30 Jun 2011

Dear Baby Dyke,

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is your first Pride; I can see that you are very jazzed on the rainbow motifs, there's a thrilled look in your eyes that I'm guessing has never been there before, and boy, is your posture ever great! I'm happy for you and hope this weekend serves to further your sense of confidence, belonging, and a comfort with your own skin and mind. And, hey, double points if you manage to get laid, too!

But I'm going to give you this tip, and it's important, so please listen:

When you randomly and loudly holler at me while I'm walking by that I have "nice tits":
a) Duh.
b) It's just as lame and off-putting as when a man does it.

Have some pride, grasshopper. Now go have fun.

Photo borrowed with zero permission from
QueeriesMag.com and R.J. Martin

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29 Jun 2011

Say Hello To My Little Friends

Late last week, I started writing a post titled "I Am Becoming The Honey Badger".

Because honey badger don't care. Honey badger don't give a shit.

I had officially had enough with this home selling business and no longer felt like being real estate's bitch. I realize that in most markets, having a home for sale for a month is totally no big, but for this market, it felt like it was dragging. People in our building typically sell their homes in two to six days. We were getting steady traffic in our place - between two and five showings a day everyday - but no bites. As someone who works from home, I was starting to find it just a tad obnoxious having to keep the place uber tidy and having to leave all the time to let people view our home privately. You know, so they could enjoy a quiet moment to pee on our floors. Ah, YAH, IT HAPPENED. There is nothing like opening your doors to strangers to make one think less about the human race as a whole.

As you may recall, I was feeling so fed up that I even turned to stupid no-good cupcakes and Catholic superstitions that involved burying a plastic religious icon head-first in a pot of flowers. In other words, my mind was unraveling.

And then on Friday I finally turned to something I liked: my 1950s magazines and books. We always had fun with our 50s Housewife Experiments and our home felt so devoid of fun recently ... so I decided to honey badger it up and do some old school cooking and baking in my cute little dresses between showings. I didn't care if these concoctions ruined the depersonalized aesthetic of our home, because I just didn't give a fuck anymore. Not one crazy honey badger fuck.

My Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book says:

Well, gee, that's all that was missing from people thinking of my condo as a home? Done! So I spotted a recipe for the ultra girly Pink Azalea cake:


... and added my own sweet touches to it. I'm not normally a "pink" kind of person, but this cake is simply adorable, especially once I housed it in a little glass cake dome:


Still on a wholesome kick, I made some strawberry pie:

I then came across an ad featuring the pre-Bob Barker host of Price is Right, Bill Cullen, shilling for a tea company. Just me, or does he sort of remind you of Matt Damon, if Matt Damon was completely drained of all sex appeal?:

And so, I made some home-brewed iced tea with lemon slices, baked some chicken breasts, prepped some corn on the cob and made some potato salad.

I was feeling really happy - finally able to get in the kitchen and DO stuff rather than delicately walk around my home afraid to disturb things. So, naturally, I took it too far: I decided to make The Crazy 50s Shit That Makes Me Laugh.

Remember that green soup with dicks in it? Remember the great names you came up for it? Well, I found the official recipe for it in my Woman's Day July 1959 magazine:

Wanna know what it looks like in person?

No. Definitely not.

Too bad!

Not nearly as green. More, brown, really. Dick a la Sewage. Ah well, in the fridge you go! Just be grateful, soon-to-judge-my-home visitors, that I didn't just leave it on the stove top. Because I was tempted. Seriously, seriously tempted.

And the pièce de résistance in my cooking and baking spree? Want to take a guess?

If you'll recall, the first "fancy" gelatin mold I tried to make did not turn out well. At all. It was a sloppy wet mess that exploded its contents all over the place - not unlike a teenager who has drank too many wine coolers in the woods behind her house. Certainly not speaking from personal experience there or anything. With this home situation being so out of our control, I decided that I was going to try to tackle something that had challenged me before, and I was going to succeed, dammit! I went for something layered and colourful with silly things inside.I was going balls out with this jello mold and if it splatted on the floor 30 minutes before our next showing, so be it.

Oh, what a thing of repulsive, fantastic, proud beauty:
That's lemon jello with lemons, orange jello with carrots and lime jello with celery. Sounds disgusting, but by golly, did it ever hold together well! I was one drink away from extending my arms and screaming out the window, "I'm the James Cameron king of the world, motherfuckers!"

