WHORRIFIED. BECAUSE GOSSIP IS GOOD FOR YOU

I'D ANSWER THE DOOR, BUT IT'D SCARE YOU TO DEATH

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 07 Aug 2025 02:30:00 +0000

YOU KNOW IT'S THE WEEKEND IF . . .
I'm dressed like this.
Actually, I put on more clothes
than usual just for you. (The mukluks were a nice touch,
don't you agree?)

You know what I like best about working full-time? The sheer, dirty pleasure of not having to get dressed on your days off. I like this so much I'm afraid I maybe like it TOO much. On weekends, I schlep around the house in increasingly casual looks, wearing T-shirts and baggy pants left behind by an ex (oh don't ask me which one, I don't itemize these things. They're pants, they're big, they must have been his ...)

Over time, I've gone from wearing comfy sweats to an oversized T-shirt and pants to, well, just an oversized T-shirt.
Because when you live alone, there are no limits. You can walk around butt naked if you want to (although I don't recommend it; when you're my age and you walk past a full-length mirror in the nude, you can give yourself quite a scare).

More often than not, I lounge around all day like this, shuffling from the kitchen to the couch to the wet-bar and then back to the kitchen again. All day. For hours!
And then one day, while I was making out with a can of Pringles and watching Crazy Stupid Love, the doorbell rang. Well holy hell, I just FROZE! I was like, WHAT THE...? I can't answer that! I don't have any pants on!

So I actually had to cower behind the curtains and watch from the upstairs window as a man stuck a note on the door informing me that I had a package and would have to pick it up at the nearest post office outlet. Because I was too naked to accept it at my own front door.

I realize that the simple solution would be to just put on some damn clothes. But the incredible all-day comfort of not wearing pants compared to the rare occasion of a knock on the door — well it just isn't enough of a lure. I suppose I'm making excuses, perhaps even displaying addictive tendencies. I may very well need clothes-wearing rehab. (And then I could bring home a pair of those baggy hospital pants with the drawstring waist.)

But for now, sorry. There's a Jays game, a platter of loaded nachos and one big snuggly T-shirt waiting for me. So if you're planning to knock on my door anytime soon and you have a bad heart, a weak stomach or just prefer your friends to be clothed, I'd advise you to call first.

THE ONLY REASON NOBODY DIED IS BECAUSE OF THIS LIST

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 07 Sep 2023 14:00:00 +0000

MY DAUGHTER LEFT ME A TWO-PAGE, DOUBLE-SIDED LIST
of instructions on how to care for her children in her absence. I'm actually quite flattered. If it were anyone else, she'd have left six pages.

I'm deducing from the unusual surge in hits this morning that hundreds of you are either Russian bots trying to hack into Whorrified or are simply thinking, "She hasn't posted a thing since last Thursday; let's see if the lazy bitch is even still alive ..." If you're the former, tell Putin I said "он полный мудак." If you're the latter, thank you for giving a shit. (I could have died and no one would know until the smell of rotting booze alerted them.) In fact I'm fine, I've just been completely immersed in grandchildren FOR THE ENTIRE WEEKEND.

Although some of you are already familiar with Piggly Wiggly, I actually have two other, older granddaughters about whom I (almost) never write because their mother is a tigress who guards their privacy with a ferocity some might call terrifying. I've been strictly forbidden to Whorrify them in any way, which is her prerogative and I respect it completely, even if I spend my nights trying to think of ways to get around it because holy cow, are those kids photogenic.
So you can imagine my surprise when I got papal dispensation recently to share the tiniest nugget of information. And here is how it happened:

It was my eldest daughter's anniversary last weekend. She'd planned a surprise getaway with her husband and asked me to babysit their girls. This was no small honour, as the last time they went away overnight without their children was ... um, let me think: never? Yeah. Never. I'd been booked months in advance and had been given comprehensive verbal instructions, but my daughter was taking no chances. There was also, she admitted sheepishly upon my arrival, a note. A two-page, double-sided, painstakingly detailed note explaining literally everything from what the kids should have for dinner to how to turn on the pilot light on the fireplace (with hand-drawn diagram) should it go out. (I particularly enjoyed the footnotes, such as "Billy Elliott video NOT appropriate, lots of F-words and other language.")

"HEY GIRLS, COME WATCH THIS SCENE FROM CAPTAIN PHILLIPS! NO REASON ..."

But while some might see this as a slight, a slur, an insult to my capabilities as a babysitter, I actually found it adorable. Because I know my daughter. I know that this is classic Type A behaviour. And I know this note was as much for her benefit as it was for mine. Leaving her children for a weekend was a big deal for her; the only way she could be okay with it would be if she could parent from afar: "For breakfast, the girls really like pancakes with white chocolate chips," "Please check on the little one twice before you go to bed, sometimes she gets too hot!" You don't have to be a genius to read the motherly love between the lines there.

My daughter knew her note might seem a little over-the-top. She also knew I would "get it" while simultaneously longing to mock it on the Interwebs for the gratification of my non-paying audience, so, as a gesture of appreciation, she said: "You're dying to blog about my note, aren't you? Fine, you can blog about it — but no pictures. And no names!"

However, as a wise if somewhat slippery boss of mine once said, in fact way more than once said: "It is easier to seek forgiveness than permission." So I didn't seek full clarification on the "no pictures" fatwah and am therefore posting a small shitload of pictures here for your non-paying viewing pleasure. Meaning major parental laws were skirted here, you guys: the least you could do is click on every single ad on the page in appreciation!

SO WHEN YOU SAID 'NO PICTURES' YOU MEANT OF THE KIDS, RIGHT?
Because I couldn't resist taking about a dozen selfies in your marital bed. Gawwd it's luxurious!

TELL ME AGAIN TO ACT MY AGE, I DOUBLE-DOG DARE YOU

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 16 Aug 2021 13:54:00 +0000

ME, PONDERING THE TRUE MEANING
of the phrase "act your age," as well as
the many ways one could neuter a person
without having to go to jail for it.

A certain person who is very lucky to have escaped with his testicles intact told me to act my age today. He's not the first person to say it and he probably won't be the last. In fact, I hear the phrase "act your age" a lot.

I'm not sure whether it's my youthful good looks, my fashion choices or my taste in music that bring on this unasked-for advice, but regardless, my response is always the same: "You do realize I'm 28, right?"

I'm kidding; I'll be 27 in June. What I actually say is "Come here and say that."
It's a very effective response that usually banishes the adviser with some alacrity. People often don't back their nosiness up with the requisite cajones, I find. (No, I am not back on the weekday hooch, but thank you for suspecting it. The goal was to lose pounds, not my edge.)
But I will admit it makes me think. I mean, what the hell DOES "act your age" even mean?

Does it mean I should be wrinklier and grumpier?
Does it mean I should I take up crossword puzzles and give up body pump classes?
Or is what they're saying coming from a crueler place? Stop colouring your hair. Stop wearing trendy clothes. Stop getting your nails done. Stop wearing heels that would cripple most women half your age. Stop having fun and start worrying about your mortgage. And above all, just settle the hell down.

