world to see. Tosh acknowledged the situation (which is more than most public figures do on Twitter) and said this...

And here's where I throw in my two cents worth of Devil's advocate to Tosh. When it comes to stand up comedy, have you EVER seen a comic apologize ON STAGE for a joke? Hell no. If comics had to start doing that, they'd sound like us Canadians and begin apologizing after every fucking punchline. Could you imagine Lisa Lampanelli in that situation? She's be toast. As would all other "shock tactic" comics out there. Do these comics impress me? Not in the least...

...but I also wouldn't agree to see them in the first place.

'Cos I'm, like, hairy?

Over the last couple months, there has been some women (specifically Emer O'Toole & Charlotte Free) that have been making a statement about feminism and what constitutes femininity over, say, infantilisation by ceasing to shave their body hair - legs, pubes and pits. This post is by no means written with angry PMS coursing through my veins. Au contraire. I was actually laughing out loud and shaking my head (that's right, a real LOL-SMH for realzies) when I was reading/watching these women talk about their new found "freedom".

Snorty snort snort.

This issue is so multifaceted. Of course it is - or else it wouldn't be making headlines, but there's only two points that I really want to discuss today, to prevent me from crapping on for an eternity.

ONE: Who would you rather? 
I don't give a fuck whose rose colored glasses you want me to look though, but the world is a shallow, cruel place, especially in Western culture. Them's the facts. Is it right? Of course not, but there it is. And here's poor, "brave" Charlotte Free with her cute little hairy armpits. Awwweeeee...

{Source: Terry Richardson via Have you heard the latest}

Emer O'Toole attempts to be funny with her answer to the question "Don’t men find you physically repulsive and refuse to engage in sexual and/or romantic relations with you?" but goes on to say that ALL the boyfriends she has had have been OK with it.

Of. Course. They. Are.

She's adorable. Christ, even I want to have sex with her!

These women could fucking braid their pits and put beads on the ends and men will still fall at their feet. I think Emer's kind of completely missed the point which is: Whether or not she has hair on her pits, she's still beautiful! I did three takes on her answer, laughing the whole time and picturing her saying it while smacking gum and twirling her hair. Okay, that might have been slightly bitchy, but you get the point.

I'm not saying that I can't take her seriously since she's stunning either, because THAT would be anti-feminist of me. I'm merely stating that a lot of women that look like that (including many of my own girl friends) have no fucking clue when they say things like, "Awe, those guys are soooo nice!" that those guys just so happened to be the same guys that were complete assholes to me... simply because I didn't look like her.

This would be a more accurate portrayal of me the "average" woman going au naturale.

{Source: eBaum's World}

And if she's cool with that? Then rock on, sista! But it's not for everyone. And it's not as "easy" as it is in Terry's little bubble world.

Just by using these two photos alone proves my point that most people are shallow dick smacks - since the one of Charlotte gets put on the cover of a magazine, and the caption of this Leopard-print Lady (that I purposely cropped out) was something like "Will someone please get me a razor and a shot gun?" Awful.

I rest my case.

TWO: You, Me & my silk panties.
I don't even see why this is a "feminist" issue at all. It's a personal grooming choice. Are there societal conventions? Hell yes, but using it to make some sort of equality statement bores me, especially since it's not 1960. Yawn.

Pro-Choice
Equal salaries
Benefits
Child care

These are feminist issues. You want a hairy snatch? Go right ahead. Personally, I detest the feeling of hairy armpits on myself. I don't give a rat's ass if men prefer one look to the other, it's purely a decision I made for myself a long time ago. Forget feminism, it's not even about femininity either, it just feels good.

I had once described my over zealous pubic area as being likened to that of Russell Brand's hair style. And I didn't like it one bit. I will NEVER forget the first time I shaved the bottom half of my glory box (I keep the top growing, so to maintain my womanly essence) and I have to say, it was fucking a-mazing.

I happened to have a nice little pair of silk panties and when I put them on I was like, "WHOA, BABY."

Then I sat on my boyfriend's face and it was like, "HOOOOLY GAWD!"

And apart from my eyes rolling inside my head, I've never looked back.

So, yes, there may come a day when I will join a picket line and hoist a sign in support of woman's rights, but I will never, not ever deny myself of a good shave.

Unless I went on Survivor.

But we all know how that would work out.

