Figuring out what I wanna be when I grow up.
Oop..I AM grown up...

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Fifty Shades of karen: The RED BOUDOIR

Haven't you read PART ONE?

Well, I ain't done yet...


Fifty Shades of karen PART DEUX:  THE RED BOUDOIR 

I've moved in with boytoy.  My fabulous play thing.  My fifty kinds of whiny, get-on-my-nerves, control freak....wait?  Why did I move in with him?  Just because he's HAWT?  It must be for purposes of this plot, which is spurious at best.

But hell, he's got a housekeeper.  He lives in an INSANE apartment with a RIDONCULOUS view and not only does someone ELSE make my meals now, they also pick up my dirty gitch!  WIN, WIN, WIN.  Besides, before HE came along, I lived in a house that I had to spray yearly for ants, and great cat hair tumbleweeds blew up out of the vents regularly.

Moving on up, indeed.

Still, there's a problem I'm trying to work out:  boyfriend is a weirdo.  I remember the first time he showed me that secret room in his apartment.  The room that he used to take those other nimrods he dated to.  His...submissives--snort!  I'm trying!  Every time I say that word though, it cracks me up.  Submissives.  Lurv it.
But anyway--my first time in the red room...ah yes...I remember that day well...

"karen," boyfriend said looking nervous, "I--I have something I want to show you."  His eyes burned.  He was nervous, yes, but he was also turned on.  Again.  That guy--I'm telling you--is perpetually horny.  It makes me so freaking tired.  I'm 40 for crap's sake.

He is leading me by the hand to a door.  A closed door.  A door with lots of locks on it. He pulls out a giant key ring.  Holy shit!  Look at all the keys on that ring!  Oh my!  That's a lotta keys!!  Freakshow licks his lips suggestively at me, and as he's slowly turning each lock, he's making weird smoochy faces.

"What's wrong with your face?  Do you have tourettes as well?"

"What?  Fu--NO!"  He is glaring at me.  "I should put you over my knee for that!"

"Yes, yes.  Blah, blah.  Is this tour going to happen any time TODAY?"

Boyfriend sighs loudly, and swings the door open.  We step inside the secret room.  It is red--blood red.  There is a large bed in the middle of the room, and it has no bedding on it, just this weird leather fitted sheet.  Where the hell do you buy THAT?  I'm assaulted by the colour.  Not a fan of red.

On one wall there is a rack filled with various paddles.  On another wall, he has, like, a whole selection of whips.  I suddenly feel inspired.  I begin to move my hips suggestively, licking my lips and keeping my eyes on his.  His eyes are burning--NAY, SMOLDERING!  I open my mouth

and begin to SING:




"I don't know what you're talking abou--"


"Stop it."


"This is not amusing, karen."


"I want you to stop this right now."


"I command you to stop this at once."

Instead I begin to ROBOT it out.  SEXY ROBOT DANCING.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!!"  boy toy roars. He is pissed.  Off.

I pout.  "Yer no fun."

He pulls on my bottom lip.  "Don't pout like that karen, you know what that does to me.  So," he says waving his hand expansively at the room, "you like?"

I shrug.  "It screams BACHELOR to me."

Boyfriend's eyes widen.  "Yes! Yes! I want you to SCREAM!


"Oh!" he says, eyes all squinty and sexy. "I wanted to show you something else.  You know how most people can do THIS?"

He takes his tongue, and curls it up at the sides into a U-shape.

"Sure," I shrug.  "I can do that."

He smiles wickedly.  "Well...I can do this:  "

I stare at him.

"Heh?  Heh?" he questions, with his tongue all rolled into a W.

I stare at him.

Finally I roll my eyes, shake my head and say; "gee, honey, that's super."

He frowns.  "I don't think you're mentally exploring all the possibilities.  The ladies love it."

"Oooooo-kay..." I say, making the 'YOU'RE CRAZEEE' face.

"Damn it, woman, is there NO pleasing you???"

"Oh, I can be pleased, but do not even think of touching my va-hooty with your tongue like that.  You want to please me, all it takes is a box of wine."

Grumbles is pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply with his eyes closed.  "She gives me a headache...I swear she gives me a freaking headache..." he mutters.

"Ooooh!  I get it!  Is this room supposed to make me all horned up?  It's all RED and SEXUAL, right?  Or so you think?  And am I supposed to be all hog-tied, and you take your spankin' stick to me, and you get a major bone, and I'm all 'oh yeah baby! Spank me harder, baby! Give me more!  Quick! Gag me too!  Whip me like the stupid ditz that I am!  I love your big, hard--"

"YES! YES!  CAN WE DO THAT?  PLEASE? PLEASE?"  Boyfriend is so eager, he's practically panting.

I roll my eyes.  "I haven't shaved my legs."