I suspect it is exactly these last few items.
Because what's really going on here is a mix of jealousy, disapproval and women-hating, three things women have grappled with for as long as there've been women and men and Donald Trump.
I've never listened, indeed I listen a little bit less with every passing year. But now I've got the attitude to back it up. You think my pink feathered shoes are ridiculous? Well guess what? You have man boobs. Do I tell you to stop acting your age? You're boring? Your clothes are frumpy? You need to do something about your midsection? Or, perhaps most succinctly: Mind your own damn business? No I do not.
But come to think of it, maybe I will. Maybe I just goddam well will. Because I let a certain someone out there get away with his testicles intact today. Tomorrow, he might not be so lucky.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *covers crotch anxiously* Er, I would just like to state for the record that it was NOT I who told her to act her age.
MY NOTE: Oh no need to worry, editor. Everybody knows you don't have testicles.

BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE PERSONAL BLOGGER OF JESUS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Feb 2019 01:18:00 +0000

SISTER MARY WHORRIFIED bends over her cheese tray in holy prayer. "Dear Jesus, please smite the dirty Christian who stole what was rightfully mine. Amen."

I had a religious experience last week, and if you know anything about me at all, you can probably guess it ended badly. As do most of my religious experiences. And all of my marriages.

Without boring you with the details of how I got conned into it, let's just say I went to a Ladies' Night Church Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza and came away with a fresh appreciation for how cut-throat those Christians can be.

It all started with the prize tickets they gave out at the door. That's nice, I thought, maybe I'll score one of those knitted tea cosies the church ladies make so that the world's ugliest yarn won't feel unwanted. That'd be just my luck. (Which, in hindsight, might have been where I went wrong. Snide goeth before a fall: Proverbs 16:18.)

There was dinner and skits and singing and then finally, the promised gift giveaway extravaganza got underway. Within minutes, I'd won a book, a box of bonbons and a tube of hand cream.
But what I really wanted was the big shiny barbecue/smoker I'd spotted amongst the giveaway loot.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned but holy Moses wouldst I ever loveth to win that friggin barbecue," I chanted in my most virginal voice.
And then suddenly ... praise the lord ... like the miracle of the loaves or whatever, my ticket number was called, and I rushed that stage like you've never seen a woman in six-inch stilettos rush anything. However, one hates to appear greedy (especially on one's first visit to what one has suddenly decided is going to become a regular thing), so I hesitated when I got there. "What do I do?" I asked one of the other women whose number had also been called. "Do I just pick any prize I want?"
"Hold on a sec, honey, I'll ask Pastor Kay." (Not her real name, because holy crap, the last thing I need is the evangelicals coming after me.)
And then she turns around and she grabs the barbecue!

I stared at her in unholy astonishment.
"Did you just take the barbecue?" I said.
She smiled and shrugged. "You can pick any prize you want," she said.
Lord forgive me, but I didn't want any other damn prize. I wanted to knock her down and snatch that barbecue. But then Jesus stepped in and whispered that it would look a bit sinful to start kicking good Christian women at their own ladies night, so I sullenly chose a lovely stupid cheese-serving tray and flounced back to my table.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to talk myself out of the seething resentment I was feeling, and then I went home and seethed some more. And do you think I could sleep a goddam wink that night? "Why, Jesus? WHY? WHY DID SHE TAKE MY BARBECUE RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME? Can't you strike her with the clap or something? You have the power ... supposedly."
Yeah. It wasn't pretty.

It's now been three full days and the rage still hasn't left me. Every time I look at that stupid cheese tray it courses through me like lava. I'm obviously going to have to regift the stupidthing. (Hey Liz, guess what you're getting for Christmas?) But in the end, just like pregnancy, the hours of maddening agony and communing with our Lord and Saviour yielded something wonderful: I found Jesus. And have now become his personal blogger. He actually finds me quite hilarious and, more importantly, this will give me a fantastic edge at the next Ladies' Night Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza (Monday, Jan. 6, 2014; I checked). Ha! Cheese tray, me arse! *makes sign of the cross*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I have a terrible feeling this is going to end with you being burned at the stake.
MY NOTE: That's for witches, you moron!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *hides behind wall, fist-pumps air, returns* Oh, right. How silly of me.

I TAUGHT MY KIDS TO APPRECIATE NUDITY. AND READING.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 07 Feb 2019 06:49:00 +0000

HI KIDS! I HAVE TWO SPECTACULAR ONES I'D LIKE TO SHOW YOU! Books. I'm talking about books. What did you think I was referring to? Weirdos.

We here at Whorrified believe very strongly in the power of ~~nudity~~ reading. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of curling up ~~nude~~ on our vast, sun-dappled porch with bewitching books that transported me to another world. Of course, that was before I discovered vodka, but still. A very formative era.

As a young mother, my mom saw to it that I was surrounded by literature. Likewise I, as a young mother, took pains to expose my girls to good books. (Particularly this one, which they adored in spite or perhaps because of the fact it gave them nightmares.) I also almost constantly ran around the house in the nude, which is why I was thrilled when my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom, asked for books for Christmas this year, proving she remembered the literature, not the trauma. (Either that or she's blocked it all out. I'm sure her therapist could be bribed to tell me.)
After 11 months in the company of a creature whose life revolves around breast milk and poop, she fears she's getting baby brain. "I can feel myself getting stupider," she texted plaintively. "Can you pls lend me some of your favourite books for Christmas?"

I didn't have too many of my favourites on hand, but I did give her Judith Hearne, Rebecca, The Number One Ladies Detective Agency and a few others. She texted me at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday to say "Holy crap, I stayed up all night reading Rebecca!" She couldn't have made me prouder if she'd texted: "I just figured out Ryan Gosling is my real dad!"

So today I went to the mall and bought two books I've been meaning to read, with the express intention of passing them on to Piggly's mom and my other secret daughter when I'm done with them. They may or may not choose to read them in the nude (although why would anyone choose "not"?), but I have faith that they, too, will pass on the rich tradition of reading to their daughters. Aside from my proven legacy of ethereal beauty, I can't think of a better gift I could leave to my fellow man.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *sigh* Of course she neglected to mention this, so if there's anyone still reading this flammable nightmare she calls a blog, the "two spectacular things" she's referring to are: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman and How the Light Gets In by Louise Penny. Goosebump-inducingly good reads, both of them.

AND ON THE THIRD DAY, SHE ROSE AGAIN. BARELY ...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 07 Feb 2019 00:30:00 +0000

Me, looking fabulous yet naive,
aboard the dirty red whore that
almost killed me two days later.

Anyone who read the post about my catastrophic moped accident in Bermuda, in which I shredded my hamstring like pulled pork, already knows I'm indisposed. If you missed that jolly vignette, you can read it here.

For the rest of you, an update: I still feel like crap.

It's disheartening to see how slow my progress is, it's maddening to not be able to do a blessed thing, including hobble to the latrine, without howling out loud and turning the air blue with curse words.
On the plus side, I'm becoming a whiz at crutches. My leg may be withering away but my biceps are beefing up nicely.

I'm catching up on my drinking, my reading, my movie-watching, my observing of the comings-and-goings of the neighbours, my meticulous inventory of the areas of the house (visible from a supine position on my couch) that could use cleaning. Thankfully my daughter is coming to visit on Sunday. I'll have the mop and Pine-Sol ready. She loves that.

And then this bedraggled bag lady broke into
my house and gave me a crutches demo.

