So, last week, a few firefighters were fired in Toronto for sexist tweets. Apparently there were repeated examples, and not just the (hilarious and incredibly stupid) quote from The Office, that was often cited in the media (“Reject a woman and she will never let it go. One of the many defects of their kind. Also weak arms.”).

These firings caused a bit of a kerfuffle, and the union has vowed to fight the dismissals. What really struck me was how infinitely fireable I am for my twitter/facebook/existence. I swear profusely and profanely, as if my entire vocabularly was learned from the back of a toilet stall door. Or from the toilets of a bar that doesn’t even HAVE toilet stall doors anymore because the 80s happened & and now you have to hover at least a foot above the toilet so as not to get ALL OF THE STIs, AGAIN, and then you pee on your shoe.

Despite my never ending use of the word fuck, and creative and novel arrangements of the words ‘cock’ ‘sucking’ ‘mother’ ‘fucking’ ‘douche’ and ‘carnie’, I do in fact edit myself. I don’t speak about my work generally, other than to post about cool stuff (and then I tend not to use our actual name). This is made vastly easier because I like my job and my coworkers are fantastic. I like my compatriots at the big curvy building down the street, and whilst some of our elected officials aren’t my personal favourites, I don’t talk about that on the internet. A few times a year my husband or my mother will email and say ‘uh, you should take that down’ and I do, albeit grumpily.

However that doesn’t matter. Even without biting (ahem) political commentary I can, obviously, still be fired for bringing my place of work into disrepute. And I’m not silly enough to think that deleting tweets is particularly effective. (OBAMAISWATCHINGMERIGHTNOW-DOYOULIKEMYSOCKSOBAMA?) So I will slowly remove the twitter account with my name, will double check everything that really should be deleted is deleted, and will use the twitter name I first adopted back in 2007, the name that corresponds to this blog which I so lazily ignore.

I have been reading through my old posts so I can be mortified and decide what to take out (I’ve left it all in, even the eye rolling, embarrassingly crappy updates), and some of it I even quite like. But holy fucking moly do I ever obsess about my fucking thighs eh? That there could be so much posting about exercise! fatness! snacks! scones! cheese! is incredibly depressing, and I vow to hereby only speak about fascinating and hilarious topics about which I am woefully misinformed and/or unreasearched. Like religion! And politics! And snacks! Fuck.

This blog isn’t a secret and although I tend not to use names, it’s not rocket science to figure out who I am. However, I figure gentle anonymity will do probably for now, I’m not running for office (yet)(and quite frankly there is no point running until the people of Toronto/Ontario/Canada are ready for some motherfucking change. And that appears not to be right now.) So! Let’s blog this shit yo! Princess of the world! Let’s do it! Again! Like, three times! Then let’s leave this and pick it up again in two years! YEAH!

(Also, this Globe & Mail article talks about the tweeting/firing thing in an interesting way, and she is probably ethically required to do way more research than me who is only ethically required to not scream out the C word at children who don’t fucking stand up on the streetcar for old people. Little Cs. Wait. Sorry. Article. Globe & Mail, what’s more offensive, the tweeting or the firing?

Played my first game in the tennis ladder at my club. I had a couple of friendly games last year, and took a couple of refresher lessons, however that did not an instant champion make (and it’s been at least 15 years since I touched a racquet). Needless to say I was thoroughly beaten, 8 games to 3. Some games were very close, some were not. But it was just a fucking blast and I’m impressed with myself for genuinely not minding that I was thoroughly beaten (thrashed I might say?). Because I can only get better right? I think this might be the first time I remember actually really loving a sport! SPORTS! So, hurrah for me. Hur. Rah.

Anyway, no big deal guys, just wanted you to know that by August I will be on the Pro Tour. We can still be friends, I won’t forget you. Well, some of you.

Got a message from a good friend today on facebook. It tickles me enormously so thought I’d post.