"I kinda felt like reading a book..."


"Fine.  But no hog tying, no gagging and no whipping."

He seriously looks crushed.  Tough tits.

"Fine," he mutters.

Ah...that first encounter in the room.  He had fun, but I was not feeling it.  Isn't that the way, girls?  Well, hell, he said that this is OUR place now.  Yeah, so I should get a say, right?  He's going to be away on business for a few days...

I leap out of bed, and go to his dresser, craftily sliding my hand through his socks and underwear drawer until my hand closes around the cool object I seek:  the key ring.

Oh karen!  You are BRILLIANT!  What a fabulous idea.  He'll be so surprised!  I clap my hands with delight!  And now...time to get busy!

A few days later, when man-child returns, he is so happy to see me.  He nuzzles my hair, and hugs me tight.  Yup. He's horny again.

"I've missed you," he murmurs.

"I've missed you too!"  It's true.  Boyfriend has returned during ovulation time.  He is once again attractive and appealing.  Rrowr!  "I have a surprise for you," I whisper.

He cocks one eyebrow suggestively.  "Oh you do, do you!"

"Yes!  Yes! Come on!  I can't wait to show you!"

I take his hand and lead him to the door of the FORBIDDEN, SLIGHTLY SECRET room.

"Oh, ho, ho!" Boyfriend exclaims with delight."

As I turn each lock, I waggle my eyebrows at him suggestively.  He begins to pant. I begin to pant.  As I reach the last lock, both of our chests are heaving.  I throw the door open, throw my head back and SCREAM:


Boytoy's jaw drops.  His eyes are so huge, they look like they could pop out.  "Oh dear god..." he mutters.

"Yes!  I know, right!?!"

"I--I can't believe it!"

"Stop--you're embarrassing me now!"

"What--what have you done?!?!"

"Wait.  You're not happy?"  I'm confused.

Angry young man steps into the room, with his hands in his hair surveying everything.  We both take in the soft pale blue walls--so pale they're almost white upon first glance, the gorgeous, plush white carpet, The white armoire and long dresser with the antique mirror.  The adorable blue and white toile chairs set astride the little white table set with a pot of tea, and crumpets.  With jam!  The antique bed sits serene and beautiful pushed back against the wall, with a soft, plush white and floral duvet atop, a cotton lace bedskirt on the bottom, and six plump lacy pillows. An ironstone jug of white flowers sits on the dresser.

Fifty Shades Of Whiny is starting to moan.  He whirls around and fixes furious eyes on me.  "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!?"  he nearly shrieks.

I smile happily.  "It's 'FRENCH COUNTRY!'  Isn't it DREAMY?"

Angree storms past me in a fit of pique.  "I am VERY ANGRY.  I am so angry that we will have to discuss this later."

Pppft.  Men.  Everybody knows you never let the guy decorate.  Some people are impossible to please.


Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Karen Goes To Stratford!

Hooray!  I actually went out of town last weekend!

Remember back at the beginning of September when I was ranting about where the hell I was going to go for my 10th anniversary, with The Man (here)?

Well, we decided to go to beautiful Stratford Ontario and see The Pirates of Penzance.

People, if you're like me, you hardly ever get to go on vacations, and when you do, you're usually surrounded by little idiots who are demanding snacks, and you're screeching that you're NOT THE MAID, AND THIS IS MY VACATION TOO.  Yes, I said "little idiots."  That is indeed harsh.  You should indeed judge me.  But I don't care. I have a whisper of PMS this week, and I'm no longer particularly fond of The Man by this point either.  It's nothing personal. It's purely a hormone thing.

Oh, stop panicking.  Somewhere deep in a secret chamber of my crust-covered heart, I have retained love for my entire family. Today though, I really just want a huge, two hour long nap.

But I digress!  I took some photies, so you could feel like we were all there together, holding hands and feeling like walking around simply enjoying things, and browsing through charming shops isn't a totally weird, and alien experience now.

Come on everyone, get your running shoes with the hole in them, and your sensible grey hoodie, and come stroll through Stratford with me...

What the hell is this BORING photo, you ask?  Oh, don't be so jaded, my cynical love.  This is to show you have freaking peaceful the drive in to Stratford is.  Miles and miles of farms and rolling meadows and sunshine and fresh freaking air.

Here I am in the parking lot behind our quaint Inn, smiling like a goof and feeling ECSTATIC THAT I AM HERE AND THE KIDS ARE AT HOME, AND I LOVE THEM, BUT I GET SO SICK OF THE BOY CALLING ME "STU" AND "MEANIIE" AND...well yeah.

In the background is the charming "Avon River", which you can't really see, but there are tents and things being set up for the food festival that weekend.