I gave the gelatin mold the "glory spot" in our fridge - right underneath the bulb. There would be no escaping it, should anyone viewing our home open the fridge. It was my crowing jewel in my collection of Food I Made Once I Stopped Caring About These Weirdos Coming Into My Home:

We then had people come in for a showing early that evening.

And on Saturday?

They gave us an offer.

Today the condition on that offer was removed, so it's official. We've sold our damn condo!

Maybe it was dear St. Joe (who is indeed also killing the flowers as I predicted). But maybe, just maybe, it was the jello mold. Both shall have places of honour in my new home.

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22 Jun 2011

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This

Meet St. Joseph.

Well, his tiny plastic counterpart, anyway. If you believe in Christian mythology, you probably hated that I referred to it as 'mythology' just now St. Joseph was Jesus's incredibly understanding step-father who married a preggo Mary even though she wasn't carrying his child. He had to be coaxed into it somewhat by an unnamed angel - who I think should be called Maury - who opened a manila envelope and confirmed that God ... (wait for it) ... WAS the father.

Anyhoo - because Joseph provided a home to Jesus and Mary and since he was a carpenter who could make stuff (like condos?), some folks (mostly Catholics and crazy people ... sometimes one in the same) consider him to be a bit of a miracle worker when it comes to buying and selling homes. Like everything concerning religion, it's a bit of a leap.

With our home-selling woes in mind, my mother-in-law and her sister went on a trek - a pilgrimage if you will - to find us a St. Joseph statue. They found one in what sounded like a church gift shop. I know it's been a while since I stepped in one, but churches have gift shops? Are there small McDonalds near the check-out too?

So, behold, my St. Joseph Home Selling Kit, direct from China heaven:

The child labourers angels forgot to paint St. Joseph's beard, so he appears to have a MASSIVE chin. He looks like what I imagine Brian Mulroney would look like if he was a happy stoner going to a toga party. And is it just me or does Jesus look like a baby Princess Leia?


According to the instructions, you're supposed to bury St. Joseph, head-first, into the ground at your property line, facing your home. You do this while reciting a prayer that basically tells Joseph he's going to stay in that uncomfortable position until he helps you sell your home ... which sounds rather terrible and Gitmo-esque. Hardly a nice way to treat someone, let alone a saint carrying your savior ...

But I don't believe in any of this stuff, right?


Down you go, Plastic Magic Man! Sell this home!

As I'm in a condo, I couldn't very well drill a hole in the sidewalk, so my planter had to do.

I believe that one of two things will happen: we'll sell this condo soon or my potted Kalanchoe will die from St. Joseph's wrath / the fact that I probably tore up some roots shoving him in there. Want to take a guess which will happen first? A third option of me getting what's coming to me due to my giddy blasphemy is also a valid answer.

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17 Jun 2011

How I Ruin Happy Things

After the Stanley Cup riots, REAL Vancouverites showed us the spirit of their city by pitching in to clean up after the Surrey a-holes. Photographer Andy Fang noticed all this and captured the images of these awesome everyday volunteers to counter the images we've been seeing of the rioters.

Even the famous Vancouver Greenmen came out to lend a hand:


And here's me ruining this: I know I should be all inspired ... but all I can look at is that guy's overly-defined package. And I don't mean the garbage bag. It's almost as distracting as David Bowie's crotch was in Labyrinth. Almost.

Maybe this is why I never get taken to the ballet.

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16 Jun 2011

Enjoy This Vancouver Rioter's Instant Karma

I don't usually cheer at what could be considered a great shot police brutality, but when it fits so well with the America's Funniest Home Videos formula for laughs, it really does get my approval. All that's missing is a high-pitched Bob Saget voiceover:

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15 Jun 2011

I Sold Out And All I Got Was A Fat(ter) Ass

If you've read my recent posts from the past couple weeks, you'll know that we're attempting to sell our home. Yep, she's still on the market. It's not without interest, though. We've had all kinds of visitors everyday and holy eff I cannot wait to unload a vent about the things these pig strangers have done in my home - so it's just a matter of time .... heh?

