Clean Slate

Clean slate.

Not to be confused with clean slits, which I am also a staunch advocate of. Ladies, clean your vaginas. Men, clean your Fleshlights.

Clean slates.

I cleaned mine recently. Bought an economy sized bottle of Windex from Costco, gave a little shpritz, and watched it do it's magic.

It's not that my slate was filthy, or unkempt, but it was full of things that didn't necessarily reflect the woman that I have worked so hard to become.

 

So, the first thing I did was sever ties with my pimp, Lorenzo, and gots myself an education.

I switched from a career in fashion, to the world of gaming, and naturally moved from high heel induced blisters to game controller hand blisters.

Jokes.

 

I don't actually play video games, and hand blisters are for peasants and monkey bar enthusiasts. 

Disclaimer: I blister easily.
So back to my shiny new slate, and the act of untarnishing it.

I've dusted it off, which according to the "10 Rules of Slatewashing" by Mel Gibson, includes taking a step back from not only professional relationships but also those more delicate and precious relationships. Relationships of the heart and genitals.

For the most part, I've worked hard and thick to keep this blog a little less deep and a lot more throat, so I'll save the New York City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty in the midst of the calm, the witty details for my goose-filled pillows as I cry myself to sleep each night while simultaneously running through practice makeout sessions with them.

Re-emerging into the world of Singledom is much like what I would imagine climbing head-first back into the birthing canal would be like. At first it seems counter productive, painful, against human nature and generally fucked up.

I'm still at that stage.

I'll keep you posted as to when I get to the point where I am fully naked and someone is feeding me from a tube and carrying me around everywhere. That will be my golden moment!!!

Slate cleaning.

An act oft touted by ingrates, Neo Nazis and addicts.

I ask not for forgiveness, sympathy or compassion for my past indignation. Everything I've done up until this point, has been worthwhile, invigorating and has contributed to making me the absolute gem of a woman I am today.

But I needed a cleaning.

The cleanse was of my life, and not, contrary to public demand, of my colon. I'm open to pouring myself out and refilling the vessel of my entirety with new and exciting challenges and adventures, but the idea of squirting luke warm water into my asshole seems more like a leg opening experience than an eye opening one.

Slate Cleaning.

Probably the last thing liked by me in 2012. I'm sorry I've been a shitty blogger. Perhaps 2013 will bring more content for your pure and unadulterated entertainment.

So as we approach the fake, non-Jewish New Year, take a look at your own slates. I'm not telling you to quit your jobs, dump your partners, and start wearing lipstick on your cheeks. 

That would be totally irresponsible.

Just dim the lights, find a handheld mirror, put on some nice music, and take off all your clothes. 

But you can leave your hat on.

Centipedes.

Centipedes.

Why, you might ask, am I writing a blog about centipedes, when it is supposed to be a blog about things that I like? Well, because it's my blog and I can write whatever the hell I want.

Centipedes.

I am going to base this blog purely off of my own knowledge of the species, because I am too scared to Google the beast and see the images that pop up. To anyone who has ever googled any type of STD or fungal infection, this ignites equivalent cringes. I typically keep safe-search set to "OFF" because I like to live on the edge, and look at naked people.

Centipedes.

Most hideous creature, ever.

Centipedes.

My hate/loathe relationship with the fuckers started when I was just a young girl living in the Prairies. (Which is ironic, because my childhood centipede interactions actually allowed me to master the art of prairie doggin'.) Three of the creatures emerged from the gates of hell and turned up in the computer room* of our house, making my worst nightmare, a horrible, sickening reality.

My parents had left the house for their usual Saturday night date (this consisted of a movie and dinner, or more often, just smoking in the garage with the windows up), when my brother, my arch nemesis at the time, decided to chase me down the stairs with the animals in hand.

I locked myself in the bathroom, only to see the centi-legged cretins slither their way under the door to eat me alive. Yes, they had taken bath salts and were going to eat my face. On the exit ramp to Whitemud Drive. Southbound.