LOOKIT!  LOOKIT!  There's a baby birdie in the parking lot, which apparently has JUST learned to fly.  Its mother was cheeping like crazy from the roof of an adjacent car, and the baby was peeping back like mad at the mother.   The Man gave him/her/it a gentle nudge and finally birdie flew off and did NOT get squashed by any vehicles.

I had to suppress tears because I was all verklempt cause it was all magical and shit.

cheep cheep!

this is where we stayed!


I, who am something of a militant food nazi, and hardly ever eat super yummy things now, but didn't get the chance to stop and have lunch along the way, practically shoved The Man out of my path to get to that sugar.  Excellent cookies too.

charming, serene, hotel room.  What was cool was that they had a selection of books by Canadian authors for our reading pleasure, and a selection of cd's by (unknown--totally unknown) Canadian artists for our listening pleasure.  AND, each room of the Inn features art by a Canadian artist.  WAY COOL.

our view from our room.  We are RIGHT IN THE HEART OF THE ACTION in busy, lively downtown Stratford!  Hooray!  I'm NEVER in the heart of the action!!!

we had lunch at Bentley's.  A lunch so wonderful it was actually terrible.  We had a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich and poutine.  It was so delicious it put me in a food coma for a little while.  Who eats that much cheese at one sitting?!?  A WINNER, that's who.  WINNING.

The Man is blocking the view of the super awesome City Hall building.  That's one of the best things about Stratford--almost all of the buildings are really cool.

river in the background.  Scenic gardeny stuff.

I just walked around smiling like a tool for most of the trip.  Could not stop smiling.  Do you think I needed a vacation?!?




Why didn't I get drunk there?!?

On Saturday there were sheep!  Hooray!

This little darling was only FOUR DAYS OLD when I held her.  Is that not completely magical and heartwarming or what?!?!?!?
The Man proudly supports Liverpool F.C.

We had a very nice brekky at "Let Them Eat Cake."

Farmers' market on Saturday, with slightly crappier weather.

Do you know what I love?  Autumn.  I love it.  I love it so hard. I want to marry Autumn.  Yes, that's right.  I will divorce The Man and marry FALL.

Gardeny, Foliage-y stuff.

The Avon river with duck and swan buddies.

She's so cute with her widdle beak all tucked under he widdle wing.

"Hello, we're VERY RICH.  We are so rich in fact, that we have a shrub that is actual LAWN ART.  karen does not have shrubbery art.  karen has "creeping charlie."  karen has so much f*cking creeping charlie that she can often be found in her back yard, bent at the waste, yanking that weed out and muttering 'f*cking creeping f*cking charlie!' under her breath."

more awesome building shots...

So dig this:  we arrived in Stratford.  We poked around in all the fancy shmancy shops.  We bought WONDERFUL FANCY CHEESES, and we hit the Stratford liquor store.  We had a wonderful/horrible lunch at Bentleys.  We saw the rollicking, fun play.

Oh!  And I wore my new dress and super sexay fun slutty new shoes from Nine West.  You know, those were the highest heels I've ever worn, and they only became torture at the three hour mark!  Hooray for me!  Exquisite, sexy torture.

I, however, am an idiot, and we did not take ANY pictures of my dress when I wore it out.  So, I had to recreate the look, as best I could with a) the Man's sub-par photography skills, b) my SUB PAR CAMERA, and c) terrible, frumpadump post-workout hair.

But, I figured you guys would ask what I wore, so here it is, for better or for worse.

Gratuitous shot of the hoots, or closeup of the lace overlay in my dress for detail?  You decide.  Decent hoots though--I'll give me that.


I kept the jewellery simple:  two gold bracelets that were my mom's and my little gold star earrings which were a grade 8 graduation present from my Mom.

And now, back to my regularly scheduled life of dishes, and skidmark removal.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012


Oh my god.  I mean ermahgerd.  Have you heard of the whole "Ermahgerd" thing?  I found out about it on our friend Kristi's blog "There's No Time For Pants."  I think Kristi's great--really nice and funny, and I love dropping by to read her, but she still uses that great device of Satan, otherwise known as CAPTCHA and sometimes I'm nearly pulling out my hair just to leave a comment, trying to decode the garbled message that proves I am NOT a robot.



And the same goes for you too, my other paranoid, SPAM FEARING friends!

Spam is fun!  I have a spam message that I've never deleted that reads:

"It is as broad as it is long." 

Ooo....almost mystical, don't you think?  It tickles me because it was for a horrid post I clacked up about POOP, so it well...nevermind.


What was I talking about?

OH yeah!  Ermahgerd!  So anyway, a few months ago, I saw a new post of Kristi's entitled "Ermahgerdify Yourself."  I did not know what the hell that meant.  I didn't even know if it was in English.  Turns out it was awesome.  If you don't know about it, here's what it is:

Ermahgerd (also known as “Gersberms” and “Berks”), a lisped pronunciation of “oh my god,” is an image macro series featuring a photo of a young woman holding several books from the children’s horror fiction series Goosebumps. The phonetically written captions are meant to sound like a speech impediment caused by the use of an orthodontic retainer, often using the snowclone template “Ermahgerd X.”

