Yule Logs

Well, well, well. What do we have here? It seems to me that someone hasn't been so good at keeping on top of this whole 'blog business'.


My deepest, hardest, longest apologies.
Really, I have no excuse. Except for maybe one.
I forgot my blog login information.


Whoops.


Login information- not a thing liked by me. 
Logs in formation - a thing liked by me.


Now you all might be wondering- WHAT THE HELL IS SHE TALKING ABOUT NOW?


Ever since I was a very small child (I was born 9 lbs 6 oz, so my mother's v-zone might argue that the term 'small' is relative), I've had a 'thing' for logs. Specifically, organized logs. And sometimes, of the fecal variety.


Fall 1989, Post-Naptime: Mother bear enters my bedroom only to become overwhelmed by the most foul of smells. Strangely, there is no poop in my diap'. Searching for the verdict, my mother looks to the window for a breath of fresh air. About to grab the row of toy trolls I left on my windowsill, Mama notices that the toys, are actually doodoo- my doodoo- arranged according to size, from largest to smallest. Like a routine police lineup, my dump was organized so meticulously, that my mother's previous assertion that I might just possibly be a baby genius, finally materialized before her very eyes. And between my tiny little hands.


While my knack for performance sh-art (shit art) began at an early age, it soon blossomed into more traditional art, like needlepoint and whittling. Or at least, pretending to whittle.


When I was applying for Jewish Summer Camp in Junior High (I'm pretty sure the only prerequisite began with a dollar sign, and ended with several digits), we had to list our hobbies. Mine, being the little shit I was/am/will always be, were: long walks along the North Saskatchewan River, and whittling wooden ducks. I remember my camp councellor telling me that he thought that what I wrote was so hilarious. Likewise, I thought it was hilarious when he used a piece of tinfoil and a pepper shaker to explain the anatomy of foreskin to our entire lunch table. Judaism 101.


Anyways, back to logs. The yule log in particular. 

My dad has always said that the best job on earth belongs to owner of the hand that pokes the  yule log fire on TV. He gets paid to maintain a fire. Like a firefighter, only more glorious.

A plethora of questions come to mind when I think of the 'Yule Log'.


Do yule logs only burn on channel 99?
Can yule logs exist in real life, or only on television?
Are yule log videos produced by the same people who make the 'Perfect Boyfriend' DVD's? You know, the one with the man who offers to do your dishes, go shopping, and compliment your figure - on a loop?


What the hell is a 'yule log' anyways? 


According to Wikipedia, "Yule or Yule-tide ("Yule-time") is a winter festival that was initially celebrated by the historical Germanic people as a pagan religious festival, though it was later absorbed into, and equated with, the Christian festival of Christmas. "


A log, according to Wikipedia, is "the mathematical operation that is the inverse of exponentiation, or the result of this operation".


Therefore, the "Yule Log" is a Historical German Mathematical Operation. Awkward...


Aside from poo logs, whittling, and yuleogys- chopped logs of wood arise a sense of nostalgia, not felt since I first learned how to feel, in March '06 when my fingerprints regrew. 


Piles of meticulously chopped wood awakens memories of my father's Pre-Y2K quest to stockpile enough wood to warm my family throughout the months of chaos that would ensue when all of the world's computers would reset back to zero. 


Piles of wood remind me of the thick, black, juicy wieners of which I've spent my summer days devouring, and my winter nights dreaming. With mustard.


Piles of dead and helpless trees, bring back the good ol' days of watching movies with my dad on Shabbos Eve, followed by 'Rita and Friends' with my brother, while devouring stale "Eat More" chocolate bars purchased on sale from London Drugs. 


But most of all logs remind of trees, which remind me of THIS.

Movember

Movember, the month formerly, and currently, and indefinitely, and globally, and legally known as November, is the newest 'Thing Liked By Me'. I like Movember because it is the month that differentiates the boys from the men. The mo' capable from the mo' challenged. The Mo’ ture, from the imMo’ture.


