If I were to write a personal ad

Okay so I’m not the type to host Tupperware parties, have dinner on the table at six, and give arduous blowjobs every night for spending cash. And if I disagree with you, I might make you feel like a total fucking idiot, but never on purpose I swear. I will never expect you to pay for everything and will always feel better knowing that I make more money than you or if you’re doing well, that I WILL make more money than you. That way I will never be dependent on you for my sense of self-worth or liveliness… And you can call me your sugar mommy. Just don’t let that be interpreted as a license to be a lazy fuck with a sense of entitlement who contributes nothing. Because you will find your shit on the front lawn burning in a garbage can spray painted with the words “BUH BYE NOW”. I will always turn my head and appreciate pretty 20 something year old men who I deem as delicious eye candy, but don’t worry… They aren’t you and couldn’t handle me anyway. I will probably turn the TV off or change the channel if you are watching sports because it simply does not interest me, and hey – you do what you want on your own time, but sports is not my kind of idea of time well spent together. I am more into talking about IDEAS and wanna hear more than just your opinion on that last goal. If you listen to bad music, I am probably gonna call you out on it and attempt to re-school you in the art of tunage. I like surprises and will surprise you if you surprise me, that’s how it works. If you stop surprising me. I’ll probably stop surprising you, and well… then it’ll just be kinda boring and predictable won’t it?! I don’t like boring. Every day I wanna do something different, learn something new, and be inspired. If you play the guitar or drums, I like that. I will write lyrics and we will sing together and make music… But not bad music… Good music. Music that makes your insides feel like they are going to burst open into the heavens and touch everything around you. I won’t like it if you’re needy, but a little bit of adorable jealousy is okay from time to time. You’re gonna have to be okay with my relentless digital flirtations because it’s all a part of the package and one of the things that makes me who I am, so if you’re not secure enough with yourself better find the door and fast because I will chew you up and spit you out! I like tattoos and body piercings and accessories with pink skulls on them… It would be nice if you had at least one piercing or tattoo, but don’t worry… by the time I get my hands on you you’ll be tatted LARGE and I’ll be lovin’ up on ya! But please don’t tattoo mommy on your arm because that is a huge fucking turn off and I will probably vomit and then punch you. If your mommy is a big part of your life that’s sweet… Just don’t let her come up in conversation too often or you will see the back of my head as I run like the wind… away from you! I will not cram my lovely little toes into ridiculous heels EVER. I like Chuck Taylors and will rock them hard. I am not a Barbie girl and don’t plan on having bunions when I’m older. If you refer to women as “bitches” better get a safe distance away from me before my foot finds its way in between your legs and you start screaming like a little bitch. Women are women… ladies… girls… females…. goddesses…. call us what you will…. But bitches we are not. (Unless we lovingly refer to our own girlfriends that way… then it’s cool… just not for you). If you are a liar we’re not gonna work out… I don’t respect people who can’t tell the truth and will probably see right through every lie you deliver, whether I tell you that or not. If you’re happy living a lie I’m sure there’s some broad out there willing to live it with you… I am NOT her. And last but not least, don’t ever offer to pay half on a date because that is cheesy… Not just cheesy but super cheesy. Like stinky blue cheese. I’ll pay… Or you pay… But we’re not in fucking high school here. Be a man and pay for the date you cheap ass motherfucker!


Virtual Reflection


Why has an error occurred on my Twitter feed
Why can’t I remember my password
When did I fall so behind on my blogging
Why does my blood pressure rise a few notches
Each time I sit in front of my computer
How did I forget to send that email
Who keeps Googling me
What about privacy
What about anonymity
Why does anybody care who I am
Who am I
Why do I spend hours upon hours online
Why does my job support virtual connections
What happened to face2face connections
What happened to looking into someone’s eyes
What will my daughters virtual life be like
Will they feel comfortable talking or typing
What is my virtual life like
Do I feel comfortable talking or typing
Does a virtual life count as much as a real one
When will this screen and my mirror become one

Maybe they already are.

So Ontario Wine’s Don’t Suck


I feel like I’ve lost part of my identity… Me and AJ were so intent on drinking only international wines, snubbing our noses at (snicker) local vineyards, like they were some sort of second-rate swill shops, fit only for spitting. Someone would offer us a glass at a party and we’d opt for burly beer instead of experiencing the displeasure of an early Ontario grape.

This weekend.

We went to wine country.

We tasted.

We went in open minded.

Checking our (misguided) opinions at the door.