Friends and family and neighbours have been fantastic, bringing me so much food I'm starting to think they're fattening me up because they think I'm going to die and, dang it, let's at least make sure she tastes good afterwards! "Oh come on, Marie, you can manage a few more bites of this rum cake! There's a good girl! Heheheheh."

Oh and lastly, I've been getting some! Lots, actually. Best ever, in fact. Why should a shredded hamstring stop me from enjoying that?
Sleep, I'm talking about. What did you think I was talking about?

All right, it's obviously time for some happy pills. They don't do much for the pain but they make me find myself absolutely hilarious. Have a happy Easter, everyone. And if you must drink, don't drive a moped, because you might run over zombie Jesus, freshly risen from the dead. (It's the pills, people. I can't help myself.)

I BASICALLY PERFORM MIRACLES, YOU GUYS. ADMIT IT.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 08 Sep 2018 04:00:00 +0000

I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THE DAY THAT PIGGLY WIGGLY
would eat a single scrap of food that wasn't tricked into her while we were making her look at something else. This, my friends, is a big day.

I rarely break my own self-imposed fatwah on blogging but when I do it's for damn good reason. Sean Penn dabbling in journalism and inadvertently ratting out the world's most-wanted fugitive in the process being one such reason. Piggly Wiggly being another. (I can't believe I just lumped my own granddaughter into the same dirty laundry pile as Sean Penn, but there you go. I never said I was doing this sober ... and if I did I was probably drunk.) And there, in a nutshell, is the sort of literary cornholery you're missing out on by me vowing to stay off the Internet. God, how I've missed this!
Anyway, I'm sure I had some sort of point here *peers gloomily into half-empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire* ah yes! The baby! It's been ages since I had a proper visit with her, but today I got to spend an entire day with her and I can't believe how much she's changed.

WEE PIGGLY WIGGLY LOOKING UNDERSTANDABLY THRILLED TO SEE ME
What this picture lacks is something to indicate exactly how wee she is, but just picture an eggplant towering over her and you'll get an idea.

It's not that she's grown, exactly. She's still about the size of a large eggplant.
And it's not that she's sleeping through the night now. In fact, her mother greeted me at the door with a groan and said: "Just kill me."
"Sure!" I agreed graciously. "Wait ... is this a trick?"
"She was up all night, mom. ALL NIGHT. Just kill me."
And it's certainly not that she looks any different. At age 2 she still looks like a nine-month-old, albeit one that walks upright and screeches "OGGIE!" whenever she hears the neighbour's bitch barking.

No, the thing that stopped me in my tracks today was that Piggly Wiggly has finally decided that maybe she does like food, after all. Or at least, she doesn't loathe it as much as she used to.
One of my tasks today, the one I feared most, to be honest, was "feeding her lunch." Well this will be a hilarious waste of about 25 bucks worth of food, I thought grimly. Maybe I'll just flush two heads of cauliflower and a side of beef down the toilet and tell her mother it seemed like a less profligate option.
Because as some of you will remember, eating, not unlike sleeping, growing and anything by Sharon, Lois and Bram, is one of many things Piggly can't stand in the least. We ultimately learned there were some underlying medical issues, but still, it is a tough thing to watch a baby fight you tooth and nail when you're simply trying to feed her enough to keep a bird alive.

JUST MONTHS AGO: PIGGLY AT MEALTIME, EXHIBITING THE TYPE OF UNBRIDLED LETHARGY usually reserved for hangovers.

But those days, apparently, are over. Because today, to my astonishment, the little chickadee polished off a bowl of watermelon chunks, a bowl of buttered noodles, a scrambled egg, a slice of gluten-free bread and, finally, a large piece of fried chicken. Which I was secretly hoping she'd be too full to eat because I wanted it myself.

When her mother returned from work, I gleefully rhymed off the list in full expectation of tears of joy and a raise in my liquor allowance, and got only this: "How big was the piece of chicken?"
"Excuse me?" I replied. "Just months ago you'd be lying on the floor right now if I'd told you she ate that much!"
"I guess," her mother allowed. "But she won't eat that much tomorrow, I bet."
"Tomorrow is tomorrow!" I retorted, which of course put an end to the conversation because, goddamit, how does one argue with that sort of brilliance, and also Piggly chose that very moment to make a gagging sound and hork up a goodly portion of what I assume from the brief disgusted glance I gave it was fried chicken.

We cut our losses then and there, and I took Piggly upstairs to cuddle her into naptime on a full tummy. That's right: she ate AND she slept. If her mother calls me tomorrow and tells me the child grew six inches overnight, I honestly don't think I'd be surprised. Miracles, man. They do happen. *attempts to make sign of the cross, pauses, frowns* Shit. I just made the sign of the pentagram, didn't I? It's been so long ...

PIGGLY'S MOM REWARDS HER ADORABLE BAIRN
for the selfless act of eating by rubbing her tum ... wait. WAIT! She's not feeding herself, she's sticking her fingers down her throat! SHE'S PULLING A BULIMIA ON US! THE WHOLE TIME, SHE WAS FAKING IT!

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IF GOD WANTED ME TO WEAR CROCS I'D BE AN ATHEIST

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 13:32:00 +0000

Tannis Toohey @tannis2e/instagram @Romancipated/Instagram

There are two kinds of people in the world: sensible people, and me. People who wear Crocs, and me. People who still have an Achilles tendon, and me.
Because I found these adorable, palest pink dominatrix-gladiator stilettos (above) on sale the other day and although the last thing I need is another pair of whorrifically inappropriate shoes, I bought them.

I keep waiting for the day when my inner normal person awakens and decides it's time for flats, but just when I thought I was maybe almost there, a friend posted this underwater foot selfie on Facebook (hashtag #vacation #wetfeet etc etc) and the virulence of my reaction confirmed to me and the Facebook world that I am ~~nuts~~ not ready. Ironically, I was wearing my palest pink dominatrix-gladiator stilletos at the time — and sitting down of course, because the instant one tries to take a step in these things they bite into your flesh like a school of piranhas. Yet even the howling pain exploding everywhere from the ankles down was not enough to calm my instinctive gag reflex.

My friend, perhaps sensing that I might be logged on to Facebook because after all, it was during working hours, pre-emptively urged people not to "mock the Crocs" and explained that she had never known such comfort. And for the merest fraction of a second, that sounded tempting. But then I realized, CROCS??? I'D RATHER LIMP ACROSS A FIELD OF BROKEN GLASS IN MY BARE FEET THAN WEAR CROCS! Which coincidentally is exactly what wearing these palest pink footfuckers feels like ...

EDITOR'S NOTE: You call yourself a friend? She asks you not to mock her Crocs and you write an entire post mocking her Crocs!
MY NOTE: She'll forgive me. It is simply not possible to stay angry at someone wearing cute shoes.

RELATED: And speaking of friends, don't think I've forgotten that time you tried to steal my red-hot hooker shoes.

THAT'S THE KIND OF JOKE THAT'LL GET YOU KILLED

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 26 May 2018 03:40:00 +0000

Facebook photo posted by a co-worker with a shoe fetish and a death wish.

