Lactivists bug me -- especially the guy ones

It's been a while since I visited the Mummy Blogsphere to see what crazy things they're up to over there, but boy was I not disappointed.

It's the Breastfeeding Wars Chapter XCVMMIIV. Apparently, Facebook has banned photos of breastfeeding moms as obscene, and then, at roughly the same time that the ban took effect, Bill Maher made some breastfeeding jokes, and, well, next thing you know it was a perfect storm of National Latch-ons and Great Virtual Breast Fests.

I think I have officially reached the point where I find lactivists as annoying and possibly more so than the people who think breastfeeding is gross. But the weirdest of them all have to be the men who make breastfeeding one of their big issues, guys like Patrick, for example, who's hanging out in the comments at the League of Maternal Justice Breast Fest page wondering if he can join in even though his wife formula fed their kids.

Does anyone want to hazard a guess as to what that's all about?

Chinese Toy Recall

A friend sent me this photo, which takes second prize in the tasteless photo joke category. This one's still number one.

UPDATED: Crap People Don't Tell You About Aging

UPDATE: Indeed it's true. Post-menopausal women can often suffer from something called labial fusions and/or adhesions. Due to lower estrogen levels and lack of lubrication, the labia can actually fuse. One way to ensure this doesn't happen, apparently, is to actually have sex. I would post a link, but honestly, the pictures are enough to cause violent projectile vomiting and I don't want to be responsible for that. If you must know more, Google "labial fusions" and/or "labial adhesions." Proudly, if you Google "sealed up vagina elderly women" you will get RTK! At the forefront once again, this time on the sealed-up old lady vagina front! (p.s. Check out the labels on this post -- oh how I laughed!)

ORIGINAL POST:

I've already blogged ad nauseum about unexpected hairiness -- how come no one told this blue-eyed blonde that her peach fuzz would turn to something significantly more sinister and that the odd WHISKER would emerge??!!??! -- but here are some alarming symptoms of aging:

1. Grey hair is a totally different texture than your other hair. I have silver at my temples but they blend in with the blonde so they don't bother me so much. But those wiry ones that show up around your part? They are kinky, wiry and wild, which is the total opposite of my own hair, which is soft, fine and straight. What are you supposed to do about the wild and crazy invaders? What product manages both?

2. Your legs don't just get veiny -- SO DO YOUR ARMS! I am noticing lately that my relatively skinny arms are starting to resemble Angelina Jolie's in the tendony, veiny department. This is purely age-related. I don't have varicose veins in my legs -- YET -- but I seem to be developing them in my arms!

3. If work and kids prevent you from working out for even a week, you will immediately start to get flabby where you were firm. You cannot stop working out once you get into your 40s if you want to stay firm and trim. Less than a week and I can feel the jiggle. It is a real pisser.

4. Your knockers change. At least mine have. I weigh 20 pounds less than I did two years ago, but the boobs are more voluminous. I started out with small ones. I think it might go the other way if you started out with big ones -- they shrink as you get older. Either way, I find it fascinating.

5. WARNING: This last one is not for the faint of heart. But my elderly mother's vagina has sealed up. That's right. Sealed. She had a hysterectomy 20 years ago and hasn't had intercourse in 27 years and apparently, if you don't use it, it just basically dries up as she discovered when a doctor recently attempted to give her an internal. As I type this, I am vomiting a little in my own mouth. But let this be a lesson to us all, ladies -- be sure to use it, even if it's with a battery-operated device.

That is all for now.

Advice to the Lovelorn: Weeping on a Third Date is Probably Not a Good Sign

Yes, that's right. Out with the hot Colombian at a nice restaurant tonight and sure enough, while trying to explain to him why I needed to move slow, I burst into tears and couldn't stop crying.

Wow. Now that's a great impression to make on a suitor.

I was out of sorts because I'd been to a cocktail reception earlier in the night and run into one of my sister-in-law's best friends who gave me a hug and told me how sorry and sad she was about the breakup. I hadn't seen her since before the split and managed to pull myself together and not cry right in front of her but excused myself, went to the ladies room and cried there.

And I thought I was doing OK on the crying front.

So I left that reception, went to meet the Colombian and admittedly I was a bit shaky. Add in a couple of glasses of wine and before long I was trying to explain to the amorous hottie how afraid I was to move too fast. I started talking about how heartbroken I was, and sure enough ... waterworks right in the middle of the restaurant, to the point where surrounding tables were staring as I buried my face in my linen napkin.