Just sayin'


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Note: Error of the model's name fixed thanks to The Tsarista.
Lesson learned: Don't drink and blog... too often.
x

Them's fightin' words, Jenny

Dear Jenny McCarthy, 

You have touched a nerve with me. If fact, you haven't just touched it - you have strung it out and plucked it like a bass guitar that just popped a string which then proceeded to poke me in the fucking eye. You told Howard Stern in this interview that your son still misses Jim Carrey and that you have tried numerous times to reach out to him. In addition to that statement, you added,

"...as a mother, you just hope when you have a relationship with someone, 

it has nothing to do with the child when you break up."¹

Here are the top five motherfucking issues I have with this situation.

1. That's really sad that your son misses Jim, but I really wished you had kept that shit private. Why? Because you're a celebrity, ya dumb fuck. You must have known that by saying that, it would cause a shit storm of negative press - mostly towards Jim. Telling the world that you have tried to reach out to him with no avail and making him look like a heartless douchebag is a sure fine way of improving your estranged relationship. Oh, and the final part about your son being in therapy because of the estrangement was really a nice cherry on top of that steaming pile of passive-aggressive dialogue.

2. I realize that there are two sides to this story and I will attempt to cover both sides, all of which still make you look like a cunt, but in any case... although Jim is not the child's biological father, he still was present during a very impressionable time in the boy's young life (which is certainly compacted by the child's Autism). It makes me really sad and angry that Jim wouldn't attempt to keep in touch with the boy, if for no other reason than because he "should" recognize that he was, in fact, a parental figure in his life for 5 years and that it's important to maintain some form of contact for the child's sake. And because you, Jenny, now made me disappointed in Jim, that makes you suck too.

If a psychologist perhaps suggested that a clean break would be better for all of you (which is also a possibility, we can only make assumptions at this point) than why are you even bringing this shit up? Kind of brings me back to my first point about keeping this a private matter, don't you think?

3. The quote (1) that I used in my intro actually made me want to kick you, Jenny, in the coccyx. Hard. If you actually think that break-ups with spouses (or partners or whathaveyou) doesn't affect the children involved, than you are dumber than I ever could have possibly imagined. Or, if you were somehow implying that your son was "THE REASON" that you and Jim broke up, here's a slow fucking clap for just subversively admitting that to the entire world. Mother of the Year for you.

4. From the wise words of Rod Tidwell, "You don't shoplift the pootie from a single mom!" But I want to revise that a bit by saying that you don't give away the pootie when your a single mom either - why? Because of the kids, especially if they happen to struggle with change!

My mother dated my step-father for 5 years and not once did he sleep over... until there was a rock on her finger. It wasn't a bargaining chip, it was because she needed to know he was committed to being a partner AND FATHER before he became a permanent presence in my life. I think that was pretty cool and responsible of my mother - and I'm sure it wasn't easy. In summary, everything you do (and who you do) affects your children. Be aware of that and accept the consequences when things don't work out - don't fucking moan about it years after the fact.

One Canadian comedian to another...

4b. How many ex-boyfriends will you expect to keep in contact with your son over the next few years? Not to mention his biological father. I would think after a while it might get confusing for the boy to keep track. I am in no way calling you a skank, but being the single mother of an Autistic son requires special considerations when introducing new men into yours and his life.

5. You are not a child that's been grounded by your parents; you're a grown woman that also happens to be very wealthy and with practically unlimited resources. If you really wanted your son to see Jim for the past TWO YEARS, you would have made it happen by now. Don't insult our intelligence and make us feel sorry for you when it's actions that always speak louder than words, my dear. You want your son to see Jim? Get on a fucking plane and ring the gawd damn doorbell.


Tumultuously yours,
Lady E


// End rant.


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I am over at In The Powder Room with a fun little quip about 
how stupid potty training is with twins... ya know... 
if you're into that kind of reading :) ENJOY!!


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1.  The Toronto Sun, Wednesday, June 06, 2012

What's in a Hoodie?

It's been a while since I've done a good rant, so please bear with me on this one... and of course, contribute your opinion as well. I feel I need to say a few words about the tragic shooting of Trayvon Martin - in a round about way. Before I get on my soap box to what is really pissing me off, I want to first and foremost say: Yes, it is a tragedy. Yes, I believe Zimmerman is about as crazy as a schizophrenic fox on peyote, and he should have been arrested immediately. And yes, I believe he had been absolutely itching to shoot someone and he, himself, has been essentially a loaded gun for quite some time, and Trayvon was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tragic.

OK. We good? Good.

What has my panties in a knot are these continuous tirades about young black men wearing hoodies and how it's negative stereotyping and racial profiling... blah... blah... blah...