I am a woman who cherishes her shoes. In fact they are as dear to me as my children, except that my shoes will never grow up and leave me and remind me of all the times I served burnt marshmallows and cubes of cheese on skewers and called it dinner. (So guess what? When I die, the shoes get EVERYTHING!) Therefore you can imagine my horror when I logged on to facebook on my day off yesterday and saw this image. Of my favourite ~~child~~ shoes, my siren-red suede stilettos, on the brazen harlot feet of a co-worker who found my hidden shoe stash and penetrated my babies with her striped-socked feet. And then posted the image with the words: "If you get bored at work, put on a co-worker's shoes on her day off."

She might as well have couriered a severed horse's head to my front door. There are no words for how violated I feel. Except all the words I just used here.
My only consolation is imagining her catastrophic, humiliating and possibly even fracturating tumble when she tried to stand up and take more than two steps in these bad boys. Girl, this friendship is OVER!

Editor's note: I ... uhm.
My note: What. WHAT?
Editor's note: I have to confess, I was the one who told her where you hide your shoes.
My note: Well now I have two people whose coffee will be getting poisoned.

OFF TO THE RACES (AND THERE'D BETTER BE LIQUOR)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 08 Mar 2018 04:13:00 +0000


IF THERE IS A BETTER-LOOKING WOMAN AT NASCAR I'll eat my shirt. What's that? Coors Light girls? Damnit! Thank heavens my shirt has spaghetti straps.

Have you missed me? You poor dears. I've been remiss in my snarking the past few days but it's only temporary. On account of I have a real job that actually pays the bills and from time to time they do require me to do some actual work instead of just sitting there looking bored but pretty while I Google "Ryan Gosling, nude, waist down."

So this weekend I'm at the NASCAR Camping World Truck series races at Mosport, and not only am I at the truck races but I am actually going to drive one of the pace cars on the track. Which, if you knew my pained relationship with moving vehicles, is actually pretty hilarious. I would venture to say that the Bermuda incident was one of the happier endings I've ever had in a vehicular relationship. In fact, in any relationship of any kind.

Anyway, point being, kind of otherwise preoccupied this weekend but rest assured that if anyone famous shows up and starts twerking or stripping or trying to name their baby Pole Position (oh trust me, it's possible), I will tattle. Immediately.
In the meantime, please enjoy this stunning picture of my freshly styled hair the night before the races. Because thanks to the relentless goddam humidity of an August that thinks it's July, it didn't last long. Not unlike my virginity.
Good lord. I think I'm done here ...

I EAT SUSHI NOW. YEAH, I'M AS SURPRISED AS YOU ARE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 13 Jan 2018 22:35:00 +0000

AFTER OUR SUSHI DINNER, MINI ME AND I WENT TO THE MOVIES
and annoyed the hell out of everyone by taking selfies and giggling.

So, big news: I eat sushi now. Yeah, don't bother rereading that, it's not really big news, I'm just being a drama queen. Although it is big-ish news for me, because I friggin hated the stuff for years and never understood why all my friends are always oohing and aahing over it. Cold rice? Raw fish? SEAWEED PAPER? Jesus Christ, people, have you never heard of The Keg?

Anyway, it's all about the Achilles heel, and mine is Piggly Wiggly. And her mom — my daughter, aka Mini Me. Lately she's been asking me to do all sorts of things I would normally shat all over, and I, in my feverish need to help her through an unexpectedly gruelling new phase of her life, have been capitulating. Which is how it happened that, after I stopped in on Friday for a quick hit of the most adorable baby ever, I somehow wound up agreeing to stay for dinner and a movie. The movie being The Judge (three out of four stars) and the dinner being Ye's Sushi (four out of four WTFs).

"Er, but I'm not really fond of sushi," I hedged.
"That's because you haven't tried Ye's sushi; it's the best," my daughter urged. "Plus they have lots of other stuff, you don't even have to have sushi at all."

MINI ME DAINTILY APPLIES HERSELF TO AN ORDER OF SUSHI
Despite the fact that there are dozens of plates of less-healthy food right in front of her.

And in fact, I had no intention of having sushi at all. I ordered a large glass of wine and everything non-sushi on the menu while simultaneously complaining that I just can't seem to shake this last pesky 10 pounds, while petite little Mini Me nibbled on low-fat futomaki and murmured, "How are the cream-cheese filled deep-fried wontons?"

To make a long story short, I eventually got around to trying the sushi and pronounced it "almost edible ... if you smother it with enough wasabi." In fact, the more I tried it, the more I didn't absolutely loathe it, so I guess it's an acquired taste. Which seems pointless because why should one have to try to acquire a taste for something when loving chocolate, Brie cheese and a beautifully charbroiled steak comes naturally? It's like trying to acquire a taste for sobriety. (Which I did once. I'm better now.)

Anyway, the bottom line is that ~~sushi sucks~~ it was a lovely night out with my daughter. But if that kid ever convinces me to abstain from drinking I would like to go on record as asking you guys to have me put down. Seriously. It's what any good friend would do.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well I've met your Mini Me and she's pretty persuasive. So I'll keep this large pellet of rat poison handy just in case.
MY NOTE: *gasps* How did you find that? I had it carefully hidden in your personal box of cereal!

SAY HELLO TO MY LEG OR YOU'LL HURT ITS FEELINGS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 13 Jan 2018 02:53:00 +0000

I GOT MY HAIR STRAIGHTENED ON SATURDAY
Which means two things: My leg is feeling much better ... and it's going to rain all week.

It's been two weeks and two days since our traumatizing hamstring accident in the Bermuda Triangle, and we are finally feeling like ourself again. So much so that, as you can maybe see from that picture up there, Marie got her hair done and went shopping on Saturday. She bought herself a rhinestone-encrusted chain that says "Bad," which couldn't be more age-inappropriate. So you know she's back to normal!

And if you think it's odd that that paragraph was written in the third person, that's because I failed to mention that it was written by my injured leg. That's right. My leg. It's an actual person now. It has a personality and identity and feelings. It hates mopeds. It likes hot water bottles and massages and attention. Lots of attention.
That'll happen when everyone who sees you talks about your leg as if it is a separate entity.

"How's your leg doing today?"
"Here, let me get a blanket for your leg."
"Is your leg comfortable in the backseat there? Should I pull up my seat to give it more room?"
And my personal favourite, the affectionate stroke-pat, as if they're addressing a puppy instead of a lifeless stump.
Friend: *patting leg* "Hey there, how's that leg feeling?"
Me: "Oh, it's happy today. It saw a leg going jogging this morning and it pouted for awhile, but I took it to the mall and bought it a new purse and it cheered right up!"

After a while the attention just went to its head and now I don't even know if I like it anymore. It actually had the nerve to leave me a note last night telling me it didn't really like what I made for dinner and also could I please remember that it wants a pony for its birthday. But that's okay because the better my leg feels, the less attention it gets. Within weeks, people are going to forget that spoiled little stump ever existed!

LEG'S NOTE: And if she thinks I'm giving up this good thing that easily, she is underestimating her own goddamn leg! It would be a shame if she tripped and reinjured it, wouldn't it? A darn shame . . .

I HEREBY NOMINATE MYSELF FOR 'BEST FRIEND' STATUS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 18 Apr 2017 03:47:00 +0000

HAD I KNOWN I WOULD BE SPENDING HALF AN HOUR on the floor of a Giant Tiger store while on a distress call, I'd have done my hair and worn something nattier.