Standing on the toilet, I leaned forward, opened the door, and leaped out of the bathroom using all of my elementary school long-jump might. Into the hallway I went, and straight out the front door.

Straight out the front door, in the dead of winter (it was probably May) into the snow, with bare feet, in my Star Trek jammies.

In retrospect, I should hate my brother, (in retro-retrospect, I can't believe I had Star Trek pajamas and didn't turn out to be a gamer. That sucks.) and deep down I do and always will, but when he used to chase me with his farts trapped in film cannisters, I got over it. I'm not perpetually fearful of film cannisters (also because when was the last time you saw a film cannister?), but I am of centipedes, so what gives?

My life, beyond that point, was relatively centipede-free. I frolicked through young adulthood in a pede-less field of dreams with not a worry on my mind. Plus, I had other things to deal with, like taking pictures of Ryan Gosling on the television on Breaker High, gossiping and finding out if God really was there for Margaret.

Centipedes.

They reemerged into my life, recently, since my move out east. I've realized that Torontonians aren't assholes, they're just tough because they've grown up with centipedes. Natural born killers. The BF, who get's double props for growing up in Israel where there are a host of other pests trying to take their land, can kill those mofos like a ninja. They have no chance.

Me?

In my last residence, I slept with my cowboy boots next to my bed and a bottle of super hold hairspray on my night table.

I would shoot first, to slow them down, then stomp, then drag.

Logic: If I reached for them with a kleenex, they would leap onto my face and climb into my eyes, obviously.

My next plan was to secure the perimeter, so I sprinkled Borax around the baseboards of my apartment, and put tissue paper around my bed so that the crinkling of the perps would wake me up. It worked, once, and on the boots went, and they were made for more than just walking. They were death machines.

I still have run-ins with centipedes on a somewhat regular basis, but like I mentioned earlier, I have a protector who battles with them like a scene out of 300 (I make him do it topless, with canola oil slathered on his body, to make it more dramatic and keep things exciting). They keep me on my toes, or off them, since when I see them, I usually end up levitating somehow, but at the end of the day, I have to be grateful to live in a house, and have shelter, and blah blah blah, it could be worse, blah.

CENTIPEDES: If you are reading this, I hate you. Leave me alone. I know that you are sort of good because you kill other nasty ass things, but you are so NASTY. You have legs growing out of your legs. You are too fast.You jiggle even after I've sprayed you with insect killer. You have too many babies. You pain me.

*Back in the early '90s, the fact that you had a computer in a room, warranted the room to be called the 'computer room'. Before that, it was called the 'games room' because it housed a lot of dusty games that nobody in my family ever played with. Before that, it was called the panic room because of the two secret rooms within the room that were camouflaged by the wood panelling. My mother continued to call it the panic room until we got new carpets put in. Also, there are scary faces in the grains of the wood panelling of that room, so I am scared to be in there alone- thanks a lot, Unsolved Mysteries.

Braille.

Braille.

Can't live with it, can't live without it.

I tried learning it once- not because I wanted to be able to actually read Braille- but because as a teenager, I was pretty convinced that my acne patterns were trying to tell me something.

Lo and behold, they were not, but I'm pretty sure that Kabbalah was founded on similar principles, so it was worth a try.

One of the hottest trends right now in the home décor world, is decorating your walls with Braille so that you can essentially write whatever you want, without anyone really knowing what it says. But this only works in a wireless-less world, because in this day-and-age, house guests will turn on their iPhones without batting an eyelash, only to decipher that your entranceway reads "Redrum" and the axe is missing from the woodpile.

On a less morbid note, couples 'in-the-know' are opting to Braille sexual phrases in their bedroom unbeknownst to their innocent children. Of course, these are the parents that are practising co-sleeping and don't want their 8-year-old piggy in the middle hearing anything inappropz.