(slightly edited quote)
“hey: weirdest thing happened to me today. a friend (Jessica) had her facebook hacked and while I was on facebook this morning a chat box opened from her and we began to chat. she sounded weird. then she suddenly asked me for money as she is trapped in spain, can’t get home. i told her she was clearly not Jessica – but here is the good part – this hacker answers back saying ‘not joking. really me. SP (my name) is going to announce my problem in church this sunday. please help me.” so awesome. you – the most vocal, evangelistic, atheist i know – are going to Jessica’s church this sunday to get the congregation to help her out. amazing. they skimmed my wall, saw your name first, saw that Jessica is a church girl, and tried to get my $$. i laughed a lot. then i was scared of fb and wrote a scary, all caps post on my wall warning everyone.

see you in church.

Isn’t that great? He knew it was a scam because I would NEVER GO TO CHURCH. My rampant athiesm helped foil some crooks! Well, not really, but sort of. Okay, not at all. But still, hilarious! Tickled pink I tell you. Although the scammers of today man, tell your grandparents, they fall for this shit.

We don’t really do Valentine’s Day. Not in a statement way (I’m too busy not shaving my legs and shouting at people about hyphenated names to bother with making statements), just in a meh sort of way. It’s the boy’s birthday in late January, and our wedding anniversary is March 10, so lots of money has already been spent, and is to be spent shortly so may as well save the forty bucks and do it for free on the kitchen table with some tired house plants looking on, right? GB did put a valentine’s post-it note in the espresso machine for me to find this morning. When I got to it this morning it was damp and covered in coffee grounds, but I think the sticky bit had mostly not disintegrated, so that’s pretty romantic I think.

Anyway, y’all can celebrate if youse want to and as my gift to you for just one day I promise not to alarm you with talk of leg hair and the continuing pay disparity between men and women and the THE CHRIS FUCKING COCKSUCKER BROWN ISSUE. Please feel free to send left over chocolate to me for testing, and enjoy these sweet moves.

The true meaning of Valentine's Day...

Some of you may be aware of my sleeping problems. I posted about my experience at the Toronto Sleep Clinic, where they hooked me up like an international space station and told me “’kay! Goodnight!”. I slept okay there, neither a perfect sleep nor my classic freaking out, but they were able to diagnose parasomnia – aka, some weird shit can happen when I sleep.

The Handsome Sleep doctor (handsome doctor = best doctor) gave me a prescription for Clonazepam. Incidentally, this is mostly used for anxiety, panic attacks and mania, conditions in which I only suffer when I know the cheese shop will be closed for a long weekend. It is essentially valium.

It took me 18 months to be brave enough to try the Clonazepam as I am a scaredy cat, but it seemed to work. Well, I took it a handful of nights and on those nights I didn’t wig out. Cured! And then I did. Not in a dramatic way, just in a sitting up and staring around at things in a creepy way, which is both disruptive and and faintly terrifying for GB. So I decided that taking Valium that didn’t work was probably silly. Whilst I love the glamour of needing a Mother’s Little Helper (I envisage a frock and apron with a little mickey of gin tucked into the pocket, leaning against a fridge popping my Clonnies while I bake my husband some sort of meat loaf), it’s not really sustainable if it doesn’t work (and who on earth knows how to make meat loaf?).

Off I toddled to my GP who prescribed Zopiclone, the lowest dose available with instructions to cut the tiny pills in half, to further reduce the effect. Zopiclone is a tranquiliser and hypnotic so amongst the family of drugs you can use to get crazy fucking high when you mix it with booze, and commonly used as roofies to rape girls at bars. Wheee! Thus, as an afore mentioned scaredy cat, I don’t like to take it at all if I’ve been drinking anything, as I’m worried I’ll die. (Obviously most people I know think I’m crazy for NOT chugging the pills with wine and having the most fun ever).