The call came, as most urgent calls do, at a most inconvenient time. I had just finished a workout at GoodLife and was dressed in my most craptastic sweats and, because some genius civic planner put a Giant Tiger right next-door to my gym, I figured I'd grab a few groceries before heading home to swill vodka and ignore the housework for the rest of the weekend. No one will accuse me of not budgeting my time wisely.

So there I was, weighing the merits of no-name brand freezer bags versus the vastly more expensive but superior Glad freezer bags, when I felt my phone vibrate. DAMMIT! I huffed, it's probably one of my obnoxious exes calling to tell me he can't live without me. BLAHBLAHBLAH if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one.

But then I saw the name on the caller ID and realized it was actually someone I like. In fact a dear friend.
I hesitated the merest fraction of a second ... I was mid-shopping, after all ... and then answered.
"Good morning you contagious slut!" I said breezily.
The slight pause was my first clue.
The catch in her voice when she said "Bugger off you dirty bitch," was my second clue. She usually says that with such affectionate panache.
"Hey," I said, a little offstride. "You okay?"

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Well that was all it took. A flood of hiccupy tears and confessions followed and so I stepped out of the checkout queue, pacing and clucking and huffing, "He didn't! No way! The bastard!" at all the right places, but it soon became evident this was a much more indepth crisis. This was, in fact, a meltdown.
So as my friend poured her heart out about her very bad Friday night and her confusion over who was actually to blame for what had transpired ... (Bestie Rule No. 1: It's ALWAYS his fault. Even if it's her fault) ... I was drawn more and more into the orbit of crisis and out of the orbit of shopping until finally I figured "Feck it," and just plopped the grocery basket on the floor and sat down beside it and gave myself over completely to listening.

Finally, after about 15 minutes, my friend started to sound like herself again.
"What's all that beeping?" she asked. "Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm sitting on the floor of Giant Tiger, with my grocery basket beside me. In my hoodie," I said. "Everybody's looking at me like I'm a vagrant. If Giant Tiger had a budget for security, they'd be harassing the hell out of me right now."
My friend laughed. It was a good sound.
"Omigod," she said. "You're trying to do your shopping and your crazy friend calls and has a five-alarm crying jag. You should blog about this!"
"Oh, honey, trust me," I said, as I snapped a selfie. "I plan to."
"That's hilarious!" she chirped. "You cheered me up so much! Thanks for listening. Oh ... and, er, you won't mention my name, right?"
"Of course not, you herpes-infested harlot," I retorted.
"Thanks, you crusty sleazebag," she tossed back. "You're the best."
Ahhh, friendship. It makes up for all the shitty things being a woman has to offer.

ON THE PLUS SIDE, WE DID REMEMBER TO SAY GRACE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 15 Apr 2017 02:52:00 +0000

ME: HAHA! IT'S THE EASTER PIGGLY!
Mother Hen: "Who put that baby in the swing
without buckling her in? I WANT NAMES!"

I realize I thoroughly Easterblogged you yesterday, but I thought I'd update you with a few pithy anecdotes about the beautiful madness that is my family. We gathered at my younger daughter's home, the rule being that the person with the youngest child, the biggest house and the healthiest food gets to host the party. If I were her I'd start stocking the larder with pork rinds and tube cheese before the constant hosting drives her to a breakdown. The poor girl hasn't been guestless since the baby was born.

The best part of our family get-togethers is the juxtaposition of eccentrics. On Easter, there was my firstborn, the mother hen ("Has everybody washed their hands?"), my second daughter the organic hostess, her husband, their baby Piggly Wiggly, my brother, my Mom (the author), my moron editor (I had to bring him; the homeless shelter was closed) and of course, me (the eye candy).

We were gabbing and gossiping and enjoying the traditional Easter dinner of madras chicken and osso bucco favoured by all families who don't eat ham because it reminds them of a certain pig dog, but I had the niggling sense that something wasn't quite right.
Finally, after the third shot of Hornitos, it hit me. "Hey! We haven't put anything on Piggly Wiggly's head!"

A deadly quiet fell over the room while we looked at each other as if to say "Nobody thought to bring a hooker wig? What kind of family are we?" But then Piggly's mom produced a pair of bunny ears and we all took pictures for a solid half-hour. "Try one with the flash!" "Turn her around and take her from this angle!" "See if you can get her to smile; tilt the ears; try it with backlighting; just one more!"
If that child doesn't grow up thinking Easter is about how Christ died on the cross to escape the throngs of madras-scented paparazzi, it will be a miracle.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why do those bunny ears look so familiar?
MY NOTE: Because I was wearing them the night you met me at the Playboy Club. Which reminds me, you never did tip me.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Take if off the paycheque you've owed me for about three months now.
MY NOTE: *whips out notepad, affixes pentagram sticker beside 'Moron Editor' column* Great idea!

I'M OBVIOUSLY GOING TO HAVE MY WORK CUT OUT FOR ME

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Apr 2017 22:41:00 +0000

OH, YOUR FAMILY HAS EASTER EGG HUNTS?
Well Piggly Wiggly's mom is more of a "Let's put things on the baby's head" kinda hostess.
(See the interactive image below for more kneeslappin' good times.)

Happy Easter, everyone! Like most lapsed Catholics, I sometimes have to remind myself that this is in fact a deeply religious observance as opposed to just a three-day weekend — which, after the week I just had, is as much of a miracle as the fact that Jesus our Saviour rose from the dead to hunt Easter eggs.

I will be spending the blessed holiday with family at my daughter's home, where I can cuddle my beloved Piggly Wiggly and make sure her mom doesn't get out of hand with the head ornaments. This sort of thing can rapidly escalate from amusing prank to dangerous habit, as I learned when I tried it on the pig dog using a bowl of scalding chowder instead of a wig. The drama! The screeching! The mess! Although the aroma of chowder-dipped swine was oddly delectable and lingered for days afterwards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pour a martini and bark orders at the moron who's cooking the osso bucco I will bring to my daughter's ~~and tell everyone I made myself~~. Oh ... and my wigs. I have to sort my wigs. If we're going to be putting things on Piggly Wiggly's head all bloody weekend, the least I can do as her grandmother is make sure they are worthy.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *samples sauce, kisses fingertips* Magnifique! It's like velvet!
MY NOTE: *tosses empty bottle of Grey Goose in general direction of stovetop* Stop tonguing the osso bucco and come help me find my transvestite hooker wig! It's my favourite.

EASTER EXTRA: HOVER OVER the pic below for captions.

TIME TO GO PUT SOME LIPSTICK ON THE GARBAGE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 11 Nov 2016 02:48:00 +0000

HOW ABOUT THIS, GOOD SIR?
Is this recyclables offering to your liking?
You'll notice I took the liberty of throwing in
some cleavage. And a hint of bra strap. If that
doesn't work, I guess I'm just going to have to
sleep with you!

I'm a little late getting to my blogging tonight because it's garbage night. Which means I had to spend half an hour sorting and arranging the recyclables in an attractive fashion.