I feel a bit lost now. I can’t hate on Ontario wines anymore… because some of them were fucking good. The “Ontario Wines Suck” persona became part of our schtick, part of our snobbery. It became fun to mock local wine. But living only 30 minutes from 125 vineyards, piqued our interest… It’s like being a crack head and living next door to the biggest baddest crack den in the city… Sure, you’re gonna wanna go check it out, taste some of that crickety crack! You can’t stay away.

Which is why, it was only a matter of time, before we took our wine-guzzling opinion dropping asses into wine country to get a taste of what we didn’t understand. Local wines. Reds, Whites, Ice wine… Brut. We tried it all.

And now, we’ve come to the conclusion that Ontario wines in fact do not suck.

Sorry Ontario.

BUT…. This admittance of error does not mean that every two-bit grape in the LCBO is fit for a fine dining experience. The fact is, most GOOD wines are not found in the LCBO, because the GOOD WINES are in limited supply and do not get mass produced like the swill, so you have to buy GOOD WINES direct from the vineyard… Not the LCBO.

So we may still never purchase a bottle of Ontario wine from the LCBO, unless perhaps from the vintage section, but we may just start making regular trips to wine country.

In fact… Yes. I think we will.

Are We Really Bad Drivers Ladies?

I might get flamed for saying this, but it’s never stopped me in the past, so my opinion will be heard! Stereotypes, (I find) are always rooted in some kind of truth. Meaning that, somewhere along the line, there were enough incidents of said stereotype to actually change it from being a “thing” to a “THING”.

I was watching a woman driving the other day (really poorly) while I swore at her for cock-blocking my comfortably illegal speed. She basically turned Right and instead of staying in the Right lane, which was clear, decided to shimmy on over into mine even though her speed was nowhere near where it should have been.

So the bitch had me braking like a pig on ice and it got me to thinking…

Could there really be some validity to this whole “women are bad drivers” stereotype?! Could it be that maybe I TOO am a bad driver but am just too close to the issue to realize it. I’m on the inside, so how can I look at myself from an outsider’s eyes if I am already inside… I CAN’T.

Which means, that ladies… None of us are in a position to say whether we are a good or a bad driver. Our opinions are bias. We need to look to (shudder) our men for confirmation. But can we trust what they tell us? They seem to think that we’re all awful drivers.

So what’s the verdict here? Is it true? Are MOST women shit drivers?

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Classroom of Life

I’m like that know-it-all kid in 2nd grade.
Hand straight up in the air begging for recognition.
“Pick me, pick me I know the answer”
The teacher praises me for being correct, and feeds into my need to be acknowledged.
That was then.
This is now.
There is no teacher.
But I still need to be acknowledged.
And I don’t have a 2nd grade classroom anymore.
There’s just this massive classroom of life.
Too many lessons to be learned and not enough time.
And the older I get, the harder the lessons become.
And the grades don’t come easy.
The failures aren’t like D’s… they hurt.
This classroom isn’t like it used to be.
My ego gets bruised like a 2 week old banana.
My persona fragile like a delicate porcelain vase.
Words that shouldn’t hurt… do.
Actions that are intended to be loving or helpful, cut me like a knife.
My desk is tattered with etched carvings of frustration and pain.
Ingrained into the desk like painful memories of past failures.
No teacher to be found here.
But lots of fellow students.
One day it dawns on me.
I am the teacher.
Teacher of self.
It is I who must praise & recognize.
It is I who must ask questions and seek answers.
It is I who must continue to learn in this classroom.
This classroom of life.

Flying Towards Bliss


It was eerily quiet. The iridescent glow from the digital clock shone on my skin as I eagerly watched each minute go by as if it were a fucking greyhound at a racetrack Only… it was more like watching cheap paint dry.

“Wow that ceiling fan kinda looks like it could be a flying Elvis” I thought to myself. “Hey, now THAT would be a marketable product… Ceiling fans that look like people, cartoon characters, and other funny creatures. Yeah, that would be great. And who in Graceland wouldn’t want to buy a flying Elvis ceiling fan?!”

I giggled to myself and shot a look at AJ who was still sleeping soundly, completely unaware of my insane little ceiling fan diatribe.


I noticed how the cheap vertical blinds made cool stripes on the wall with the assistance of the moon. “I really hate those blinds”.

Suddenly my heart jolted and I could barely breathe. My mind, only two minutes ago thinking about flying Elvis ceiling fans and vertical blinds was now off in a totally different and stressful direction. I was hearing full on conversations and debates with clients about fucking things up. Deadlines were flashing by and excuses being formed about why I couldn’t launch campaigns and how I managed to miss important meetings.