Movember, which takes place throughout the month of November, requires men (and well endowed women) (and ladyboys) (and young ethnic boys) to grow out their mustaches to raise awareness (please mo'nate mo'ney HERE) for prostate cancer research.


For those of you who were unaware of this initiative, you can now sleep soundly knowing that the recent influx of pervert staches is for a good cause.

I used to think that there just happened to be a lot of people who all of a sudden developed speech impediments when naming the month of November. Like when my little sister used to say “Mo” instead of “No”, or “I’m Foxy Pleoplatric, and I’m a whole lotta woman!” instead of “I’m Foxy Cleopatra”, or when I would ask my parents for “Pocklate covered Farnies” instead of Smarties.

I was initially skeptical of Movember, because it seemed to cross over into ‘hipster’ territory- a cause for which I have no support. Since its inception, the Hipster movement has brought mustaches to the forefront of men’s faces. They have become the quintessential uniform of hipsterocity (See also: plaid, corduroy, side parts, Siddhartha). Unfortunately, Hipsters* were being viewed as weapons of non-prescription glasses destruction, and had tarnished the mustache's good name. 

Look, all I’m saying is that people don’t kill people. People with mustaches kill people.

To add to my hesitation, I didn’t really get what the relevance of growing a mustache to raise awareness for prostate cancer was. Mustaches are not exclusive to men, while prostates are (See also: Menopause, Jewish women). I felt as if the ‘pink ribbon’ of prostate cancer should be something a little more unique to men- like, always being wrong. “Every time you’re wrong, donate $1 to prostate cancer research”.

The final reason why I had a hard time submitting to the Movember cause was because of what HGTV has told me time and time again. LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION. Your prostate can be located through your anus, not your upper lip**. If you really wanted to raise awareness of prostate cancer, wouldn’t you want to show off your prostate? Create a "Hole-In-One" day at the office? Hovember? I don't know. Something a little more related.

Thanks to my vivid imagination, I quickly realized why this would never work and decided to learn more about the initiative. Thanks to my darling hairy BF who was jumping onto the Movember bandwagon himself, I experienced a shift in my mo'tives.


 --------------------------------------------------------

Mustaches. The flavour savor of our father’s generation. The facial marking of history's greatest mass murderers saviors. The cleft palettes' best friend. Forever.


My boyfriend accepted Mo'sus into his life. But nobody said it would be easy for me.


Like a fluffy little caterpillar, the mustache slowly crept into my livelihood in the form of a 5 o'clock shadow on my boyfriends face.


By 6:00pm he had a full stache going, and for a second, I thought I was with another man. This excited me, until I realized that I was, in fact, with another man. I grabbed my belongings, embraced Stephan one last time, and rushed back home to see my boyfriend.


Phew. His mustache was still in its pre-pubescent phase.


But by the next morning it was a full out porn-stache. I didn't know if I should run for dear life or hop onto his bicycle and speed away. I chose the latter, until I realized that I actually jumped on his face, and was holding onto his handlebar mustache.


There was no escape. I had to look at the big picture.
Here's the bigger picture:
Notorious B.I.G. was wrong.


Mo' money, Less Problems.


Mo' money allows for mo' research. Mo' research leads to mo' trials. Mo' trials leads to mo' solutions. Mo' solutions leads to less problems. Mo' money, less problems. 


You'll probably all go out this week for breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee or late night drinks. And not one of you (except for you, you cheap mo'fo) will bat an eyelash when it comes time to pay the bill. Some of you might go shopping, some of you might catch a movie, some of you might buy a couple extra sweets at the grocery store.


I'm not forcing you to do anything, but don't do nothing.


If this isn't the cause for you, find a cause that is. People spend money so easily when they can reap immediate benefits so as to alleviate the guilt felt by swiping their credit card. I'm guilty of it myself. But once in a while, I try to do something . I try to do something that makes me feel like a decent human being.