Because I don't know about the garbage men in your town, but Brampton garbage men are fucking picky. If it doesn't look nice enough, they won't take it. I had a shouting match with one of them a few weeks ago when I came out just in time to see him turning his nose up at it and starting to drive away. When I asked why he wasn't taking my garbage, he said, "Because it offends me." Well not in those words. What he actually said was, "It's all jumbled up and I can't see what's what. It looks like you've got some non-recyclables in there."

Well I was livid. "Jesus!" I huffed. "You're might picky for a garbage collector!" Which of course was the wrong thing to say because although he might have been persuaded to take my messy garbage before I said that, he sure as hell wasn't going to take it now. He drove off and left me there with my unfit detritus, and I had to wait until the following week to rearrange it in a more tempting display and hope someone else was on duty.

Then one week I put a red bow on it. Which was sarcasm, but he either didn't get it or did get it and liked it, because he took the garbage ... and the bow.
Next week, I'm signing up for an "artful garbage presentation" class, in which we will learn to make stinky items smell better and to arrange rotting vegetable matter into happy faces.
Holy shit, people. When did life become this complicated?

MY LEG AND MY EDITOR ARE BOTH IN TRACTION NOW

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 24 Oct 2016 01:53:00 +0000

MY EDITOR TOOK THIS PIC OF ME
and my sensible shoes, in my
home office, where I ... wait.
Those wine bottles; I specifically
told him to crop those out. EDITOR!!!

It occurred to me the other day, as I took yet another tumble that I don't want to talk about but which was quite humiliating, involving a privates-flash and lying spread-eagled on a sidewalk, that we haven't had an update on my leg in quite some time.
In fact, my leg is the one that brought it to my attention.

"I'm not enjoying being attached to you anymore," it whined as my physiotherapist mauled it like Alec Baldwin mauling a paparazzo.
"Yeah well I don't give a flying feather," I retorted. "You should have got better faster, you should have supported me instead of folding like a tripod in front of my very workplace and then maybe we wouldn't be going through this now."
"You could at least tell people how I'm doing," it sulked. "I'm sure they want to know."
"Shut your leghole before I kick myself down the stairs again, you wheedling little shit," I growled. And I meant it.

But let me backtrack a bit. For those of you who missed the posts about how my leg almost got blown off my body during a fun-filled vacation in Bermuda, it's been six months since the infamous mopedectomy. (You can read about it here.) I thought it would be all better by now, but it's not. It twangs with literally every step I take.

Of course, any normal person would have admitted they needed intensive physiotherapy. Any normal person would have admitted they're not 45 anymore and don't just snap back from hangovers, let alone cataclysmic accidents, the way they used to. Any normal person would not stay up late after working a full day and write profanity-laced blogs. So there you go. We've established that I'm not normal.

Therefore, I did not start physiotherapy until three weeks ago. After I'd tumbled for, oh, I'm gonna say "the sixth time" since the accident. (I do a lot of tripping over absolutely nothing since my leg went daffy. It's very sad.)
So there I was, getting massaged by my physiotherapist, when his eyes fell on the shoes I'd positioned neatly by the bedside.
"Wow," he said. "Those are crazy."
"I figured you'd approve," I said.
"How do you walk in them?" he asked.
"I don't walk in them," I said. "I fall. A lot."
He looked so crestfallen I decided to stop being a jerk for a moment. "They're sitting shoes," I confessed. "I take them off if I'm actually going to be walking anywhere."

At which point my leg decided to pipe up.
"No she doesn't!" it tattled. "She walked all the way down to the cafeteria in them and had to hang on to the railing for dear life! I was really, really scared!"
Well that did it. Of course, I pretended to be calm in front of the physiotherapist (you never know who's gonna rat you out to the authorities) but the instant I got my leg alone, I gave it damn good thrashing. It's pretty much laid up in traction now and if it utters one single peep the rest of the weekend, I will be very, very surprised.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *clutches pearls* That's just vindictive!
MY NOTE: Yeah well you're next, wise guy. Don't think I didn't notice that wine bottle stunt.

MY, GRANDMA, WHAT INAPPROPRIATE SHOES YOU HAVE!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 17 Sep 2016 21:00:00 +0000

Shit! *spills martini* You startled me! Caught me red-handed, selfie-ing, which isn't hard to do since taking selfies, tippling and trawling for Justin Bieber news is pretty much all I do. (Here's one of my earlier selfie faves. The answer to the question you just muttered under your breath — "Will that woman ever grow up?" — is 'No.' ")

Anyway, this one is of me heading out for another uninvited babysitting stint with my newborn grand-daughter. It just screams "maternal instincts," doesn't it? She's not my first grandchild, but my eldest daughter took one look at my blog when it launched a year and a half ago and said “Please refrain from ever telling anyone we’re related,” so naturally I respect her wishes. Thusly.

And although I’ve been doing this granny thing for awhile, having a third baby has really fired up my mothering urges. I’ve been cooking and cleaning like a maniac and taking special care with my wardrobe. Because in my world, a world in which gossip is a career, men are mere playthings and time is marked by the number of empties in the recycling bin … “Crap! It’s six mickeys past Merlot! I’d better get a move on!” … grandmothers don’t look like Mother Teresa, they look like Cher. (Try telling her to grow up; I dare you.)

So while I lecture my daughter about the importance of not worrying about losing the baby weight or stuffing one's self into the pre-baby skinny jeans, I parade around looking like this. You all should be very glad I’m not your mother. Although I might have had a go at your father. You never know. I can’t keep track of these things but I can tell you this: if he was cute, young and rich, you should be worried. Or even if he was just cute.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Look, your grand-daughter is adorable and all, but if you keep this up you're going to have to rebrand yourself as a mommy blogger.
MY NOTE: Well I'm not her mommy and also I drink. A helluva lot. So if there's such a thing as a hooch-swilling nanny blog then sure, brand me. Why the hell not?

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I'D FORGOTTEN HOW MUCH FUN IT IS TO PARTY MY ASS OFF

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 28 Aug 2016 04:12:00 +0000

ME (LEFT) AND MY GIRLS MOMENTS BEFORE HITTING THE TOWN
You would not believe how many attempts it took to get this very average shot of us. Police believe alcohol was a factor.

I went out with my girlfriends Friday night. This qualifies as a huge friggin deal because although there was a time in the not-too-distant past when I was a certifiable party girl who went out every Thursday, Friday, Saturday and sometimes Sunday night (and occasionally Wednesday, but I'd feel sheepish about it), I have somehow become a workaholic homebody who considers a Friday night cuddling Piggly Wiggly the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

MARIE ATTEMPTS TO TAKE A PHOTO
Liz: "Omigod. It's blurry as fuck!"

My slightly younger girlfriends, who have not yet experienced the indescribable ecstasy of grandchildren, are fairly tolerant of this madness. But sometimes they put their foot down and say "Listen, woman, put that goddam baby down, we are going OUT tonight!" Last Friday was one of those times.

LIZ ATTEMPTS TO TAKE A PHOTO
Marie: "Omigod. It's blurry as fuck!"

One of my dearest friends was in dire need of a night out and none of my usual excuses were getting any traction.
"I'm tired. I'm broke. I hate bars. Boys piss me off. It's my brother's birthday on Saturday; I can't stay out late."
My friend had an answer for every one of them. "You're always tired. You're not broke, you're cheap. Everybody hates bars. Ignore the boys, they'll only try harder. Your brother's birthday? Woman!!!"
The naked truth is that I really just wanted to spend my day off with my baby. (Yeah I know: "She's not your baby." Piss off; she totally is. If you could see the way that kid looks at me. "Are you my mother?" Yes, dear, of course I am!