So I had this tool to help me sleep better, to get through the night without getting up to remove the paintings from the wall (OB-viously) or to stop sitting and staring at the clock until GB wakes up and tackles me back to sleep. But I can’t take that pill when I’ve had a glass of wine, and I started to realise there is always a glass of wine. Not in a terrible way, just in a ‘lives of busy people with lots of friends’ sort of way. I had plans after work every night, and all through the weekend, every week, for MONTHS. Wine class on Mondays, trivia on Tuesdays, dinners on Wednesday, drinks and films on Thursday then a weekend whirl of errands and brunches and lunches and dinners and drinks and snacks. And on every one of these nights I would have a glass of wine. Or two. Sometimes three. Mostly not so much on weeknights, but on weekends sometimes more. That meant there was no real window for Zopiclone.

In the world in which I have moved for the last 31 years, I have known and loved several people with alcohol addictions, and know what that looks like. Over the years of having the best! fun! ever! I have examined myself to make sure I’m not entering dangerous territory, and I’ve never felt that I was. The crazy bits of my youth, of drinking all night and sleeping all day and dancing and dancing and dancing, were always finite, I always knew the festival would be over soon, or the tour, or the party and life would go back to sort of normal. For sure I drink too much sometimes, I love wine and would much rather have a glass of champagne than a glass of water, but I don’t feel a compulsion to drink alcohol. So that’s good.

After our recent month long vacation where we drank and ate everything whenever we wanted, I came back 15lbs heavier (for realsies) and needing to reset a little. I think proprietary cleanses are anti-science bunkum so that wasn’t on the cards (but sure, calm down cleanse lover, I understand your feelings about this, I just think the effects are psychosomatic (addict insane) and that the body doesn’t need you to cleanse, it can do it already.)* So I decided to take a month off booze when we got back and knowing March would be filled with parties and anniversaries and so on, and February was all short and stuff, February it was (and is).

Additional impetus along with the desire to not drink booze every single night was reconnecting with my personal trainer (The Italian!) for 7am sessions and needing to save some cash to pay for the luxury of getting up at 5.45am. It all seemed smart.

It has been almost 9 days so far without wine.

I don’t think about it when I’m at home doing normal things, but I sure do miss it when I’m out. Drinking soda water and diet coke at a bar is for assholes AND I AM THAT ASSHOLE (wine is also more delicious, less chemically and better for you than diet coke for sure). However, keeping me from that bottle of champagne is that I think it’s having an effect on my body. I am sleeping TERRIBLY, awful in- and para- somnias and I can’t wake up in the mornings. The irony of sleeping terribly whilst finally being in a position to take my sleeping pills is not lost on me, I just dropped my entire bottle of pills into the toilet last week and had to throw them out. NOW WHO WILL SELL LEFTOVER DRUGS TO THE DATE RAPISTS?

Then last night I caught a fake cold. I was sitting on the couch and felt a wave of allergy take over my body suddenly and I was sniffling and sneezing and congested. I went to bed and it’s still here this morning. WHAT THE FUCK? I’m sure it’s not a real cold as one doesn’t literally catch a cold like that, like a pie in the face and a full body shudder all at once (perhaps it is a clown cold?). So I reckon my body is detoxing. Ugh.

It is also not surprising to me that my body is reacting to its new status quo, it’s just tiresome. I hate that putting delicious things in your mouth so frequently can make you run down and tired, and I am ready for next week when I suspect the physical tiredness will go and everything will be fine again. Then holy fucking macaroni will I be waiting for March 1st. Bring out the marching band and elephants and bring me the motherfucking bottle.

Please.

*I have many friends who love cleanses and think they’re a worthwhile exercise. I do not. We have debated often and I still believe they’re hocus pocus. Eat well. Exercise. Exercise your brain and manage your emotional well being, your lower intestine will be fine.

Today I am hungover. It’s mostly my fault, although surely some responsibility should be assumed by someone else, as a general rule it’s nice to spread that out. The danger signs were pretty evident, at one point GB went to get me a diet coke and when he came back I had a glass of red wine in my hand and NO IDEA how it got there. Genuinely. No idea. Still.