I guess you don't really need much more of a sign that you shouldn't really be dating anyone than to burst into tears about your ex-husband on your third date with someone else.

Rico Sauve was phenomenal, however. He came around and sat next to me and put his arms around me and said the following (please read this in a languid Spanish accent -- it's crucial):

"Let me tell you something, Jacy-ie (adorable language barrier -- for some reason he thought my name ended with an extra -ee sound at the end until I pointed out to him tonight that he was over ee-ing.) You will never face any pressure from me. I may be younger than you, Jacy-ie, but I can assure you that I am a hundred times more mature than any 43-year-old you know. I am totally sympathetic to your situation and I will not push you or rush you or pressure you in any way. I will talk to you and I will be your friend and perhaps every now and again you will kiss me when I drive you home, Jacy-ie. But you WILL get past this, it WILL get better, but it will happen at your pace, not mine or anyone else's."

It almost made me cry harder.

So I guess he gets a fourth date. And I will try not to burst into tears during that one.

So About The Hot Colombian

For some reason, I cannot help but refer to him in my mind as Rico Suave, so that will be his nickname. Even though there is no jewellery and he doesn't seem to be a player.

So anyway, I meet Rico Suave a couple of weeks ago. He is 31, born in Colombia, raised in Montreal, educated at McGill, speaks four languages fluently -- Spanish, English, French and Italian -- and two semi-fluently (German and Mandarin). He has lived in Europe and Asia, is a chemical engineer, has his MBA, works in international investments at a major bank, has a beautiful Spanish accent, dresses like an Armani model, wears unbelievable shoes, passionately admires my shoes, drives a sweet BMW SUV thingy, is funny, charming, short -- when I wear heels, we are eye to eye -- but basically looks quite a lot like Kelly Ripa's husband (see above). What he lacks in height he makes up for in charm and balls. To summarize, he is a total hot tamale who is directing his hot tamale-ness my way. And I am 43!

But it can't be a good sign that when I spend time with him, these are my dominant thoughts:

1. "Who's paying him to woo me this way?"

2. "What a lovely boy! His mother sure raised him nicely."

3. "If my daughter brought him home in a couple of years and said he was her boyfriend, I would be so delighted and would make him paella."

4. "What the f**k? Get me out of here! I want my old life back! I miss my husband! Where is my husband?"

The other night on our second date he really made his move in an elevator and we necked for about 20 minutes as he kept mischieviously pushing some button that stopped it from moving. And the whole time, I was in complete and utter panic. Could not get into the moment at all. Just could not let go and accept the fact that there was a total hot tamale kissing me at that moment, a hot tamale who young hot girls checked out when we walked down the street, so what the hell is going on right now?? Is he kissing me??!!?? And telling me how beautiful I am in Spanish??!!??! And running his long tanned Colombian fingers through my hair??? And nuzzling my pasty white middle-aged neck???

A group of my friends met him -- the tough crowd -- and think he is the sweetest thing they've ever seen and want me to want him. I actually think they might like him now more than me after he charmed the hell out of all of them the other night; even the yappy know-it-all thug was swooning and enthralled. And I want me to want him too. But I just don't -- I am too scared.

He is texting me sweet nothings all the time in Spanish (a bedtime dispatch from the other night: 'Buenos noches, hot croqueta') and wooing me in ways I haven't been wooed in awhile. It is so Rico Suave.

That doesn't stop me from feeling freaked out beyond belief.

I'm Rico Suave-ing out!

SPOILER ALERT: Lives of Others

Do not -- repeat not -- read one line farther if you plan to see Lives of Others and can't bear to know the ending of a movie before you see it. While I will not divulge the ending, I will go so far as to say that, in the grand scheme of things, it was a happy ending. Virtue was rewarded. And, yes, I wept tears of gratitude.

However despite the tears, the ending kind of bugged me. It seemed too pat so I went online to find out if anyone agreed with me.

Over at Rotten Toatoes, Lives of Others scored a juicy 93% freshness rating on the Critics Tomatometer and an even higher 95% with the Cream of the Crop critics. I scrolled down to find the lone voice in the wind and there it was, Jan Stuart of Newsday: "Rich in authentic period atmosphere and performances, but sabotages its best efforts with a sentimental payoff." Alas, link rot had set in so I couldn't read the entire review.

Instead I googled up "Lives of Others ending" and found this thread where the consensus seems to be that the happy ending was cathartic and uplifting as opposed to unrealistic.

Given that I still haven't decided whether or not, I'm okay with the happy ending, I'm not about to take anyone to task for heartily endorsing it.