I don't want to sound like I'm anti-American, but it's not always about race and not everything is about America. Yes, in THIS case, I believe it WAS an issue - but it was a personal issue that Zimmerman had. We all know that The States loves to think that they are at the apex of every issue, but here's the thing - hoodies have already been a HUGE fucking problem in the UK for more than a decade and it has absolutely nothing to do with race.

ZERO.

What it has more to do with is smart ass teenagers of every colour commiting crimes with their hoodies covering their faces so they cannot be caught on CCTV cameras. Kids are dumb assholes, regardless of race! It has gone so far as they had put in place an "Anti-social Behaviour Order" (ASBO) when I was living there in 2005, where youth that were purposely hiding their faces with hoodies (among other offences) would be faced with a fine, whether they are committing a crime or not.

Am I saying that I agree with this? No.

Not entirely, anyway.

By having the government telling us what we can and cannot wear certainly does infringe upon our rights, buuuutttt... I've also been on the other side of this when I was walking my dog alone at night, and 5 teens in hoodies approached me. I'll admit that they could have, for all I know, been the starting line up for the national basketball team, but it didn't matter; I was absolutely terrified.

It's because their faces were hidden.

And there is no fucking way that some one could convince me that (mostly) teen boys don't wear their hoodies up over their faces for practically no other reason but to look tough... unless it's hailing. Of course that's why! It's an "image"; it's a fashion statement that says, "Look, I'm bad ass." 

Just like when I was going to University in the late 90s and I lived in a part of town where I was certainly the minority. There was a fashion trend for young men to wear nylons on their heads. I remember the first time I saw it I was absolutely floored. Isn't wearing an item that its sole purpose is to hide one's identity DURING A ROBBERY in fact helping feed into that negative stereotype? I mean, come on...

It's like if I walked around wearing a shirt that said 'Cheap White Trash' (I totally have that, btw) and then get offended when someone calls me cheap white trash. I can't expect to have it both ways, and neither should anyone else!

So please, I just cannot stomach seeing this horrible incident being the catalyst in creating some racially-filled mountain out of a non-denominational mole hill.

Hoodies have had negative connotations for quite some time. I don't give a fuck if it is part of your volleyball team's uniform, it is the truth. Just look at executioners in the 18th century, or those horrible white-hooded rednecks on horses... and don't even forget Little Red Riding Hood; she was one sneaky bitch, for sure.

Can you honestly tell me that you'd be OK with leaving your Mercedes unlocked with these fine young (Caucasian, I'll point out) gentlemen hanging around it? Not. Fucking. Likely.

CHAVY NEDS

Posthumous. Isn't that a dip?

Oh, Whitney, Whitney, Whitney.

I thought I was going to be able to hold my tongue and mourn in silent protest over the passing of my number one biggest role model from when I was a girl.

But the slander just keeps on rolling out. I really didn't want to see her coffin photo.
Or the crime scene photos either. But they are rammed down my throat at every turn. I couldn't even load my groceries on to the conveyor belt (with my children in tow) without seeing images of her sprawled out in the tub.

STOP THAT!

Why? Well, besides the fact that it's macabre and disturbing, it is completely fucking irrelevant.

It's the pettiness and judgmental douche bags that are making me ill. If she died quietly in her bed from a long battle with cancer, I'm sure we would be hearing an entirely different tune. It would be the Whitney Lament, not the Whitney Torment.

She's dead, mother fuckers. Let it go!

And it is nothing new. I'm not shocked in the slightest; I'm just annoyed.

I just wish people could focus on the amazing music that will live on as her legacy. That's how we remember her. It is how we SHOULD remember her. Everyone has their demons to bear, and whether it's because of their genius or because of their fame that magnifies it... it is tragic.

Michael Jackson.
Kurt Cobain.
Keith Haring.
Elvis.
Jimi Hendrix.
Karen Carpenter.
Oscar Wilde.

Imagine if Van Gogh cut his own ear off and sent it to a friend in today's "TMZ society"!
Or the fact that Gauguin likely gave a third of the native female adolescent population on Tahiti syphilis.
Or that Caravaggio was quite partial to young boys.

But time goes on. And when the paint is dry and the notes are written, that's all that is really important. All the extenuating circumstances surrounding how they lived and died are entirely inconsequential.

When they were alive, they created great art. Art that will live on long after they, and their children's children are gone.

So, to Whitney Houston, thank you for having lived, for having sung so beautifully, and for leaving us with your voice.
It was you that made me fall in love with music.

'Cos I'm a model, ya know what I mean

Thanks to The Animated Woman, I was guided toward a post on Jezabel.com that explained how H&M doesn't even use real models' bodies on their website. I had to read it twice, since the WHAT THE FUCK in my head was screaming so loudly. Yes, these 'bodies' apparently display their clothing much better than a 'real' woman could... which leads me to ask the obvious question: Who's meant to be buying these bloody clothes? Apparently not real humans!