“I know Bob. I’m really sorry. We just weren’t ready and the content was weak”

“You had a month to prepare it. This should never have happened”


I started doing deep breathing exercises, thought about my cat Zen and then parlayed into humming the theme song to I Dream Of Jeannie. AJ didn’t seem to mind, he sort of snorted a little bit, moved, and lodged his dick snugly into my thigh.

“Sheep… I can think about sheep. Yeah, that’s pretty calming. What about sheep??? Hmmm how about sheep fuckers. People who like to fuck sheep. Ha ha, yah that’s it.”

I envisioned a pasty old Englishman dressed in a cap and chaps just given’ er into a disturbed angry sheep as the others looked on in sheer horror. I began laughing loudly and looked over at AJ, still sleeping.


“Wow, I just spent eleven minutes thinking about sheep fucking… What does that mean?! I’m sure some psychologist would love to delve right into that one!”


“I wonder how much it would cost to get a custom made headboard. That’s what this room is really missing. It looks so weird just having a big bed slumped on the wall with no headboard. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s like the whole Feng Shui (did I say that right) of the room is off.”

“That word sounds nothing like what it is spelled like”


I heard a creaking noise coming from the hall, like how it sounds when someone is walking down the hall and into our bedroom.

I poked AJ violently in his rib cage, disturbing his peaceful sleep “Did you hear that?”

“What?” he muttered incoherently

“THAT noise. It just happened again.”

“Probably just the hose selling” (which I interpreted as “house settling”)

AJ was back to la-la land as I sat there frozen in fear envisioning a spirit in my hall coming into my room to haunt me, or fuck me, or something! Maybe I would all of a sudden be short of breath gasping for air because it would strangle me.

“WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with me? For Christ sakes Selina, think of something nice… Like flowers and puppies and lesbians!”


My mind is now a jukebox playing that “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever see…” song from the Magnolia Soundtrack. AJ sleeps soundly and I stare blankly at the stripes that the vertical blinds are making on my wall.


“Oh, that’s good… That was a yawn. Now we’re getting somewhere!”


“I don’t know why we haven’t thrown that corner lamp out yet, it’s just sitting there all useless doing nothing. At least if there was a Zamp in the Lamp, there’d be a reason to keep it. I’d love to have Yeps on the Steps, and a Yottle in the Bottle and a Gellar in the Cellar too… Oh wait… we don’t have a cellar. Dr. Seuss was so cool.”


“That Flying Elvis is killer. I’m never gonna look at the ceiling fan the same way again. It’s so not a fan, it’s Elvis!! Maybe I could create a Jesus fan too, fuck, that’d be a great marketing ploy!”
“What was I just saying…” (thinking)

YAAAAWWWN “probably something evil…”


My eyes begin to lose their focus. The numbers on the clock are now blurry and my mind, finally decides to stop the post-apocalyptic carnival going on in my brain. Now it’s a tea party, a nice quiet tea party with Royal Doulton China and old people who just wanna stare out the window and think about their cats.



Death rode past me on a bicycle the other day. She was riding that street cruiser in a deliberate but depressing manner. I figured it was cancer or anorexia judging by the state of her body. Her pale cheek bones were drawn in, her eye sockets deep and dark, and her body frail. I couldn’t help but stare at her bony skeletal legs as they peddled past me. Looking at her and watching her made me feel like reaching out to her.

I wanted to know her.

I wanted to hug her.

I knew she was going to die.

Today a truck full of pigs drove past me as I sat at a light near the Maple Leaf Foods factory. I saw the slew of pink-bodied pigs staggering around in the truck, oblivious to their impending fate. I saw a set of eyes and a snout poke through one of the holes in the truck. My eyes welled up and I felt horrible as I saw the truck turn into the slaughterhouse. I tried to distract myself with Aimee Mann and Coldplay… but it made it worse.

I wanted to save that truck.

I don’t want to eat pork anymore.

I know those pigs are going to die.

Tonight I watched a sacrificial cow being slaughtered in the streets of Nepal. I didn’t understand it, I didn’t agree with it, and I felt alienated from the primitive ritual that seemed so normal to the onlookers who merely stood and watched, emotionless and bland. People stood by talking on mobile phones, smiling, and glaring as unnecessary blood trickled through their bare foot toes.

Thankfully, I was not there.

I could turn it off.

But death… Cannot be turned off.

Death is death.

It is the end.