However I didn’t fall over and I didn’t puke on my fur stole. Hurrah!

Now I am trying to pretend I’m not hungover so my husband doesn’t look at me with those I Told You So eyes. I hate that look. The look that can only truly be mastered by someone who is not a big drinker. Whose friends sing to him on those special occasions where he hits the big 5 mark (to the tune of My Sharona), ‘da da da da da FIVE CORONAS!’

However, I got my one up on him last year. After a morning of giving me the look, he went to have a shower and so I puked in the kitchen sink and never told him.

Joke’s on YOU jerkface.

Puke.

Nap.

My back hurts. I am old and crippled and GET YOUR FUCKING BALL OUT OF MY FUCKING YARD.

A couple of hours of tennis on Saturday and a mountain bike ride with the fellas on Sunday, followed by an enthusiastic spin class this morning (“Hey team! For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Scott! I have two kids! They are my inspiration and the reason I have a smile on my face all day! So let’s try to get a smile on your fac…BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!” Asshole. Monday morning. Fuck. Off.)

Anyway. My stupid back hurts but I’m too lazy to do the stretches I know will help. Instead I will eat sausages.

Also, my sleeping is bad. I promise to tell you about my sleep again next time. Tomorrow say? After tennis…With my achey back… And I think that my new tennis coach doesn’t find me hilarious, which clearly means it’s going to be a lonnnnngggg fucking hour. Like, let me tell you my friends, if you’re gonna spend an hour with me in culottes, you’re gonna wanna find me hilarious.

I shall report.

If my government turned off the internet to stop me from communicating I would be in the streets, screaming til I couldn’t scream any more. If that didn’t work I wouldn’t stop there, I’d do what I needed to to make things right. I would be angry, so angry.

I can’t imagine a world where I never had a say in my future – Egypt’s ruler has been in place for THIRTY YEARS.

So heads up assholes, you choose not to vote when you have the right? Shame on you, and whilst I’d like to say you don’t deserve to live in a free country and should be immediately sent to a dictatorship to see how you like that (assholes), it’s not true, you do have the right to live in freedom. Everyone does. That’s the point, even assholes who are too lazy to be a part of democracy have the right.

Finally, on a tangent from my first paragraph about taking to the streets, in all the footage I see online or on tv, there are no women on the streets. None, except foreign journalists. Strange, creepy and sort of depressing. Religion and equality, my two favorite casual fireside bees in bonnet. Equality? HA! We are all so far from it that the carelessness with which my generation treats their feminism (‘oh, I’m not a feminist, like I believe in equal pay and stuff but I’m not a feminist…’ ‘it’s just really important to him that I change my last name and you know, I don’t mind…’) enrages me. Fuck that.

Anyway. Good luck people of Egypt, I’m with you.

Update! Not sure if this link will work, but someone has posted a Women of Egypt album on facebook which is heartening, women are there, just not making the newspapers. (no photo credits sorry, just the facebook link)…

Welcome! Looking for work can be absolutely hideous, can’t it? The excruciating slowness of redoing your resume to tailor it for each application, crafting your words to be concise and effective, spell checking until your F7 is worn out and sticky… Nightmare!

Oh. What? You don’t…? Huh.

I KNOW YOU DON’T, IDIOTS. HERE IS MY IDIOT GUIDE TO GETTIN’ A JOB. Use it.

Be wary of putting your photo on your resume. That lady at the club (you know the joint, the place in the industrial estate just near the end of the subway line?) may wanna bone you, but it’s pretty unlikely I want to bone you. Furthermore, looking at your teen stache can be very confronting and raises all sorts of questions for me about you and EVERYTHING YOU BELIEVE IN. Obviously I maintain the strictest standards of employment fairness, and will not discriminate against you for any reason, including your prepubescent pubic hair lip, it’s just harder when your wiggly caterpillar lip is all starin’ at me from the top of the page.