I'm sorry H&M, but if your clothes don't look good on real women, even models, you have shitty designers, and therefore, even shittier clothes.

I went to the site to check out this freak show for myself, and it is surely true, and oh-so-obvious. Notice anything that these three women have in common?

It kind of takes the idea of the "cookie cutter" criticism to a whole new depth of hell. Oh, but let's applaud their efforts to at least tweak their skin tones to match the head they pasted on top. Bravo!

I'm fairly certain that my neck is thicker than this digital representation of what a woman's thigh is meant to look like, but hey, at least I know I totally have bigger tits, and they're REAL. Ahem.

I found the entire interactive "let's dress up the droid" part of the website unnerving, creepy and soulless. Click on the different models -- only the heads change. It's gross! I propose that if we can inter-change all the clothes and heads, we should be able to paste on our own heads as well. I'd find the experience much more pleasurable if I was able to see my friends looking back at me. I don't mind that they're in their undies... it's not like it's their bodies, right? Pssh-sha.

SEE? Much Better - So Sexy!

~ Purrrrrr ~

I'd prefer putting clothes on Handflapper, Animated Woman and Ida Homie any day...who wouldn't?!

But then again, there's no way in FC/UK I'd ever buy anything from H&M in the first place.*

Fashion? Fail.

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*Okay. So once I bought 2 AC/DC t-shirts for the twins there. Whatthefuckever. But that's IT.

Credits: Animated Woman for paraphrasing her tweet, the 3D Rendering artists at H&M, Kathy Slamen Photography, Handflapper's fine art talent, and Brandon's mad hotel bathroom photography skills.

Dumb White Girl? Here!

Shhh... we’re not supposed to talk about it.

During University, I had a good friend, Deron. We lived together for a semester – and I never even had sex with him (I know… shocker!). Deron and I got on really well and we had some good times together; we shared the hobby of making fun of other people's work in our program behind their backs. I guess we both had minor “artistic god complexes”, so our friendship was a good fit... for the most part.

He was from the Bahamas and had been coming to Toronto for school since he was 13. He went to a swanky private boarding school during high school and then attended U of T for four years. His parents bought him a car in both countries so he would always be able to “get around”. In addition to his vastly expensive wardrobe directly from Ralph Lauren's catalogue and various techo-toys, he let it slip once that he had 5 servants on his family estate in the Bahamas.

Now, would you say that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth? I would say a big fat “YES!” and that’s fine… good for him and his family… my issue arose with his artwork.

Every. Single. Piece. that he created had to do with being an oppressed black man in a white society.
Are you fucking kidding me? 
In reality, he was an over-privileged, sheltered private school boy, and on canvas, he was an angry black man.

I would like to think that I’m not completely naive, but I just didn't get it. I confronted him about it once in a very joking, nonchalant way and he jumped down my throat spewing out remarks like,
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me!” 
“You have no fucking clue what it’s like to be black!” 
Hummm… please enlighten me, because from where I stood, his life looked pretty damn good!

I am aware that harsh racism does still exist in many parts of the world, 
and that is truly a tragedy. 

But Deron? He totally road the double standard highway. If I played Pearl Jam too loudly, he would complain that my “white music” was annoying him – music that is emotional and poetic – and he would try to drown me out with harsh gangster rap songs about drugs, violence and that's demeaning towards women. Could you just imagine if I called it “black music”? He would have signed me up as a card-carrying member of the white hoods if I said that. Good lord! I would NEVER have even considered spitting gas on THAT fire.

So, my point and question is simply that I get so frustrated by people that constantly dwell on the past… not even THEIR past… we’re talking two hundred years ago. People came (and still come) to Canada to escape racism. So, after years of over-coming oppression and being awarded the same rights and opportunities (if not more) than other races, why do some choose to dwell on the past? Or obsess over the colour of their skin?

{Credit: Viewaskew Photos}

I’m not saying forget it, but learn from it and be stronger for it.

Am I just been naive?

I’ll finish with the wise words of Hooper X from Chasing Amy, to whom I often thought Deron was similar to; although he wasn’t gay like HooperX, he was definitely a well-groomed, advantaged metro-sexual leading a stage personality in the name of A.R.T.

Hooper X:  I need to sell the image to sell the book. I mean, would the audience still buy the whole black rage angle if they found out the book was written by a... you know...

Banky Edwards:  Faggot?

Hooper X:  When you say it, it sounds so sexy.