You can read more about Ermahgerd ridiculousness HERE.

It all started with this girl:


The more I look at that picture, the more it KILLS ME.  In case you haven't got that Ermahgerd lingo in your brain yet, and had to think about it for five minutes, that's "Goosebumps!  My Favourite Books!"

Seriously--do some google image searching for 'ermahgerd'.  It makes me laugh so hard, I weep.

So, I dug out some of my own photies of my sister and I and ermahgerdified them.




You can come up with a caption for this one, because OH MY GOD, why is there a CLOWN WITH SANTA?!?!  A FROWNY FACE CLOWN?!?!?

Clearly, I was a great beauty in my 20's.  Okay, one photo has no caption. I was so disgusted by my tracksuit that I was at a loss.  Feel free to add a caption.

Now it's YOUR turn!  Do your own Ermahgerd post! It'll be so fun!  Or, if you don't want to blog about it, you are more than welcome to drop your Ermahgerd photies on my Facebook Page!  Hooray!

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Sunday Inspiration

Have you met my friend Fred?  He doesn't blog often enough.  When he does though, he's smart, funny as hell, irreverent as f*ck, and one of my favourite people to read.  Also, he makes his own animations with quality special effects and sound and stuff, unlike my grainy, poor quality youtube vids.

Fred made a cartoon for his love Tessa, who has Muscular Dystrophy.

Go read Fred's post.  It'll make you cry.  It kinda made me feel bad too for putting THAT SONG at NUMBER TWO on my Top 20 Most Loathed Songs Of All Time list.

Ah well, que sera, sera.

Go read Fred's post. 

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Perception is an IDIOT

Hey everyone!

Do you ever think about PERCEPTION?  I'm mostly talking about self-perception, or how we see ourselves, and how effed up it can be.  I mean, seriously--can we ever TRULY know ourselves?

I mean, it took me exactly ONE BILLION LADY TSUNAMIS to know that I started to feel blah two weeks before my period, with one solid PMS day of actually wanting to die.  And it took me ages to learn that for two weeks before my red buddy shows up, I'm a bloated water tower, not SUDDENLY OBESE.  This may seem obvs, but back in highschool, it was one big poetic mystery:

highschool karen:  "I don't know WHAT'S wrong with me...there are just these times each month that I have the DARK CLOUD over me."

I'm serious.  That's how Hamlet-karen worded it.  "The dark cloud."  I look back now and scream:  YOU HAD PMS, DUMBASS.

Or, let's say you'll colour your hair.  Maybe normally your hair is light blonde, so you'll get sick and tired of the whore roots you've been sporting and you'll go for a colour that's closer to your "original" hair colour; "dark ASH blonde."  Then, after you rinse the excess goop out of your hair, towel dry it, brush it and begin to blow dry it, you will think "wow, it's REALLY different! it!  Yeah! I like it!"

Then, things will start to CHANGE in your brain.  They will begin to morph into something else.  Your dark blonde hair, in your mind, will be BROWN.



and on, and on.

And then, you go out with your friends and ZERO people notice that you've coloured your hair.  ZERO.

And how about body image?  That's the most retarded, skewed perception of them all!  That is why anorexic girls can look in the mirror and think they look fat.  Of course, that is the extreme example, but it's not too far off.

Let's say you know that you're overweight.  You know, somewhere in the back of your brain that you're chun-kay.  You accept this with a laugh and conclude that's just how you are.  Still, when you look in the mirror, and your hair is all did, and you've got on a new top, and your hoots look BA-BANGO, you're not that chunky.

So then you hit the town for that girls' night out.  Or, you go to that big family backyard barbecue.  SOMEBODY always has a camera.  They snap all kinds of pictures.  And then they post them on FACEBOOK. And then they TAG you in those photos.  Then you log in, and facebook tells you that you've been tagged in a bunch of pictures.  Oh goody!  You click over to have a look!

You spend the rest of the evening weeping.

You had NO IDEA you looked like THAT.  Oh my god--look at those THREE EXTRA CHINS.  That picture is HIDEOUS.  That's the WORST PICTURE OF YOU EVER.  It's shocking.  You're beyond mortified.  How can you ever go out in public again?!?  How come nobody told you you were GROTESQUE?!?

Nobody else thought you were grotesque.  They just thought you were you.  Sure, maybe if you saw someone whom you hadn't seen in 15 years, they might be surprised by your expanded appearance, but everyone else still thinks you're the same old lovable you.