What I did find amusing about the comments though were the people that loved the ending but went to great pains to point out that it wasn't a Hollywood happy ending. For example, Mr. Mean wrote: "Wonderfully tense movie with the sort of ending from which Hollywood should strive to learn." And Susan Cavill added: "I am horrified to think that Hollywood is doing a remake as they will probably destroy the ending which to me was very true to the rest of the movie - a Hollywood ending would be false."

Now, colour me puzzled but if ever a dark German film had a Hollywood ending, this would be the one. Honestly what to do Mr. Mean and Susan Cavill think a Hollywood ending is. Winning the lottery and driving in a convertible to Malibu?

It all reminds me of a friend of mine years ago who would never go to "Hollywood movies." And then one day, someone twisted her arm into going to see Sea of Love, which was a passable thriller, most notable for the tightness of Ellen Barkin's outfits. "You know," said my friend afterwards, "it was really good."

And all I could think was, "You need to get out more and see some of the better Hollywood movies."

Almost 20 years later, when I saw that Ellen Barkin's clothes are still sprayed on in Ocean's 13 which is an almost perfect popcorn flick, I wondered about my friend, with whom I eventually lost touch, and whether she's still so silly about the merits of Hollywood movies. Or whether she's finally surrendered to the charms of George Clooney and Brad Pitt and the happy ending.

My dog has more Facebook friends than me

As I've mentioned before, my dog Bridget has a rather bad habit of attacking feet. It's mostly under control but occasionally, she'll just start biting a random stranger's feet. She did this to a new dog walker at the park this morning.

While I was apologizing profusely, another dog walker chimed in: "Yes. I read on her Facebook profile that biting feet was one of her favourite pastimes. "

That's right, Bridget has a dog book profile created by my daughter several months ago but evidently not actively maintained since then.

"Whiskey's sent her a friend request," said the other dog walker, whose name I didn't know and who probably doesn't know my name even though her dog had sent mine a Facebook friend request and our animals routinely share sticks.

Since I didn't want to get a reputation as the kind of person whose dog ignores Facebook friend requests, when I got home, I immediately fired up the computer and accepted Whiskey's friend request on Bridget's behalf.

Lo and behold, I also discovered that, Bridget had four more friend requests.

Two were from Scottish Terriers, Morag in Melbourne, and Shnaps in Moscow. That made sense given that they have their breed in common. But I was a little disconcerted by the seemingly random friend requests from Chingiz, a Moscow boxer, and Torri, a Moscow Saint Bernard. I will likely ignore their friend requests for security reasons.

Finally, I checked out Whiskey's friends and browsed the other dogs who had the same favourite parks as Bridget. Then I sent a human friend, who's trying to decide whether she needs Facebook, the profile of a Dachshund she knows, who just happened to be one of Whiskey's friends.

Talk about social networking -- and time wasting.

Sex: Long-Term Relationship Killer?

Last night I was out with a group of friends and a young hot 31-year-old Colombian-born investment banker who speaks four languages and totally wants to be my boyfriend for reasons I simply cannot understand (more on him at a later date as I try to figure him out and why he isn't feverishly pursuing someone who looks like Scarlett Johansson instead of me). One of the people out with us was the aforementioned friend I am trying to turf slowly but surely. She was there with her formerly married boyfriend -- he left his wife and kids and moved from another city, took a job here and is now living with her.

And oh boy. The guy's wife and kids are apparently still reeling, and she is already openly bitter about his concern for them. He is not ALLOWED to refer to the mother of his children, and his spouse for 20 years, as his wife. And he faces a tirade when he worries about his kids, as in: "Plenty of children survive divorce. Why are yours any different?" Yes, that's going to work out well ..... she is totally anti-children .... another reason why the friendship is getting icy.

Anyway, we got into a discussion about why so many relationships don't work out. And I said I honestly am beginning to believe that people start banging too soon. And it clouds everything else -- if you haven't been getting it regularly for a while, you are so grateful that you actually start building a relationship around the sex. You ignore all the warning signs, you get caught up in feeling desire and desired and adoration and adored, and you try to build a life and a relationship around your good sex life, and what sex life isn't good in the very beginning? And so it is bound to fail if much of it is based on the sex.