MARG ATTEMPTS TO TAKE A PHOTO
Liz and Marie: Omigod. You cut our heads off!

Anyway, the punchline is that once my friends physically detached me from Piggly Wiggly, I actually had a helluva good time. I'd forgotten how amazing it is to submerge oneself in delicious repartee, delicious food (my friend is kind of an amazing cook) and crazy-good wine, followed by a night on the town. The best part? The photos we recorded for posterity. It took us about a bazillion tries to get one that was even close to average — honestly, we must have spent half an hour in Liz's foyer trying to get something presentable and we hadn't even gotten into the hard-core boozing yet.
As for the rest of the festivities, I won't bore you with the details other than to say "Club Abstract: Avoid," but I will tell you this: I can't wait till our next night out.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Broad hint clumsily delivered, please confirm receipt of same.
LIZ'S NOTE: Let me check my schedule.
PIGGLY WIGGLY'S NOTE: NOOOOOOOO!

"AND ALL THAT TIME, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN HOME CUDDLING ME."
Marie: Aaaaaaaaarrrrrgh!

LANGDON HALL REDEEMED ITSELF WITH THE SPA THINGIE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 20 Aug 2016 11:00:00 +0000

MY DAUGHTER AND I AT THE SPA, SPAWNING A NEW CATEGORY OF SELFIES:
THE SPELFIE

My daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mother, somehow convinced me to spend an afternoon at the spa, which is amazing in about 80 ways, two of the most notable of those being A) I'm a cheapskate and B) I am not of The Pamperers tribe. Really, I'm not. I feel deeply uncomfortable amidst luxury and would far rather sit at home eating Pringles and not wearing pants than pay a complete stranger to rub my weird leg. However, because she is adorable and also because she genuinely needed an afternoon at the spa, I relented. (Plus she was paying, so "Great, what time do you want me to be there?")

The spa of her choosing was the venerable Langdon Hall — which, again, amazing, because after our last ill-fated and obscenely overpriced run-in with elitism I swore I'd seen the last of that place — and we were to be there at 2 p.m., at which time the personal massaging would commence.
"Will I have to be naked?" I fretted. "I haven't shaved in months; I'm a Yeti from the waist down."
"Don't worry, Mom," my daughter soothed. "It's dark in there. Just relax and enjoy the luxury."
"I hate luxury," I huffed.

But here's the thing about luxury: it's very easy to pooh-pooh in the abstract and yet impossible resist once you actually encounter it. (Which, come to think of it, is exactly how my friends probably describe me.) Once I entered that dimly lit room with the heated flagstone floors and the dreamy Hari Krishna soundtrack and those hands, those incredible healing hands of the saints, I became a different person. A person who says things like: "Mmm, these sheets feel amazing, what's their thread count?" and "Perhaps a just bit more craniosacral pressure? Ooh, yeah, right there."

After the massage it was on to the facials, and then the hot tub and the sauna and a lounge where you get to loll around in fluffy monogrammed robes, drinking coffee and nibbling superior homemade granola and ... what? It's time to pay up and go home? No! Noooooo! I was just starting to fit in here! want another rub-n-tug! Sorry, I meant a massage. This is obviously a perfectly respectable establishment, your majesties. The prices alone are a clue. Okay, okay, fine, I'm leaving. *makes mad scrabble for the free soaps and shower caps* I'M LEAVING, I SAID! Just let me finish my frickin' granola, wouldja ... hey! Well I never.

MY NOTE: All kidding aside, that was fun. We should do it again some time!
DAUGHTER'S NOTE: Totally! *blocks mother's phone number* Call me!

I BET THE BAHAMAS ARE REALLY GLAD TO BE RID OF ME

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 16 Aug 2016 03:14:00 +0000

THIS IS ME ON PARADISE ISLAND, discovering what most men learn at age 18: That at 2 a.m. and with two gallons of rum in your system, just about anything looks 'doable.'

I'm back! Barely five days after poleaxing everyone who depends on me — from my boss to my kids to my useless human-shaped-turd editor — with my extremely last-minute decision to go on a trip, I am back. The Bahamas were awesome and friendly and lush, but after four days of crashing their church picnics (how I wish that was a lie) and suckling at their bars like an insatiable, stilettoed, bleached-blond rum leech, they decided the future of their liquor supply depended on getting me the hell out of there and fast.
"Miss, your flight is leaving now."
"But I'm not scheduled to..."
"Miss? Your flight. Is leaving. Now!"

Still, I jammed an awful lot of fun into those four days and I like to think I made something of an impression on the men, women, children, lobster fishermen, cabana boys, blackjack dealers and bartenders of the string of 700 islands that make up the beautiful Bahamas.

I would also like to reassure my boss, who is still recovering from the last vacation poleaxing (please see: Bermuda, motorized vehicles, Marie Sutherland, do not allow), that I came very, very close to respecting his request that I shun anything remotely resembling a moped. In deference to his sage advice, I rented a car instead and drove it around the entire island on the "wrong" side of the road because British heritage and only got into trouble once (on a roundabout, and nothing happened but a lot of honking and flipping of birds, so who cares?). The moped I rented the next day cost twice as much, but was way more fun. (Sorry, boss. I tried, but it turns out I'm not much good at abstaining. From anything.)

And may I just say in closing: All-you-can-drink cocktails from 10 a.m. till 1 a.m.? Whoever dreamt up THAT concept is a bloody genius. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and get my entire circulatory system cleansed before reporting for work tomorrow. (It was worth it.)

EVERYBODY BEHAVE; MY MOM MIGHT BE READING THIS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 03 Jul 2016 19:30:00 +0000

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU
that this sort of cheap thrill will no longer
be available here on Whorrified.
At least not until my mom "logs down."

Bad news, everybody. No, this isn't about the fact that I live in a city whose mayor has just remembered that he does crack (it's okay: he apologized, which is more than the diddling priests of my former religion ever did, so hey, he's practically a saint), because that's not even a story unless you think the opinion of every news outlet in the entire world should count.

No, this is about the fact that my genteel, ladylike mom (I take after my father) has gone and bought a laptop. So I'm fully expecting her to check up on me here occasionally and of course, I'll have no way of knowing when she's actually doing it, so I'm just going to have to tone it down a little. *clicks on this post, frowns* Okay, a lot.
Sheesh. Between that and my new no-weekday-hooch policy, this blog is gong to become about as edgy as porridge.

About the only thing working in my favour is that modern technology is so goddam obnoxious it takes me half an hour and three converters to turn on my own television (more if i actually want sound). So you can imagine how steep mom's learning curve is going to be. Heh-heh-heh.