But you, on the other hand are DEVASTATED.

So it all comes down to this:  I've been exercising for SIX MONTHS.  Six months people.  Six days a week.  Sometimes I work out twice a day.  I've always tried to eat healthy and go for power walks and stuff, but after years of yo-yo dieting (since I was 13), and two kids, my body held on to the extra weight with a vengeance.

And then one day I'd had it.  I was tired of being worn down all the time. I was tired of feeling depressed, and I was really, really tired of being forced to only shop in the Plus size section.  Do you know why?  The fashion sucks in the PLUS SECTION!  At least in Canada it does! Okay, there's maybe one store around that has some cute plus-sized clothes.  But for the most part, those plus-sized shirts are big, frumpy, ugly squares.

And I live for new shirts, so this was a deal breaker.  I was walking through the "regular" size section of shirts at Wal of evil, and there was a really cute top that I knew I'd never fit into.  That was it.  Right then and there I decided more than anything I did NOT want to wear plus-sized clothing any longer.

So, I've been working out like a maniac.  I've been eating more vegetables.  I hardly bake anymore.  Whatever.  I don't know how much weight I've lost, because I stopped stepping on the scale years ago.  I'll find out at my yearly physical, because the doc should know.

I have gone down from a tight size 20 plus to a 16, and now my size 16's are starting to feel baggy.  Nearly three inches off my hips.  Weight does NOT easily fall off anymore.  It's a slow journey, but it's happening.

Okay, boring karen, what's the point?  The point is this:  even though my clothes have become baggy..even though I have to put a safety pin in my shorts to keep them from falling down...even though I was out powerwalking in these cute capri pants, and every 20 steps made them shlump down nearly to the HAIR LINE and I had to keep hauling them back up...

there is still a large part of me that doesn't believe it.

I'm a total pain in the ass.  I already informed The Man that I will have to keep asking him the same tired questions, and getting him to affirm that I am indeed smaller.  He keeps typing away on his work computer and says in the same slightly bored voice:  "of course--you're a lot smaller."  It's obvious to him.

I just need to hear it.  I also do this to my sister.  I'll say tedious things like; "talk about how you found that picture of me from last year and how I look smaller!" and we'll have the same convo again about how my double chins were way bigger or how much heftier I was.

It's like a sickness..except there are days when I feel much hotter and I can actually see for myself that I look way more fit.

So, recently I forgot that I linked my twitter account to my youtube channel, and when I upload a new video for my VLOG (VLOG IS AN EVEN STOOPIDER WORD THAN BLOG), it lets all my twitter friends know.

I got a nice message from my good friend Leanne at "One Odd Duck":

  KAREN! You are fading away! Good for you and "fuck no" is my new mantra! xxoo

(If you want to see the vid in question, wherein I bitch about exercise, click here)

I lurv her.  But what did I do?  I ZEROED in on the "fading away" part and I had to FIGHT the urge to immediately send Leanne a message and ask:


Seriously.  It's just not good enough to say "I'll believe it when I see it," because thanks to STUPID PERCEPTION, I SEE IT, and I still don't BELIEVE IT.

Perception is an idiot.

(by the way...on my youtube channel, all I do is yack about my HIDEOUS JOURNEY through the world of exercise with Jillian Michaels' workout videos.  If you'd like to join me in my repulsive struggle, I would be super excited!!! )

Sunday, September 9, 2012


You know,

after my Mom died in 2010, I didn't allow myself to think about the could have/should haves.  I tried not to think about the whole "if only we had gotten her to stop smoking all those years ago."  I tried not to dwell on "if only we'd forced her to go to the doctor a lot sooner."

The past has happened.  There is nothing I can do to change it.  I couldn't have stopped my mother from smoking.  Only she could have done that.  Nobody could have forced her to go to the doctor any sooner.  She was very strong-willed.  Similarly, we couldn't have tried to get a better doctor for her.  How were we to know at the time that the specialist she saw was a complete, shameful sham, and that even in the end he never admitted she had stage four lung cancer.

I didn't dwell on these things.  There's no point, really.

I love(d) my mother, and I was simply thankful to have had her in my life.  Of course, I'm deeply saddened that I couldn't have her around for another thirty years.  After all, I see old ladies leading their very old mother's around in this city all the time.

Is that different than regret?  I'm not sure.  I just kind of thought of it as envy.

Well, anyway, recently I had been lamenting to my father that we haven't had a good cherry pie in three years.  There were no pies at all in that summer of 2010.  The official pie maker was gone.  And I'm talking about a good cherry pie.  No, not those pieces of garbage you can pick up at the grocery store.  Not those sub-par substitutes you can buy at a "farmer's" market.