The almost former friend then got very nervous. She started hectoring her boyfriend -- who was already heard earlier in the night going on in a too-much-information moment about how kinky their sex life is -- about how that's just what they did. They had sex and started to build a relationship around the sex. And it became clear to me that this is exactly what's going on with them. He was in a sterile marriage, as all marriages become at times, and this woman preyed on him, introduced him to some wild sex, and he has ignored her open disdain for his children, his wife and his true character. Eventually, the sex won't be so frequent and kinky, and he is going to see plainly what the woman is all about. And he might have avoided the whole mess by getting to see what she was all about BEFORE he started having sex with her.

Doomed, I say.

I have done it myself too many times and I won't do it again. My young hottie suitor has got a long, long wait ahead of him, if I ever get to the point where I want to go beyond necking. Which I may not. And I will be OK with that.

P.S. The wonderful Dale of the fabulous blog The Passion of the Dale interviewed me this weekend. I am sure all of you have heard just about enough from me, so feel free to ignore this completely. Don't ignore Dale's blog, though -- it's great!

Have I Mentioned That I Love Ryan Adams?

Last night Fritzi and I went to the Ryan Adams concert at Massey Hall.

What a fabulous show. While I can't deny being disappointed he didn't play some of his bigger hits -- I would have killed for "Come Pick Me Up," "English Girls Approximately" or "La Cienega Just Smiled," for example -- I couldn't get over what a fantastic musician he is and how stunning his voice is live.

As Fritzi put it: "His voice makes you want to take your clothes off." And how.

The show was very mellow and he played mostly his most hurting, melancholy songs from his last three or four albums, including "Games" (one of my favourite killer Ryan Adams tunes with the opening lyric that causes me to tear up -- "You're like a fire on my saddest day, burning my house to the ground"), "Please Do Not Let Me Go," "Dear John" and "Magnolia Mountain." "Beautiful Sorta" was one of the only truly peppy numbers.

I can't say it wasn't painful at times -- my ex and I both loved Ryan Adams, discovered him together and listened to him all the time, so many of those songs were laden with memories both sweet and excruciating.

But he was stone-cold sober for the first time in years, has kicked the heroin, and was hilariously funny, almost oddly so since the songs he was singing were so sad and poetic. The band was extremely tight, and during one song, they just stopped playing their instruments and the entire band harmonized, and it was breathtaking. Also a gorgeous stage: a forty-foot-high blanket of stars behind them, with a huge disco ball reflecting the starlight.

He can sing like I couldn't believe, is a great guitarist and a beautiful piano player. In short, I loved him before, and if possible, I love him even more now.

Updated: Bird shit happens -- or is it just me?

This morning, I felt something go splotch on my head while my daughter and I were at the park with the dog. "Hey," I asked my daughter, "did a bird just shit on my head?"

"OMG, yes!!! Ew, ew, ew!!!" she exclaimed.

"Here," I said as I handed her an (unused) dog poop bag. "Please do some damage control."

That got me thinking that it's been a long time since a bird shat on my head although in my twenties it happened so regularly that I felt as if I had been personally targeted by pigeons.

So here's the burning RTK question of the day: Roughly how many times have you been hit by bird poop? And have you ever felt that a dispoportionately high share of bird poop is hitting you?
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Update: Well, according to the non-statistical sampling in the comments, I've definitely taken more than my fair share of bird shit hits.

And no, I haven't done anything to deserve it. At least, I haven't done anything to birds. It's possible, I suppose, that it could be payback for some non-bird related wrong doing in my past. Or maybe I was cat in a previous life and it's karma. Or I could just be some freakish statistical anomaly.

Whatever it is, some initial research on the internet does not, surprisingly, reveal anyone else plagued by this particular problem. Like Fritzi, there are people who believe their cars are being targeted. And then here are a lot of unauthoritive rumours about there being an ancient Chinese proverb that it's actually lucky if a bird craps on your head. But I am deeply sceptical that the Chinese would endorse such a dubious everything-happens-for-a-reason concept.

Getting shit on by a bird is not lucky no matter what the spin doctors say. But I suppose on the scale of unlucky things that can happen to you in life, it's pretty minor so I'll just surrender myself to fate.

Why do things like this happen?

Yesterday I was involved in a legal hearing,

It was a ridiculous situation which could easily have been resolved if The Other Party had ever listened to a word I said instead of treating me like an evil half-wit.

Anyway, we ended up before the magistrate or adjudicator or whatever you call her and The Other Party said there was no contract. And I, acting as my own counsel, said there was a contract and pulled it out of my bag in a Legally Blonde moment. Both The Other Party and her attorney were flabbergasted, but she conceded that the contract was indeed written in her own hand.