Don’t tell me that you are looking for an exalting, exhilarating, excellent exercise to exhaust your excitement! I will have to punch you in the face for sure.

Be careful with your adjectives and hyperbole. If you are in fact unquestionably and masterfully relentless in your pursuit of the best and thus can GUARANTEE A PRODIGIOUS PERFORMANCE, I will hopefully figure that out by your RELEVANT FUCKING WORK EXPERIENCE. If, for example, you are a financial analyst applying for a job in my arts organisation, perhaps you could shut the fuck up about your dick and tell me WHY your skills apply rather than how fucking great you are.

If the person posting the job is kind (and foolish) enough to give you their actual name and email (because they’re a big sucky pants and can’t get in touch with the web admin to set up a temporary one) then SPELL THEIR NAME RIGHT. That said, it saves a huge amount of time if you call me Sasha or add an e to the end of my surname, because I don’t need to bother to read your resume. Don’t bother to check your own application? Why should I?

Using acronyms is optimistic. Whilst I am thrilled that you were tapping the SMERF market, you must understand that what I’m picturing is not what you’re going for. Probably.

Overlooking your staff is quite different to overseeing them. Heads up. (Ha! See what I did?)

Capitalising Every Word Is Pretty Creepy. And If You’re Going To Track Your Changes Please Be Very Sure I Can’t See Them. “I am diligent and punctual (lol! You? Punctual?)…” Good to know, thank you mystery editor.

That’s all folks. I would love to give you all a chance to show me how great you are in person, because I know that you (most of you anyway) have spent time working on your resume, going to school, doing courses, volunteering and that everyone deserves to work. I love my job and I love having the opportunity to learn, succeed, grow as a person and, on another level, buy shit that I like. I wish you the best in your job search and even if you’re not quite right for me this time (and with close to 350 applications the odds are long), you’ll be right for someone, for sure. Thank you for applying.

For those of you who couldn’t be bothered to tailor your resume, to address it to me or include the job title, let alone address the description I posted, you’re. doing. it. wrong.

And finally, for the resume that said “I successfully mastered flower arrangement techniques” I fucking love you. That is the absolute greatest line I’ve heard this week and it absolutely tickles me. Thank you.

So I have face leprosy. I don’t know what’s causing it but it’s up there with lulu lemon pants and people who don’t bring wine to parties (way to go Canada, who the fuck are you people?*) for being pretty gosh darn annoying. First it was just my forehead, then it moved down to my neck and throat and now my PERFECT SHELL LIKE EARS ARE TRYING TO KILL ME WITH ITCHINESS. It’s been over a week and I feel like that’s quite long enough, thank you very much.

I assume I’m now allergic to my own dreadfully good taste, as what else could be setting me off other than my constantly delightful surroundings? Is it that casually placed coffee table book on the Golden Age of Handbuilt Bicycles? The carefully arranged art? Or the vintage cigar boxes with jewellery in them? Sigh. Who could say? Probably a doctor. The one I went to however (who had me in and out in under 30 seconds FOR REAL, and who may or may not have gone to an actual medical school) claimed it was probably due to the change in weather. That diagnosis is the medical equivalent of scratching your crotch and nodding when someone asks how to get to the bus station… um, what? And whilst I am sort of intrigued by having a weather beacon face, I think (and I’m basically a doctor having watched the Biggest Loser on TV a bunch of times) it’s probably due to terrible diet, lack of exercise, busyness and a hint of stress. Shall work on that… tomorrow.

How are you? Are you well? Me? Oh, a little leprosy, nothing to worry about.

*Now, here’s the thing guys, you’re supposed to bring a bottle of wine (or whatever you drink) every time you come, not once every two years. Also, if there are two of you drinking wine, you should probably bring two bottles, or one really nice one. Here are some tips from the nice folks at the globe and mail.