No.  A good pie.  A pie that is not so thick with cornstarch that it's basically cherries suspended in some sickly sweet sludge, suspended in a cardboard crust.  I'm talking about a pie that is actually reminiscent of the fruit that came from the tree.  It has a crisp, flakey, delicious crust (never ever made with shortening and oil), and a tangy/sweet filling with actual juices that run free as soon as you slice it.

Sour cherries, after all, aren't easy to find.  So, I'd put my dad to the task: find me the cherries, I'll make you the pie.  I can make a damn good pie (incidentally, I often substitute butter for lard these days, thanks to inspiration from a fellow blogger).

Well, Dad outdid himself.  He somehow found the strength to go through that large time capsule in the basement:  the chest freezer.  We haven't been able to go through that freezer.  It's full of well-labeled meats, bread and frozen fruit.  I took one look at all those foil-wrapped packages one day, with my Mom's handwriting, and I shut that lid.  Uh-uh.  Nothing doing.  Sorry Dad, but I can't go there.  But surely, there were cherries in there.  After all, the world's most organized housekeeper had everything else.

So, recently Dad came with many freezer bags stuffed with frozen fruit, and The Man used his masterful organization skills and stuffed them into our small fridge freezer.  Last night I made the pie crust, wrapped it up and put it in the fridge for today, and was ready to make that damn pie.

And there were no cherries.  There were three great big bags of frozen blueberries, one of which had turned cherry red, and there was a very large bag of "5 1/2 cups" of rhubarb.  They're all garbage now; full of snow, and freezer-burnt.  I didn't realise this the day they were being stuffed into my own freezer.  And the dates on them:  2008, 2009.

Now this--this bothered me.  I hadn't felt a lot of regret about things we could have done, until now.  I wish I had gone into that freezer a lot sooner and used all that fruit my mother had painstakingly flash-frozen and transferred into labelled bags.  All of that fruit.  All of those good, jumbo blueberries.  And then I could have had a pie that was special--made with the last of what my mother was able to leave for us.  But it's all been poured into my backyard compost bin.

And yeah, I feel regret.

A lot of it.

sometimes regret is shaped like a pie.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Fifty Shades Of karen


Every time I hear any new buzz about 50 Shades Of Stoopid, I want to lock myself in my room, hug my copy of Wuthering Heights and wail WHYYYY?  WHYYYYYY??!?  And still, I keep talking about it, right?  Well, if someone can totally capitalize on a book that's already been written by someone else, so can I.

And then I got to thinking:  what if this book were more realistic?  What if there were a real HEROINE, whom everyone could truly love?  You know; a REAL WOMAN like MOI, with rolls and jowls when I retain water, and some good old fashioned PMS?!?   Imagine ME in place of young, naive, totally un-sexy, slightly annoying, rampant lip biter Anastasia Steele.

Picture if you will...

50 Shades Of karen

Boy toy is smiling slightly at me.  He's pleased that I've eaten breakfast, lunch, snacks, and have every intention of eating dinner.  He traces his finger across my chin.  I wish he wouldn't do that.  Why does he have to do that all the time?  It's completely annoying.

 "karen, I've had my personal shopper go out to a very expensive store and buy a whole wardrobe of exquisite clothes for you.  Also, I want to take you out for a romantic dinner tonight at a BLACK TIE affair.  It's a masquerade ball.  Is that not SEXY?  Doesn't that make you EXCITED?" he murmurs.


Boy toy frowns slightly.  "Er...I meant, aren't you EXCITED at the sexiness of a MASQUERADE BALL?"

I have PMS at the moment.  Nothing is sexy.  In fact,  I don't actually find him appealing at all at this moment. I never realised that his head was so large, and that chest hair poking out over his overpriced t-shirt just looks grubby. Normally he's hot, but once I've dropped the egg, I would really like it if he'd just go away.

I can't hide my amusement.  Masquerade Ball.  Give me a break.  "Oh my god. Snort.  Like that stupid movie 'Eyes Wide Shut?'  That scene where they're all in masks was so gay.  Do I have to wear a mask?  Seriously. That's retarded."

He's glaring.  "YOU WILL DO AS I SAY, KAREN.  YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF. I will spank you if you don't wear a mask" he mutters.

"Chillax.  I'm not wearing a mask, and that's that.  YOU wear a mask."

He frowns.  "Sigh.  Go check out your new clothes."

"Yay!  (Moments later)  None of these are the right size.  Who is the idiot who bought such small clothes?"

Boyfriend's eyes widen; "erm..I told her what size to buy?"

"Why do men NEVER freaking know what size we wear?  What--is that the FANTASY SIZE you wish I fit into?  Do I look like some 20 year old little girl to you?  Good job estimating my friend."

Grouchy is glaring at me.  Tough tits.