I was completely taken aback that she had forgotten the existence of this contract because in some of the discussions – both written and oral -- we’d had about this dispute, I had said stuff like, “The contract says…” “Your wish doesn’t simply invalidate a contract…” etc.

She either paid so little attention to my point of view that she simply ignored these statements, as just about everything else I ever said, or thought I was so silly I must have been imagining the existence of a contract.

Needless to say, it did not end up working in her favour and she did not get the results she had hoped for as a result of initiating this legal process. And she also ended up having to pay a lawyer on top of it.

The crazy thing about this whole situation is that it could have been avoided if she hadn’t insisted on casting me in the role of impossible villainess. I had thought many times of approaching her and asking to try and resolve things but I knew she would just scream at me that I was a bad, unreasonable person or some such variant, and to go away.

The worst thing about this whole experience, however, is that we actually used to be very good friends.

Insert pithy proverb or quotation summing up situation here.

Sometimes Going to the Spa Makes Me Feel Like a John

I have two regular massage places. One directly across the street from my office, and the other a block away in case the first spa is booked and I am in desperate need due to my constantly messed-up concrete neck.

I must say I prefer the one right across the street because of, I admit, the eastern European quotient. I don't know what goes on in eastern European countries, but those people know how to wax, to give good facial and to give excellent massage. The place up the street? Too many hippies, and not a Romanian among them.

But I must admit I am starting to feel like a john going to the brothel. Because I don't even have anyone in particular that I like anymore. If I ask who's available, and it's a name like Oksana, Mila, Boris, Leopold or Svetlana, I'm in. I get giddy imagining the delights that await me when those eastern European hands get to work.

Today I had a new girl, a husky woman named Katrina. At first she annoyed me with too much talking. But she did work some amazing pressure points in my chest, just above my knockers and under my arms. When the time came for me to flip over, she put her two big hands on either hip, tsked-tsked-tsked that my hips were out of alignment and then spiritedly shook me around in a way that ... well ... was slightly arousing. I haven't had someone enthusiastically coming at me from behind with their hands on my hips since ... well ... almost eight months.

So today, more than any other day, I feel like a massage parlour john. I'm going back for some more Katrina just as soon as I can afford it. God, I love her. I must see her again!

Never again: it's over

Yesterday, after 13 years, I cancelled my subscription to the Globe and Mail because their online service had pissed me off one last time.

For some reason, the system never seemed to recognize me as a subscriber to the dead tree version and it was constantly terminating my registration after 14 days. I had re-registered countless times, spent forever on the phone with clueless customer service people, and generally wasted hours of my life trying to fix this problem. This last time, I simply decided it was over between us. I wasn't devoting a minute more of my life to accessing the Globe and Mail online and filling out their forms. If they weren't going to provide me with the complete service I pay for, I was terminating our relationship even if it meant doing without a daily newspaper for the first time in my adult life.

Invigorated by my decision to go totally digital, yet simultaneously somewhat unnerved, I was completely relieved to discover that the New York Times had, on that very same day, taken down all its walls and made its content and archives freely available.

Some editor in the sky must have heard my cry for help -- or not...

Lavalife, An Update: So Many Bald Men, So Few Women Willing to Date Them

The vast, vast majority of men who have contacted my pseudonym on Lavalife are bald. I feel so sad for them. Some of them, if they had hair, would even be hot. Many of them have nice physiques. And yet there they all are, on Lavalife, single, lonely, no one willing to date them simply because they've lost their hair.

And yet there are so many useless arses out there with full heads of hair who can get it whenever they want. Is that fair?

All of those ladies out there who are dating dodgy men with full heads of hair should ask themselves: if he was as bald as a billiard ball, would you be going out with him right now? Would you have even given him a second look?

If Lavalife is any indication, I am assuming the answer is no. How vexing and maddening must it be for a decent bald guy to watch as his hairy friends, possibly of lesser character, get chicks galore?

They say, pre-Entourage, that this was a source of conflict between Jeremy Piven and John Cusack. Piven resented all the chicks Cusack could pull, blamed his own failure to pull as many chicks on his baldness (and not the fact that Cusack was a much bigger star -- duh!), went about getting a bad piece or weave or plugs or whatever that is on his head, and then morphed into a skirt-chasing douchebag himself.

And, oh, an update on our fictional demon man, who we shall now simply refer to as Satan? Three instant messages, four e-mails and about a dozen "smiles" from a number of women, but mostly Russians.