Late last week we were in a particularly good mood as we had repeat showings scheduled with two different parties, both booked at 8:30 PM. For one of these couples, it was their third appointment and they were bringing their parents, which means they're intellectual infants who should put on their big girl panties and make a decision for themselves there's some serious interest going on. Patrick and I allowed ourselves to get totally greedy and start fantasizing about these potential buyers bumping into each other in our apartment and getting territorial and then us promptly getting two amazing offers the next day to choose from or bargain with.Oh, we were giddy.

And so, to seal the deal, I decided to go all out and sell my soul:

I got cupcakes. From Prairie Girl Bakery.

I still had my beloved donut display out (which I refreshed with new donuts as the original ones were starting to get, uh, warm). But then I thought, "Cupcakes have broad appeal. I can't count on everyone being as hip toward the prowess of donuts as I am. Let's charm the pants off these generically-minded people through baked goods!"

And yes, I really thought that. And, yes, I have that low of an opinion of people I don't know. And, yes, I really thought cupcakes would be the tipping point. And, yes, I am an idiot.

And so I ran to the bakery that I had previously been so disappointed in due to its misleading name and scooped up a half dozen of their cupcakes for the WTF price of $20. I imagine after reading how much I spent on six not-even-personalized cupcakes, several friends and family members from back home just had their suspicions confirmed that I have become a Classic Toronto Douchenozzle. It's true. I am. But, hey, selling and buying a home! Outrageous spending comes with the territory! Defensive Argument Followed By An Exclamation Point!

So I put some cupcakes in the fridge on a precious little stand, next to some bubbly and organic, local strawberries ("Did she just make a point of letting us know the strawberries were organic and local? Ugh. 'Classic Toronto Douchenozzle' is right"). Placed a few on the table - again, on a little glass stand with a note inviting our chumps dear guests to enjoy them.

And then I updated the flowers in our bedroom with peonies that were just on the verge of exploding into a fluffy feather-like bloom, because peonies are special and so is our apartment.
And then Patrick and I anxiously waited at the nearby bar for our home to work its cupcakey charm.

Bzz Bzz went my cell phone at 7:45 PM.

It was an e-mail from the real estate booking system:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

Aw, crap. One of the parties (the people who would just be there for their second time), had decided to cancel their appointment. Unfortunate and it had surely ruined our dreams of a multiple-offer situation, but ... well, what can you do? Our Realtor later learned that the person coming to see our home was torn between ours and another one nearby - but decided to put in an offer, which was accepted, on the other place. You win some, you lose some, right? And it had always been these third-showing people that we had the most faith in.

So, we took it on the chin, settled in, and ordered another round.

Bzz Bzz.

At 8:35 PM, five minutes after the appointment was to start, was this note on my cell phone:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

I had actually been in the washroom when the message came in. When I returned to the table, Patrick looked sick and said, "And the three-peaters just fucking canceled too."

And I thought he was joking because Patrick thinks giving people feelings of anxiety is hilarious. It's something I've told him really doesn't make for good jokes but really makes for good divorce proceedings.

But he wasn't joking. And so we dragged our sorry asses back home, defeated and disappointed - but still holding out hope that maybe these people just had to reschedule.

The next day we found out that they had changed their minds about the place. Their Realtor sort of sighed with ours, explaining that he had been to A LOT of homes with them, multiple times, and that they were extremely cautious first-time buyers. In other words, the worst clients he has ever had and the real estate equivalent of prick teases.

Which brings me to this question:

When you think of foods that you eat angrily (surely a topic we've all thought about. No? Just me? Of course.), what comes to mind?

Nuts you have to crack open yourself? Hard-boiled eggs? Anything from the Taco Bell Value Menu?

I have a feeling that 'cupcakes' probably don't come to mind. Despite the fact that I think they're overrated, even I have to admit that cupcakes are light and sweet and happy and the sort of things you serve to celebrate stuff like baby showers and businesses launched by twenty-something girls.

But after I got off the phone with our Realtor, my head slowly turned in the direction of the kitchen. And I know it makes no sense, but my eyes locked onto the puffs of cheerful icing. And I seethed. And I maybe accusingly screamed, "YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!" At cupcakes.

And then I ran over and showed those cupcakes a lesson. Disappoint me, will you? Mock me, will you? FEEL MY RAGE, CUPCAKE! The vanilla cake with chocolate frosting got bitten and torn up and then thrown into a vat of stomach acid for good measure. It wasn't an eating experience, it was food torture.