Luckily, there's this one dress at the back of the closet that I can squeeze my bloated water sack of a body into.  My boobies.  They hurt.  They hurt so much.  My hoots hurt and I just want to be alone with a giant block of chocolate.  But there's no time. I have just enough time to sausage my way into this a-line dress, instead of that grey satin thing he probably intended me to wear.  As freaking if.

His eyes blaze when he sees me.  "You look ravishing," he breathes.

What I want to say is "like hell," but that will just  make him pout, so I force a smile and we're off!

At the swanky party there is BOOZE.  Sweet mother of mercy, look at all the alcohol.  By my second rye and ginger, boy toy is starting to look palatable again.  I'm even starting to feel a little sexay.  Ooo! Here's the menu for the night.  Let's have a look...

ew @ roasted duck breast..
forget the foie gras..
they only have FIGS for dessert
I'm going 2 b starving

Funzo is getting annoyed.  "What are you doing?" he mutters
"Texting my sister about the menu."
"I find that incredibly rude," he glares.
"Big surprise.  Mr. ANGREE is angry again."
"You know how I am--"
"Yes, yes.  You're '50 Shades of Waa, Waa, Waaa.'"

He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, breathes deeply and exhales loudly.  "Okay.  Let's try something else."

"Good, because me no likey FOIE GRAS--"
"NO, damn it, not that!  Something naughty."
I'm less leery because I'm a little bit drunk.  "Like what?"

He pulls a little pouch out of his suit jacket pocket and produces three, small silver balls. "I want you to wear these, er, you know where.  HEE HEE!"


"Yes! Tee hee hee! It'll be our filthy, inappropriate, kind of gross little secret!  Oh! And don't wear any underwear either."

"Sigh.  Okay pervo.  Fine. Give me the vageegee balls."  I toss back my excellent cocktail and head for the can.

When I return from the restroom, his eyes are blazing.  "How do you like them?" he murmurs.

"They make me feel like I'm going to pee."


"They're pressing on my prolapsed bladder.  It's a kind of gross sensation.  What do you want--I've had two kids.  My last kid probably grabbed onto my bladder as I was squeezing her out and yanked it down with her."

"Can't you make something up?  Do you always have to be so honest?"

"I'm not the weirdo in this relationship."

"Maddening woman.  Sigh.  Okay. I like this song.  Let's go dance."

We head out onto the floor.  I'm a little wobbly due to all the drinky-winkies, and the lack of food.  He takes me in his arms.  We begin to sway to the music.  He's not really keeping a good rhythm, so I decide to lead.  I move my hips seductively, EXUBERANTLY!  I sashay wildly, like a wanton sexual hussy!  WE LOOK INTO EACH OTHERS EYES.  OUR EYES START TO BLAZE, OR BURN, OR WHATEVER AND THEN SUDDENLY--"


Everyone has stopped dancing, and are now staring at the two of us, as three small balls roll across the floor.

I shrug;  "like I said:  I've had two kids."


Saturday, September 1, 2012

What The Hell DO I Like?!?

People, my wedding anniversary with The Man is coming up in a few weeks.  It'll be a nice, impressive number, but just remember that I've actually been dating The Man since I was 20.

This means that there's very little mystery left between us, save for pooping in front of each other which just will not happen. It just won't.  I'm sorry.  So okay, there is still a soup├žon of mystique!  Hooray!

I mean, there's still some romance, and lots of affection despite that one unfortunate flying karate fart leap incident on my part, followed by that really crazy laughing that is one degree away from grimacing and crying.  In my defense, I'm the exact opposite of SEXY when I have the PMS anyway, so no real, lasting harm was done.

What was I talking about?

Oh approaching anniversary.  So, that's coming up. Because it's a biggish one, we're trying to think of something to do.  Something that doesn't suck.  We can't afford to go anywhere really awesome, and we can't stay away for more than 2 nights or the kids will be HORRIFIED.  We need some little "romantic" excursion.  I can't figure out what that could be.

The Man suggested we go to Stratford. It's a lovely (pretentious) little town that is famous for its Festival Theatre.  The Man and I went to Stratford a couple of times back when we were University lovey doveys, who still lived at home and had tons of disposable income.  It was a fun time for the most part. Plays.  They show plays there.  Most of them are Shakespearean ones.


Yeah, I've sat through some Shakespeare. I took a Shakespeare course in Uni.  I think I had to.  Why didn't I just stick a pen in my eye and end the misery?  THAT'S RIGHT, I'M GONNA SAY IT:  I might be the only English lit major who finds Shakespeare to be jaw-crackingly boring.

No.  Don't try to convince me that Shakespeare is AWESOME because it's TIMELESS.  Yeah?  If it's so TIMELESS, why the hell are they 400 footnotes per act explaining what the f*ck is going on?

And another thing.  WHEREFORE ART THOU ROMEO, does not mean WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, LOVERBOY?  It means, WHY are you born into the family that I'm not allowed to date?!  See?!  IT'S STUPID.