Craziest Crocs story ever

Tearfree meant to bring you this news when it broke late last month (Hat tip: ihatecrocs.blogspot.com) because it combines two ridiculous phenomena that are a persistant and growing annoyance in 21st century life. First, we have the eyesore that is the ever more ubiquitous Croc shoe and second, we have the spectacle of yet another frivolous and counterproductive lawsuit almost as ludicrous as the infamous Knocked Up case.

This July, these two phenomena fused into one mega-dumb legal action, thanks to the PR geniuses over at Crocs who sent a cease and desist letter to their fan site, CrocFans.com, Yes, that's right, they told a website dedicated to singing the praises of Crocs to cease and desist, and, as a result, it now goes by the name, LittleRubberShoes.com; has a new URL, ihatecrocs.com; and no longer does free publicity for Crocs.

Meanwhile, Crocs has at least had the good sense not to bother the original shit disturbers at IHateCrocs.blogspot.com. Wonder if the latter will now sue the Rubber Clog people for infringing on the "I Hate Crocs" name?

And yes, this is real life and not the Onion.

I Badly Want Two Things: To Move and To Get a Nose Job

Goddamn it I can't seem to escape constant updates about my ex and his woman. Tonight I went out for dinner with my friend who we will call Hayley. This dinner has been planned for a month. And who does she run into today on a street corner two blocks from my office right at lunchtime? My husband and his girlfriend.

Pardon my language but f**k me. I can't escape it. People either tell me about them or call me when they see them to assure me I am so much prettier and that he traded down. Is this supposed to make me feel better? It does not. I got dumped anyway.

I have standing job offers in Montreal and Halifax and I am really thinking I want to take them. I can't stand being in this city anymore.

And with the money I make on my house, I will get a nosejob. Because I hate my nose and why not? It was something he loved about me and now he apparently hates me so why shouldn't I get a nose job?

I want a new nose, a new city, a new life where I can recover from what I've gone through without hearing at least twice a week about how the man I have loved most in the world is sitting two blocks away from me holding hands with a woman who allegedly badly needs a visit from Stacy and Clinton of What Not To Wear. But what the f**k do I know? Perhaps all of my friends and acquaintances are just trying to make me feel better and she actually looks like a young Sofia Loren. Either way, though, I have f**king had enough of hearing about it. I am sick of coming home and sobbing for hours. I want to wave the white flag: You win! I am moving! D**khead!

Breaking Croc News

Tearfree apologizes for her absence just in case you happened to notice.

She knows she's been frightfully remiss lately, but things were totally crazy workwise last week.

So imagine Tearfree's surprise when she checked into Site Meter today and found RTK's numbers careening off the charts.

"What the hell's going on?" she wondered. Spinning pain, Dr. Oetker bankrupt, a new blog post from you know who?

No, none of the above. Instead, it turns out the Associated Press reported a year late on the Crocs escalator issue, one of the stories that pretty much made RTK's blogging reputation.

Thanks once again to the Gifted Typist for letting us know about the emerging Crocs health hazard way back last September and congrats too to the Halifax Chronicle Herald for getting the scoop.

Lavalife, An Update: There Are Desperate Women Out There For Every Sleazeball

Yesterday I started up a Lavalife profile for the sleaziest man imaginable, drawing on my and Fritzi's experiences with bad men and even on some of RTK's loyal readers and what they had to say about deal-breakers a while ago.

To summarize, the man we invented proudly advertises himself on Lavalife as:

1. A hideous-looking man who possesses a jazz patch and is balding.
2. A chronic philanderer who jumps from woman to woman to woman.
3. A heavy and abusive drinker.
4. An egomaniac.
5. A lover of wood-working, game hunting and figure skating.
6. A "new age" religion guy.
7. A chronic premature ejaculator.
8. A liar.
9. A man who needs to be in love at all times.
10. A Facebook/MySpace addict.
11. A man who demands perfection from his women: no flaws, no mistakes, no past.
12. A man who describes all previous wives/girlfriends as "psycho" -- he was merely a victim.
13. A guy whose favourite date involves talking about himself, his accomplishments, his experiences, his opinions and doesn't want to hear about anyone else's, especially his woman's.

And guess what? Women have responded! A half-dozen desperate dames have sent messages to our demon wanting to get to know him better. Some of them are even relatively attractive. Some say things like Annabelle79: "Everyone makes mistakes. I bet I am the woman who you've been waiting for! You just haven't met the right woman yet, and I'm her!"

Rest assured we are not responding or leading these women on in any way; we are simply ignoring their come-ons.