It's a small miracle that I didn't eat the rest of them on the spot. Sure, I had another later on, still angrily, and Patrick had a couple when he got home, not so angrily (unlike his ridiculous wife, he does not have a "strained relationship" with specific baked goods). The cupcakes had started to get a little stale from having sat out, so we tossed the rest, not even bothering to use them as props - out of principle.

Because cupcakes? Are so dead to me. Officially.

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10 Jun 2011

If I Ever Have A Son ...

... may he be a gay son. Because this is far, far more enjoyable to watch than any lame Little League game (but he can do that too if he wants):


ME AT NINE, PERFORMING TO MADONNA IN SUMMER '91! from Robert Jeffrey on Vimeo.

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9 Jun 2011

Change Rooms for Dummies

Signs that Someone is in a Change Room:
  1. The door is closed.
  2. The door is locked.
  3. There are hangers on the door.
  4. You can see a shadow moving about.
  5. There's a voice inside embarrassingly singing along to the Phil Collins song that is playing on the store's speakers.
  6. The voice suddenly stops mid-Sussudio to yelp, "Someone's in here!" when you repeatedly try the handle (funny how you didn't bother to knock first).
  7. If you're unable to bust the door down (despite a great effort!) and it suddenly opens, revealing an annoyed and hastily dressed person inside, SOMEONE IS IN THE CHANGE ROOM, YOU FUCKING SAVAGE.
Seems I can never go to Winners without an incident ...

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7 Jun 2011

Name That Horrible Dish

With our condo still on the market and people opting to schedule viewings mainly after they get off of work, we haven't been cooking in our home much this past week. Most nights, our place has been "booked" from 5:30 through to 8:30, our prime eating time (all other hours are "casual eating time"). Sometimes we haven't been given a lot of notice that someone wants to see the home - and the last thing I want to do is abandon something in the oven without warning. But mostly I just don't want to deal with cleaning up dishes in a big hurry or trying to get rid of "food smells" every day. Plus, the stove and oven look pretty amazing when you don't use them. Truly the trick to keeping a pristine home is to not do anything in it.

As much as eating out constantly might sound dreamy, it's getting rather expensive ... and fatty. Well, probably fatty. I have no idea just how much damage we're doing to our bodies as we packed up our scale when we staged the place. I imagine the day I bring it back in and step on it will totally coincidentally be the day that I start really paying attention to those Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig ads. You can tell if this has happened if I start mentioning Sara Rue for no good pop culture reason. And really, one can only refer to Popular so many times on a blog without it getting weird.

But I'm mostly missing cooking. I feel like I'm half a 50s Housewife - obsessed with cleaning, but completely devoid of cooking. For the past few days, I've really wanted to poach some salmon and serve it with giant salad with fresh lemon and dill and capers, but I figure fish is the very last thing I should be cooking up in a home people are going to walk into.

Well, fish or this:


A few posts ago, I highlighted that bizarro dish from a refrigerator ad. The best suggestion was from Frodelicious that it was "Goldfish Loaf":

Well, I found its friend in an ad for a weird stove from Tappan:


Sick. Are those sliced hot dog wieners in green soup? How on Earth is this selling the product? The only thing I want to do after seeing that ad is not eat at that woman's house. Maybe Tappan has secret shares in McDonalds or something.

So, can you figure out what's in that dish? And if so, what would you name it? The more penis-y the name, the better, please.

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3 Jun 2011

This is Meta, Right?

You may recall a post I did a few weeks ago about a strange and wonderful voicemail accidentally left for me from a sorta-threatening Jamaican dude named Chad trying to reach a guy named Jeromy.

And then I recently got this postcard in my mailbox:


On the reverse:


For a split second, I was super confused. How could Chad get the wrong phone number and the wrong address? ... And then I started to get concerned. And then I remembered my sister went to Hawaii for her honeymoon. And then I remembered that I'm an idiot. And then I remembered that everyone in my family is hilarious and always willing to take a joke to the next bizarro level.

Well done, Melanie, well done.

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Need words? I'm a Toronto-based freelance writer who injects great ones into blogs, websites, magazines, ads and more. So many services, one lovely Jen (with one 'n').

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