And the best thing about it all,  is that the feeling lasts a whole lot longer than a 2 hour movie, a 40 minute meal, or a 60% off sale.


Suck on that, Biggy.


*The good news is that people from London, ON don't know what Hipsters are.
**Girls, we don’t have one of these. Don’t go looking for it because it will waste about 3 hours of your time, and will leave you feeling vulnerable, disappointed and alone.

Cuba

Before I begin, I should clarify that while Cuba has made my “Things Liked By Me” list, I probably won’t go back there anytime soon. That being said. I like Cuba.

I must admit that prior to my departure to the land of filth and rummy, I had my doubts about the quality of my impending trip. I kept being told that Cuba was such a terrible place to go to, so I turned off the TV, and stopped listening to Khadr.

What a downer that guy is.

The reviews on tripadvisor assured me that as long as I have low expectations and am willing to settle for mediocrity, than I will have a good time in Cuba. That was right up my alley, so I booked the trip.

As the plane descended in Cuba (as an aside, that sentence would be considered dirty talk to the BF), I was shocked by all the lush vegitation in the country. It was beautiful and green, like Kermit, but silent and deadly, like a fart.

We landed in Cuba and everyone clapped because we didn’t crash (I’ve since decided to applaude myself every time I make contact with anything, ever. This blog is taking very long to write because I clap between each letter). Everyone clapped again when the flight attendant announced that there was a very special passenger on board sitting in seat 11F by the name of Lavi who just celebrated his birthday and got his pilots liscence. What a little liar. But you can read about that HERE.

Cuba was hot as hell, but I figured that I better get used to it. Not Cuban heat. Hell heat.

Listen up: forget about Cuban cigars and cuban rum --- Cuban humour is where it’s at.

I should have known that Cubans were characters before I even landed in Varadero- I mean, Fidel pretty much just pulled a huge “NOT!” on the entire civilized world. “I’m an evil man- NOT!”.

Pretty much.

Cuban men compare everything in Cuba to ‘the womans’.

‘The womans’, oft referred to simply as ‘women’ in English speaking countries, can be used to describe nearly each and every element of Cuban life.

The Sunwing representative on the way to the hotel informed us that, “The weather is like the womans- bery unpredictable!”, while our tour guide to Havana exclaimed that, “The ocean is like the womans- beautiful, but dangerous!”.

This Havana tour guide was FUNNY. He asked us if we have ever seen the Cuban Ferarri. The one with the sunroof? Seating for two? One horsepower? Then he pointed to the horse drawn carriage.

He also joked with us about the guns he keeps in his trunk, and the cemetary of dead, poor-tipping tourists of his.

Joker.

He took us to see his friend on the side of a road who owned a bar with two caged monkeys who drink beer, smoke cigars and dance. He also drove us through torrential downpour without working windsheild wipers and zero visibility. He took his hands off the steering wheel to wave at the camera.

The all-inclusive component of the resort provided us with quite the social commentary. All-inclusive resorts allow those around you to open up about the most private, intimate details of their lives, all under the influence of Mr. Pina and Mrs. Colada. I say ‘others’ because I am not stupid enough to tell people the shit that they told me. 

Also, my dad told me not to talk to strangers, and if I have to, then I should lie.

I had an old redneck man tell me that he was really good at 'the sex'. I threw up in my mouth a little.

I overheard an Italian man telling a women to leave her husband.

A girl telling a married man she was abandoned at the age of 5.

A man telling nobody to fuck off. The same man apologizing to nobody for his foul language.

Some lady started showing pictures of her children to my BF. The pictures were of cats and dogs.