But it just goes to prove my theory that no matter how checkered and suspicious a man's past is, there is a desperate, needy woman who will suspend disbelief and willingly buy into the crap that he's shovelling. I am not sure a similar woman's profile would attract much interest except for horny creeps who just want to get laid.

All our demon's profile lacked was an admission of rape, pillage, homicide and thieving. And even then, I think someone might have shown an interest. Paul Bernardo gets love letters in prison, after all.

Lavalife: An Interesting Social Experiment

My friend Fritzi is a seriously beautiful woman. Stunning, many would say, including me. She is also successful, kind-hearted, generous, sweet and funny. So when my marriage broke up and I had to ponder the notion of dating at some point in the future, I really became depressed because Fritzi should have George Clooney types knocking down her door. And yet she doesn't meet interesting men, doesn't get asked out, and so turned to Lavalife.

Last night she came over and I fired up my laptop and we went through the many hundreds of men vying for a chance with her. I did a little Cyrano de Bergerac-ing, engaging one nice but not terribly cute guy in a very funny instant-messaging exchange, and a few others as well in various e-mails.

Here is what I learned:

If some creep is going on about how sexy and hot you are, you can quickly dispose of him with the following remark: "Must go now. The quadruplets really need changing."

You can also talk about your excessive body hair issues.

I became so fascinated by the weird social networking that exists on Lavalife, and what it says about how men and women interact, that I started up my own account today even though I have not the slightest desire to date anyone or to have a boyfriend for years to come.

I put some photos up, and sure enough the hordes arrived. Within seconds of my profile going up, I had about 25 guys e-mail or instant message me ... and my God, were some of them creeps. The two creepiest? One guy asked me within five minutes if I swallowed. And an overweight, 50something shoe salesman with a webcam immediately starting going on to me about how much I'd love his big muscular thighs. That remark almost caused the eight bottles of wine that are still pooled in my stomach after my recent night of debauchery to finally spew upwards.

The weirdest thing, though? How many young guys under 30 came sniffing around. I can't figure out why. Is it really true that young men are into older women right now, like Ashton and Demi, or do they believe older women are getting desperate and therefore their chances of getting laid are higher?


I asked them straightaway, and their answers were all pretty uniform: Older women are sexy. They know what they like. They aren't high-maintenance. They are independent. They won't throw shit fits (ummmmmm .... yes they will if the conditions are deserving).

Of course, no one's going to say: "Because we know that you are so nervous you will never get laid again that you will give us some action right away." Because that's what I really think it's about. Why else would they all keep telling me I look 25? If they like the way 25-year-olds look, why aren't they hunting those younger women down?

I promise an occasional Lavalife update -- it's really quite fascinating. And some of the profiles -- hilarious!

Hangover Makes Me Wish Someone Would Come Here and Kill Me

Perhaps because of my pissy mood yesterday, I went out and got hammered last night. Now I have been quite proud of myself since my marriage broke up: I have only been seriously drunk once, and it was a doozy. Vomiting into my wastebasket while weeping into the phone to my ex about a month after he left. Such a proud moment.

Perhaps because of that painful memory, I had avoided liquor and especially wine in large quantities ever since. I won't say I haven't been tipsy, but I haven't been smashed right out of my mind.

And then came last night out on the town with my married pals who we will call Dominic and Carol. None of us are quite sure what happened. Early on in the night Carol told me something that really hurt about my ex and I remember having a moment suspended in time when I thought to myself: "I can burst into tears right now at this party or I can get a refill and drink so heavily that perhaps I will be able to forget that she just told me that."

And I chose the drinking. It started with mohitos at one place. Then we ended up on a patio in Yorkville having dinner with bottle after bottle of red wine and two men who just sort of suddenly appeared, joined our table and ordered even more wine -- ICE WINE!!! I can't remember clearly but I do believe these men knew Carol somehow and I know I was really drunk because by the end of the night, I was really starting to find the bald guy attractive, and, no offence to bald guys, but they aren't and never have been my type. I thank God I didn't drag him home to my empty house and that I didn't remove any clothing in public. Because I was so drunk, both things were possible.

I don't remember how I got home and I am only now able to raise my head from the pillow for more than five minutes.

My head feels like someone was going at it with a sledgehammer all night despite many Tylenols, and my breath is vomitous even though I haven't vomited and have now brushed my teeth three times. It's like the wine is just sitting there in my stomach, refusing to be fully digested.

Please -- someone help me. It's mid-afternoon and it is not subsiding. I have already e-mailed Dominic and Carol and pleaded with them to come here and kill me. They e-mailed back that I must come to them and kill them.