Speaking of young ones, Braille was actually invented by a fifteen-year-old French boy, named Louise Braille. Rumour has it that he was caressing the pages of a dirty magazine, when the idea popped up.


People who read Braille must have such sensitive fingers!


They aren't born that way, they have to train them to be sensitive. This is done by making them listen to Louis Armstrong, and read Tuesday's With Morrie. Once they pass the sensitivity test conducted by a team of Menstruating Scientists, they receive their first Braille challenge, which is to read an egg carton.


Braille placement confuses me.


Why does Ikea have Braille? How does that even make sense if it's impossible to find your way around the place with perfect vision and a working knowledge of the Swedish language? Maybe Braille makes it easier? Maybe the Braille says "Go straight, do not pay attention to the new slipcovers, do not get distracted by that PAX wardrobe system, it's always been here, it is not new, just in a new spot, what you need and came here for is at the end of the hallway, to the right, next to the table that doubles as a chair and a changing table for your baby"?


When the time comes, I am going to submit my resume in Braille and when the perplexed hiring manager gets to the bottom of the page, it will read: "The best business decision you can make is to surround yourself with people who are smarter than you". 


I will write it in a sans serif typeface, because it's more legible than serif, or dots.

Until then, ::..:::...:..:...:::. !!!

Israel.

I wrote this immediately following Israel's Independence Day but never actually uploaded it. So here it is. Ok? Does that sit well with you? Is this a resurrection of my blog, you might ask? Maybe. But probably not. I might actually turn this into a design blog. But probably not.

---

Israel.

Most definitely, a thing liked by me.

As she enters into her sixty-fourth year of official existance, I cannot help but gloat about what a woman she has become. Lush, lavish, and a devil in the bedroom, Israel certainly is a force to be reckoned with.

Despite Isreal's obvious flaws (stone washed denim, peanut butter flavored treats, yet no actual peanut butter spread anywhere to be found, apartheid state, etc...) I like Israel. A lot.

The love affair started officially in grade 9, when I was shipped off to Israel in the midst of the Second Intifada, to find Arafat. Unfortunately, I couldn't find him, but I did find a snazzy fake belly button ring at the shuk, and a shirt that says "Go Fuck Yourself" upside down.

That class trip to Israel erupted a volcano of longing deep inside of my sphincter. I soon realized it was, in fact, a digestive disruption from two weeks of ingesting nothing but falafel, but once that passed, and my movements were back to normal, I still felt a need to return to the Holyland as soon as possible.

Luckily, my sister was on the brink of womanhood, which meant bat-mitzvah season, which meant the possibility of having the celebration in Israel. Possibility quickly turned into reality, and before we knew it, we were on top of Massada, in one of the oldest synogogues in the world, listening to my sister and a handful of relative strangers join us in bitter adulthood.

Alhough my father nearly sold me to Hubbly-Bubbly in the Jerusalem Market for goats on that trip, once again, Israel left it's impact on me. [To be fair, I was a highly irresistable 17-year-old Jewish girl with full braided extensions in my hair.]

After taking a third trip to the Issy, I decided to go back for a year after highschool to 'discover myself' (or whatever the kids say these days) with something other than a mirror and the internet.

I lived for several months on a couple of different Kibbutzim (aka socialist communal farms that are actually multi-bagillion dollar enterprises) near Tel-Aviv and Eilat, and realized that the kibbutz lifestyle wasn't my bag. I told my Kibbutz husband and wives that it was fun while it lasted, packed up my belongings, said a final goodbye to the cows and the jackasses, and left.

Since then, I've travelled a few more times to the land of milk and honey, and upon each return, I always wondered how Israel could have so many gays, but Iran could have none. Too bizzare.

When will I return again? That, I cannot answer. One day soon, I hope, and when I do, I will visit my love children from year's past. 

As I pound away at my keyboard, fingers prancing like a goddamned puppeteer, all I can think of is how a place so physically distant, could feel so intrinsically close. It's sort of like a fart in the wind, I guess.