There wasn't much to do on the resort at night, except drink and go to the disco. I participated in some of the nightly entertainment on the resort. To have a better understanding of what the nightly entertainment entailed, think about the nightly entertainment that you would see on a cruise, or at a dinner theater, and then show it to a child, and have him reteach it to a group of non-English speaking semi-talented adults, while blindfolded and earplugged. In one of the nightly entertainment shows, I had to dance like a Spanish whore and dry hump the stage. Technically I didn't win, but it was rigged from the start when they put me up against a Colombian. 

Cuban food is comprised of ham, ham and ham. Each meal was one seasoning away from having taste. I spent a week eating solidified air, but I didn't get constipated until about day 4, so that's pretty good. I ate a beef burger which was definitely made out of prisoners of war, and spicy chili sauce that was actually a squirt of fake ketchup. I ate a lot of beans, and sung the tune in my head each and every time I ate them. Cuban ice cream was pretty good, but I think it's fake ice cream. Bread was delish.

We bought some fake-real-fake-real-fake-real Cuban cigars from our waiter who asked us if there was "anything" we needed. Now I just need a place and 3 free hours to smoke one of them. 

Off to find it. 

Adios!

P.S. The #1 reason that the Cuba trip made it to my "Things Liked By Me" list was because of who I got to spend it with. Duh.

Awkwardness

There is nothing quite like the feeling of sheer awkwardness. 

The sting of embarrassment you feel after you ask an un-pregnant woman when she is due. The shiver of uneasiness experienced when you overhear the heated dialogue between your coworker, and yesterday's dinner, in the bathroom stall to your left. The tingle of unrest that overcomes all that you have ever known to be true in life when you find out that your dad was that pregnant guy on Oprah.

Well, that’s a little awkward…

My boyfriend claims that he likes to put himself in awkward situations, just to see how it feels. I can only assume that this logic was how our relationship came into fruition.

I used to be a councellor at a Jewish summer camp growing up, and one year, a camper of mine thought it would be hilarious to pull down my pants in front of the whole camp, including the camp director. I'll admit, it was pretty awkward. But I learned to laugh about it in retrospect, because funny enough, her face bore a striking resemblance to my ass. Ass-face.

Sometimes I go out of my way to make others around me feel awkward. Sometimes- and I haven’t done it in a while, so thank you, Amy’s brain, for reminding me- but sometimes, I like to announce awkward things in the middle of the street when I am with my boyfriend. For example, “Is your asshole still bleeding?” That’s a good one, for sure, and it not only makes my target feel extremely awkward, but it explodes awkwardness on those in close enough proximity. If done effectively, you can even make yourself feel awkward. 

I keep a picture of my dead cat, Hymie, as the background on my flip phone. I don’t know what’s more awkward- the dead cat picture, or that fact that I still have a flip phone.

My dad likes to make my mom feel awkward by telling strangers that he reads gas meters for a living.

My mom likes to make my dad feel awkward by making him wear paisley dress shirts.

My brother once used his ninja mind control skills to trick my friend into thinking he was drunk and proceeding to projectile vomit at a wedding reception. So awkward for all witnesses.

My brother used to be a cheerleader in high-school. How embarrassing is that?

I once went on a date with a little person. It was awkward because he was actually in that awkward in-between height, so I didn’t know if I should treat him like a real man, or lift him up in a high-chair for our lunch date.  I chose the former, out of respect, but I couldn’t help but noticed that his feet dangled above the ground throughout the meal. So awkward. When we walked down the street together, I walked on the road, while he strolled along the curb, just to give him some vertical advantage. When I got hit by a parked car, I knew it wouldn't work.

The other day, while taking one of the most silently awkward cab rides home from downtown Toronto, a crazy lady leaped into the middle of the street in front of Mohammed, my taxi driver, and proceeded to diddle herself in the middle of rush hour traffic on Bathurst Street. Can you say AWKWARD?! I think I said something along the lines of “WHAT THE FUCK?”. Mo stayed silent, but I know what he was thinking. Infidel.