So, The Man said all's I had to do was look at the playbill and pick something.  I looked down the list and found 98% of it looked super bitey to me.  I guess maybe Pirates of Penzance might be okay.  I mean, Henry V would make me weep with boredom, but Pirates--even singing pirates--might be tolerable.

Then I saw that the only seats that aren't shitty cost over a hundred bucks a pop.  JAYSUS.  I am a cheapskate. I was disgusted.

Recently The Man asked if I'd like it if he took the fam to the ROM one day for the last weekend before school.


Oh my god.  A museum.  A freaking museum, with super boring mock-ups of some past nobody's ever seen, a few dusty dinosaurs suspended by wires hanging from the ceiling, a room full of moth-eaten taxidermy...oh my god. I can't even tell you how freaking bored I was when I went there in my adulthood.

Also, I told The Man.  It's in TORONTO.  I HATE Toronto.  Yech, to Toronto.

O-keee.  He walked away slightly defeated.

A couple of days later, The Man finds me upstairs taking the straightener to my haystack.  "How about we go see Cirque Du Soleil!" he asks excitedly.

"OH GOD I HATE CIRQUE DU SOLEIL!  I can't think of anything more tedious or just plain super frooty weird."

I think I actually pissed him off a little with that.

So then I started thinking; what DO I like anyway?  What do I like?  Surely I like stuff?  Surely I have SOME interests?  OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL DO I LIKE?!?

Whenever I go shopping?  I always see tons of stuff I know other people would like.  If I go shopping at the thrift store, I find all kinds of stuff my sister would like.  I could totally be a personal shopper. I'd be good at it.  I have a very hard time finding things I like though.  I almost never find anything I like.

Coffee?  I can never get a coffee at just any old place. I'm a snob!  I almost never like the coffee!  I have to make it my damn self, or get it from McDick's because I'm so picky.

But seriously--by this point I was almost starting to get panicky.  What the hell am I going to do for my anniversary?  I don't want to go to some overpriced cabin in cottage country, with plaid f*cking curtains on the windows, and the smell of mildew.  I don't want to go camping.  Spas are overpriced and I don't actually want some weirdo touching me.

And staying at some "quaint" BED & BREAKFAST (blurgh)  in a sleepy little town with NOTHING going on?  That sounds so boring.  So incredibly yawny-yawn.  I don't think I could take it.


So I thought very very hard. I tried to dig up some interests I have.  Pppft...I'm a stay-at-home-mom. I have no freaking interests.  THEY'VE BEEN ERASED.  Oh yes I do:  silence, and solitude.  Oh but wait!  I know! I know what I like!


Yes!  I love festivals with tables of crap you can buy to look at.  And mon dieu, I LURV a beer tent.  Oh put me in a beer tent where some happy a$$hole is playing the fiddle and I'm slightly drunk?  Yeah, you've got yourself a winner.

Oh!  OH!  I also like really old historic houses--you know; the rooms are cordoned off with a velvet rope so you can't touch the really old furniture on the other side?  And maybe there's some woman dressed in some hokey kitchen-servant garb making a real pie downstairs in the kitchen with the wood burning stove?  YEAH! I LOVE THAT!

YEAH! YEAH! I never used to love that! I thought it sucked nuts!  I love that now though!

Oh! I also love having an event worthy of new shoes!

AND TROPICAL PLACES! PLACES WHERE THEY SPEAK SPANISH, YO!!  See?  I like to go places. I just don't have the two thousand bones required to get anywhere GOOD these days.  And GOOD does not really include Anywhereville Ontario, where OH LOOK, IT'S ANOTHER FARM.  AND OH LOOK, THERE'S ANOTHER BOG WITH TREE STUMPS IN IT.  I'm a jerk.  Whatever.

So, I felt bad, and told The Man maybe I was too hasty about Cirque Du Soleil. THEN he told me that there's this VIP thing that we could partake of.  If you fork out 300 bucks per person, you get to be in some fancy shmancy room before the show and during intermission, and you get "delectable" foods and wines, your parking paid for, and some other junk.



NOW I'm intrigued.

Listen people: I'm going to tell you a little something I learned a long time ago.  Let's keep it between us shall we?  Okay, BOOZE makes ALMOST ANYTHING awesome.

There.  Remember that, for in life it will help you make it through some very boring times.

But THREE HUNDRED BUCKS.  Phew.  That's a lot of money for an extravagant night.  And that doesn't even include a hotel room.  No. I think I'm too cheap for that.  It will probably be Pirates Of Penzance, in the cheap, shitty seats.  Oh, it's not all bad. I intend to buy some really, really good shoes.

I don't know.  What the hell am I going to do for my anniversary?


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