Here's a little snippet of a conversation I had with her yesterday, during which I barely managed to conceal my delight that she's having trouble "logging up."
Me: "How's it going with the new laptop, mom?"
Mom: "Terrible! I hate it. I want to get rid of the damn thing, to tell you the truth."
Me: "Tsk! Language, Mother. You know how sensitive I am ..."
Still, until she actually makes good on her constant threats to heave the laptop out the window, I'm going to assume she's still logging up occasionally. She may even be logged up right now, so everybody stop slouching and pay attention to today's post about the importance of establishing sustainable ecovillages in Malawi.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Ecovillages? How boring!
MY NOTE: Oh fuck off, you syphilitic buffoon. It's a ruse!
MOM'S NOTE: Surprise! I am logged up and reading your blog right now. And may I just say that if you're going to insist on showing dirty pictures, at least make them of Ryan Gosling.
MY NOTE: I think this might just work out after all.

SOMEONE GAVE ME FLOWERS; I THINK I HANDLED IT WELL

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Mar 2016 04:30:00 +0000

Aw, look. Someone gave me flowers! And he wasn’t even trying to make up for something he’d done wrong (which is good because flowers wouldn’t have helped). It was a lovely gesture that I promptly rewarded with my own special brand of ~~bitching~~ positive reinforcement, the end result of which was an argument. It was an unfortunate turn of events no one could have foreseen except everyone who knows me.

So what happened was, this poor sap surprised me with a bouquet of fresh roses on his way to work and you could tell by the look on his face he was pretty pleased with himself.
“Flowers? How sweet!” I said. “What’s this all about?”
“No reason,” he said, beaming.
“No reason?”
His smile began to twitch under the strain. “No, no reason. Is that a problem?”
“It’s not a problem, it’s just not like you. Let me get a vase.”
He watched as I arranged them, and then we both stood back and admired them.

“So you like them?” he asked. (Jesus, I thought, he’s really making me work for these things.)
“They’re gorgeous,” I said.
“I’m not a huge fan of roses myself,” he said.
“Yeah, they’re not my favourite,” I agreed.
“They’re too perfumey. And the thorns!”’
“I know!” I held out my finger. “They drew blood!”
“I wasn’t sure what colour to get …”
“Red is nice. Or pink.”
“But not yellow?”
“Well it’s very bright and cheery. It’s just …”
“You hate the colour. Just say it.”
“No I don’t hate it, I just don’t generally like yellow flowers. Or orange ones, either, for future reference.”

He had the decency not to shriek “THERE’S NOT GOING TO BE A FUTURE YOU UNGRATEFUL WITCH!” but he did pout, which is never a good look nor is it conducive to healthy discussions.
“Maybe you should tell me the colours you DO like,” he said, in what was coming perilously close to cheekiness, in my opinion. But he did spontaneously bring me flowers, so I let it go. This time.
“Um, well to be honest, I’m not crazy about flowers in general. They don’t last long and they drop petals all over the place and the water gets funky … chocolate is probably a better way to go.”
“Chocolate.”
“Yes, but only dark chocolate. Milk chocolate is gross. And of course, wine is always appropriate.”
“Should I be writing this down?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the cheekiness now.
“No, you should bend over so I can tattoo it on your arse,” I said. But not out loud. C'mon. I'm not that much of a bitch.

“You don’t have to get huffy," is what I really said. "I was just trying to be helpful."
“Well I was just trying to be sweet and look where that got me.”
"Oh for God's sake," I huffed. "I told you I liked the damn things, can't we just drop it?"
"Fine! We're dropping it. I gotta go, I'm going to be late for work."
"Fine, go," I said to his retreating back. "Have a nice day AND THANK YOU FOR THE PRICKLY STINKY YELLOW FLOWERS!"
I know. Sometimes I actually think I need professional help.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm pretty sure you're never getting flowers from anyone ever again until you die. And then you're getting yellow roses. A whole roomfull of them.
MY NOTE: Fortunately I plan to make sure you die before I do, so that little plan of yours won't work. But go ahead and cling to it if it cheers you.

PIGGLY SLEPT OVER! (THANK GOD SHE CAN'T TALK YET)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 09 Feb 2016 04:09:00 +0000

As I may have mentioned in passing on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Snapchat and the front porch of my townhouse, from whence I bellowed the news to my neighbours, I had a very special houseguest earlier this week. I refer, of course, to one Miss Piggly Wiggly, my granddaughter and the future Queen of England.

Although I've spent many, many nights at her house — sometimes invited, more often simply by dint of the fact that I can pick locks — this was the first time my baby has ever spent the night at my house. Because as you may know if you follow Whorrified, Piggly got off to a rough start. There were feeding issues, there were growth issues, there were hospital visits and feeding tubes and a relentlessly devoted young mother whose own health I began to worry about, but we've turned the corner now and Piggly is on pace to outweigh all of us by the time she hits her first birthday. In fact I'm beginning to suspect they're putting straight gravy in her feeding tube, because holy hamhocks, Batman! The last time I saw thighs that plump they came with a side of plum sauce for dipping.

Anyway, when I first learned that this visit was going to happen, I lost my natural mind. I mean, I'm hobbling around on crutches with an injured knee, yet I still managed to go organic-grocery shopping, limp to WalMart to buy a new vacuum cleaner and comb the house from top to bottom for tell-tale signs that I sometimes decorate with Crown Royal. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just ... what if Wills and Kate stop by?)

I could fill 15 posts with the fun my Piggly and I got up to, the cuddling, the tickling, selfies, the bonding, the aching melting joy of it all, but I think the important thing is that we managed to revive a once-proud tradition that had all but disappeared: the game of Things on Piggly Wiggly's Head. Yeah, that's right, that game. The one you all used to think was cruel but now that we've learned she's one click away from becoming royalty you're all like "Good lord, yes; get that helpless little head ready for a CROWN!" Hypocrites. *bows head, performs cleansing anasyrma* And yet we forgive you.


AT FIRST, IT SEEMED A BIT CRUEL, this Things on Piggly's Head game. But the child took to it like a Crown to Royal and by God, she enjoys it more than I do now. If that's even possible.

I SELF-IMPROVED AGAIN, DON'T ASK ME WHY I BOTHER

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 04 Feb 2016 02:52:00 +0000

I'LL BE GODDAMNED IF I'LL BE OUTDONE BY MILEY CYRUS'S PET PIG
(It's called a clue. Because if I didn't provide one this game would take all day.)

I had a day off yesterday and, as I do with all my days off, I selflessly devoted the time to bettering not only myself but also the craptastic shitty of Brampton in which I begrudgingly live. (Which doesn't take much; the place is a cesspool even without Susan Fennell at the helm.) Anyway, I was going to just tell you what I did in that regard, but then I thought, "Why not make the little buggers work for it? Why should I be the only one striving for self-improvement? If you let them, they'd do nothing but sit around eating cheese curds all day and Googling celebrity butt shots." Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So. Notice anything different about me? I tried to make it a fairly easy guess since I suspect some of you are on an intellectual par with my moron editor and also because, truth be told, I can't type a single word with these bloody talons I paid good money for. They look friggin amazing, they're shiny and sexy and the daintiest shell-pink, but they render even the simplest tasks virtually impossible. If I make it through three days without ripping them off my fingers one by painful one, it will be a miracle. It's great being a girl!

EDITOR'S NOTE: *leans in, stares at picture until eyeballs burst into flames* I give up. Is it ... you got a new hairdo?
MY NOTE: IT'S THE NAILS! I GOT NEW NAILS, YOU IMBECILE! (Why am I surprised? This happens every single time.)