Awkwardness. Definitely a thing liked by me. And if you were smart, you would learn to enjoy it yourself. Take advantage of it. Out of all the uncomfortable feelings one can experience, awkwardness is definitely the best. I mean, who enjoys feeling 'Cramped'? 'Constipated'? 'Nervous'? 'Sweaty'?

Awkwardness is good because you can usually laugh about it later. First you cry, and then you laugh. And then maybe you cry again. But then once you get over yourself you’ll laugh again. And then you’ll write a blog about it. And nobody will care. And that will be sort of awkward.

Good Health

I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

In a failed attempt to get some much needed beauty sleep (so I've been told), I have decided instead to bloggle a little bloggity blog blog. I have a cold, which in my world, means I get to have a weeklong runny nose, and a 100 day cough. I am now in cough phase and it won't stop, and it hurts. And not in a 'hurts so good' type of way, either.

I have coughed so much that I have induced a migraine, and I don't have medicine in my apartment because apparently I know better than my mother. Fuck me.

I have also just been informed that I need to get on that OHIP bullshit ASAP. It seems that my good old pals back in in the province of AB no longer want to insure my ass.

I tried piling up pillows because I heard that elevating your chest helps you breath better, and allows for less coughing. Maybe that works if you wear a B cup, but all that elevating my chest has done is find me quality men.

Good health. How I love you.

Thanks to my germaphobe father Benneth* (*names have been changed to protect the integrity of my father- the most secretive of all men- in fact, he may not even be my father), I was never allowed to lick shopping cart handles growing up, nor was I allowed to hold onto escalator railings or push elevator buttons with my finger, because, after all, "You don't know who or what has touched that thing".

FACT:
When there was the big SARS outbreak, I got really excited when I saw the 'E' bulb in the Sears sign burnt out. Good timing on that one, Electricity. Good timing.

FACT:
I dressed up like Swine Flu last year for Halloween. And guess what? Karma's a bitch.
No, I didn't get swine flu, but I met some girl named Karma, and really, she was a huge bitch.

FACT:
When I lived in Israel for a year I used to order the "Health Sandwich" at Aroma Cafe.
Amy: What's in the Health Sandwich?
Israeli: Where you come from?
Amy: Canada
Israeli: I am a soldier. What is your number? Do you like fish?

Eventually he told me the sandwich contents and I was only a little disappointed to find out that his mispronounciation of 'Feta', meant that there would be no chunks of Arafat (See: Fatah) sprinkled on my meal.

I'm too tired to continue.
That's what she said.

My coughing has calmed, and in this peace and quiet I can hear my own thoughts, and that really scares me.

Good health. I'm talking physical health. Don't get me stated on mental health..

Good health. I love you and I can't wait to return to your warm embrace.
Please, Good Health, I beg of you.
Come back to me.
I won't talk shit about you anymore.
I promise.
I never meant to hurt you.
Your cousin Stealth meant nothing to me.
It was sneaky, I know.

Freestylin'

Bustin out rhymes 

Like they be going out of style,

Changing up the mix, 

Cuz you know it's been a while.

Freestyle rapping

Is a 'Thing Liked by Me'.

You better listen carefully,

These skills don't come for free.

I haven't rapped since, 

Back in 1986. 

When I lived inside the womb,

and my mom was playing tricks.

Just joking all my friends, 

My mama ain't like that.

My lyrics often tell a lie,

But let's get back on track.

Erupted from her tummy,

Couldn't stand it anymore!

Got myself a crib,

Made of gold, with nice decor.

I grew up pretty happy,

A result of being spoiled.

Wait- spelling error,

I meant to say 'soiled'.

Huggies, Pampers, Wet-Ones,

Didn't help me none.

Poop was always coming,

Out my bummy bum.

Then my lil' sis was born,

and I was rightly pissed.

What the hell you doing here?

Come and meet my fist.

Ran away from home,

Came back that afternoon.

Taught my rents a lesson,

Still got sent to my room.

Then one day I grew up tall,

And I turned into a lady.

