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.

Heat

Don't patronize me for not being a more frequent blogger.

You see, I had a terrible incident a few months back which left the use of my fingers at only 46% of their normal, rambunctious capacity.

I was chopping Jalapenos, as I typically do at breakfast time, when all of a sudden, my hands un-literally caught on fire. True Story. It's called "Jalapeno Hands" and it happened to gtrekker2003 and thousands of other poor, unfortunate e-souls. I was advised by fellow hacker dylafleur to wash my hands with bleach, and avoid touching my private areas and eyes. 1 out of 2 is good enough.

Needless to say I have an immaculately clean flytrap.

Short story long, I couldn't type until my fingers finally regained consciousness this morning.
-----------------------------------

Moving along from one type of heat, to another, Toronto is experiencing something fierce, and in turn, I have come to realize that my teeth are in fact capable of sweating. My laundry basket smells like foot and hot dog burps that have begun to rot and grow skin tags.

I have tried numerous times to turn myself inside-out, but I only end up doing something that resembles hardcore porn. The first time it was fun, but now I'm just sore.

Homemade air conditioners DO NOT WORK. The only thing that gets cold in the room is my boyfriend's dead body after I throw the homemade unit at his face. Just kidding. It's too hot to exert myself like that. I just thought about it.

Yesterday we got a real AC unit. I was so excited I wanted to eat the whole thing. That's what I do when I am excited. It's works OK, but I will settle for half decent. Taste of my own medicine. What?

Anyways, it's hot as hell, but since I'll never go there, I figure I might as well appreciate it as much as possible- especially now that I am at my prime.

I'm not going to complain, because complaining is for pussies. My cat used to always complain. That's why he ended up in my backyard. Just kidding. Dad, I'm sorry to bring that up. He's fluffy in heaven now.

The point of this note is to say that I realize it is hot (only because Facebook status' informed me of the heat- otherwise I would have had no clue) but enjoy it.

It is so hideously cold for most of the year. Enjoy the sweaty armpit in your mouth on the subway. Enjoy the heat-induced headaches, and the lack of sexual activity because the thought of skin touching your body makes you want to vomit.

Enjoy it, because it won't last. Really. Give it a month.

:(

Soul Searching

Please, baby.
Give me one more chance.
Let me explain.
------------------------
The New Year came and went just like the cheap whore I knew it would be.

Something happened back in January, that nobody speaks of anymore, but will forever leave a burning flesh wound in my soul. A patch of burning soul. Soul patch. Flavour saver, if you will.

"I've got a name for that, but I'll tell you it later"--- Dad (to all male friends, and my female friend with a beard)

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

Back to my bullshit excuse for not blogging:

It was a calm, January evening.
I go onto Facebook and everyone is talking horoscopes.
"Losers", thought I.
But it kept happening. People posting status' like "I'm a Leo!", or "Bye Bye Scorpio".
I thought that it all had something to do with Jersey Shore, but I was wrong.
One quick online search and it all became clear. I have been living a lie.

One day, I'm a wild, erratic, unpredictable, extroverted GEMINI, and the next day, I'm a TAURUS.

I was scared, naked and alone. Worse than the time I was naked, alone and scared, because that happens at least 2/3 of my shower times (1/3 of the time I wear my Burkini).

I googled Taurus to learn more about my future.

I quickly learned that it would never work. I could never be a Taurus.
For starters, I'm a Jew, and Ford hated Jews.

As a lifelong horoscope denier, it made me feel awkward to be taking any of this nonsense seriously, but I couldn't help myself. The planet shifts a little, and I'm expected to believe that all of a sudden I'm supposed to be a patient, warmhearted, pleasurable Taurus?

In an attempt to revolt against this absurdity, I locked myself in my room and grew my fingernails really long and curly.

After about a month of rocking back and forward, and making-out with the inside of my elbow, I decided to give in to the power at be, and become a Taurus.

I went to as many doctors as possible, to be their patient. I poured scolding hot water on my chest to warm my heart. I pleasured strangers on the subway.

Patience- check.
Warmhearted- check.
Pleasurable- check.

All these Taurusy tasks, but nothing worked.

I was a Gemini prancing around as a Taurus, and it was more uncomfortable than sand in your bathing suit. And crabs. And pulling off a real-life 'Weekend at Bernies'.

My hiatus from blogging was a direct consequence of my pursuit of taurusnicity. It wasn't until I fell on my elbow and hit my funny-bone, that I realized I still had it in me, and that no amount of earth's tilt can change that.

I'm sorry for leaving you all blogless for so long.

I hope I don't do it again, but now that I am a Taurus, I am resentful, self-indulgent and greedy, so you can never be too sure!

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.