Watched Breaker High,

Dry humped to Slim Shady.

Spent a year in Israel,

Got to know the culture.

Spent a year in Israel,

Israeli men are vultures.

I got an education,

And it was worth the price.

Now I'm living like a baller,

Eating pizza by the slice.

I could rhyme like this for hours,

I could rap with you all night.

But I've got a million things to do,

Catch you later, Aight?

Smoked Salmon on Pizza

Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of tasting the deliciousness that is 'Smoked Salmon Pizza'. As a result, it has landed on the highly sought after cyberspace that is "Things Liked By Me". Please note: The reason that I haven't been able to post a blog since the beginning of September, has little to do with my hectic schedule and knack for starting- but not finishing- projects, but rather because since the day my teeth sunk into that Salmony goodness, no words could sufficiently describe my experience. Until now. 

But before I continue, I would like to comment on how privileged I feel to be able to go to restaurants with my special someone, and choose theoretically revolting meals, for the two of us to share, potentially followed by a communal vomit. My experimentally open BF was not only a full supporter of my fishy selection, but also an active participant in the devouring of this delicacy. 

That's what she said. 

Anyways. Smoked Salmon Pizza. The successful union of Italian and Jew, not seen since the days of Sonny and Cher. For a moment, I feared that consuming the dish would impregnate me with a gender confused pizza-bagel, but my fear was quickly replaced by excitement. As the piping-hot pizza pie arrived at my table, my mouth salivated like one of Pavlov's little bitches.

Seeing that Eastern European Jewish delicacy disguised in a cloak of Italian deliciousness, brought back memories of Talmud Torah Elementary School lessons about Jews in the Old Country who had to practice the Torah in secrecy. 

The fishalicious topping was as close as I was going to get to a pepperoni pizza, so I grabbed a slice and took a bite.

MMMMMMMM. Can you taste it?

Now, I could go on to describe how yummy this felt in my tummy, but I think that this song does a much better job of expressing how I felt: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wfYIMyS_dI&ob=av2n 

How could I have lived for so long without having experienced this miracle? 

Salmon, and goat cheese and caramelized onions, oh my!

AND CAPERS! I forgot to mention the capers. The salt infused green balls of heaven exploded in my mouth, in a symphonic orchestra of "Holy Shit That's Good!".

When the pizza ended, so too did my life, but now that I am no longer in mourning over the death of my meal, I feel like I can finally share with you all this life changing experience, and a greater understanding of Things Liked By Me. 

FYI: My out of body experience took place at Ferro on St.Clair West

Blogging

In an attempt to alleviate some of the distress I place on those in my close network of confidants by never shutting my mouth, I have decided to start a blog.

Yes, you heard me right. I am a blogger. I can feel my loins shrivel up as I type this, and my urge to learn more about Dungeons & Dragons peak. I joke. Did you know that blogging is no longer exclusive to social retards? Even my boyfriend has taken up blogging, and he is neither social nor... Anyways.

The point of this blog isn't to attack those whom I see as morally inferior to myself. In fact, I haven't really decided what the point of this blog is. Mostly because all the blog titles I had in mind were already taken. I had to scrap my original idea of "Things I Enjoy Finding In My Bellybutton" for that reason. Oh well, my first blog idea might have been stolen, but the things I've found in that little button of mine will remain in my drawer forever.

'Things Liked By Me', believe it or not, will serve primarily as a place for me to talk about all of the things liked by me. [As an aside, my second blog idea, "Things Licked By Me", was also taken]. So join me on an exciting adventure of all the wonderful things that I like. To clarify, it will be exciting in the way that some people like to watch paint dry, not in The Magic Schoolbus adventure type of way. But if you have low expectations and are borderline senile, this blog should be right up your alley (or wherever you want to shove it).

Now that I have alienated most of my potential fans, followers, and friends, to those remaining- thanks for reading!

exes and ohes,
A-Dubb