Things That Bug Me

I am in a cranky mood today and people are bugging me. Here is a list:

1. People who use the expression shits 'n' giggles. I don't know why, but I really hate that expression.

2. My friend Mitzi, who once again has suggested I date a total loser. This time a pockmarked failure who keeps getting fired. I have told her, again, that I find her suggestions for me insulting -- first a profound alcoholic, then a wall-eyed thug, now an unemployable former acne-sufferer who is renowned for being a terrible dresser to boot. "A little hotness, please," I ordered her. "Think Mark Ruffalo, Aaron Eckhart, or even Gabriel Byrne. I'll take old, as long as there's some hot."

3. Facebook mentalcases. I find I am using my Facebook account merely to spy on grown adults who are completely insane Facebookers. Mitzi's younger sister, never playing with a full deck, is a frequent source of mirth and horror. She is 41 years old and updates her status several times a day in excruciating detail. Who does she think cares, I wonder? Another sort-of friend, also well into her 40s -- actually a friend I am in the process of slowly dumping because she is just too high-maintenance and nasty -- has started adding self-portraits to her Facebook page posing as though she's on America's Next Top Model. It is deeply, deeply disturbing. And now she has posted a picture of me on her site against my wishes, and refuses to take it down. I regret sending her a photo from my vacation.

4. And this is connected to Point 3 -- friends who have to out-do you in misery. You say you're tired and working too hard, they reply you can't possibly work as hard as them or be as tired. Your breakup has been terribly painful? Not as painful as their breakup from that prick so-and-so who did this-and-that (repeat same stories told possibly 50-60 times over the past few years). You are worried about a health ailment? Can't be as bad as her thyroid condition. You get the picture. This is why the aforementioned friend is being turfed. In fact, it's a tendency I really despise in people that I have noticed before. What is wrong with just saying to someone: "Wow, that's too bad. Is there anything I can do to help or to make you feel better?" What is the psychological damage of someone who must always be the most miserable?

5. Anyone who keeps saying how fat Britney Spears is. Yes, she is a mess and her VMA performance was a disaster. And no, she didn't look the way she looked when she was 18. But she is not fat.

This Week's (errrrr ... this month's?) Wonder Product

I have looked far and wide for the perfect cracker. Water crackers -- too tasteless. Those delicious Raincoast crackers? Tasty, but almost too distracting. Melba toast? Boring. Rice crackers? Nah. Ritz and Triscuit? Too white trash.

I have finally found my perfect cracker -- the Ace Baguette Crisps. Now I wanted to find a photo to post with this entry, but no such luck. The only reference I could find for these wonder crackers is here. If you squint, you can see boxes of them in the bottom left-hand racks.

Let me just tell you these crisps are delicious and extremely versatile. They come in two flavours -- sea salt or sea salt and rosemary. I prefer the rosemary ones, but if you find the herb too overpowering, stick to the plain sea salt. These crackers are perfect with cheese or smoked salmon but are also excellent right out of the box as a snack, or in soups as a French-style crouton with some aioli on top. I put them on top of my homemade tomato soup recently with some home-made tarragon aioli and it was quite divine.

Last week I had a chef's salad and tossed together some greens, a tomato, a boiled egg, a bit of Cambazola cheese and cracked a handful of the Ace crisps over top, then finished it all with a home-made vinaigrette. Tasty!

Here in Toronto, they are available in high-end grocery stores and trust me, they are worth seeking out.

American Woman Pisses Me Off, Makes Me Feel Protective/Proud of Toronto's Immigrants

I really like Americans. I hate anti-Americanism -- I think it's childish and lame and tiresome. I don't believe the U.S. produces any greater amount of arseholes than any other country. And so I was a bit stunned today to have an encounter with the stereotypical obnoxiously xenophobic American.

This woman is in Toronto on business for a week and wanted to courier me a document. I suggested that she should just put the package in a taxi cab, and she replied: "Great idea."

Five minutes later, she calls me back, and the conversation went along these lines:

"I can't find a single cab driver outside my hotel who speaks English. So what am I supposed to do?"

"What do you mean? " I reply. "They can't drive a cab if they don't speak English."

"Well I can't understand them and I think they're trying to rip me off as well. Doesn't anyone in this city speak English? Should I believe them when they say the fare is $15?"

Feeling my hackles rise, I say: "You're in a very multi-cultural city, some say the most multi-cultural city in the world."

"Look," she says. "I'm from New York. And I thought New York was bad. It's like it's not even my own country anymore. But here? It seems this whole city is Eye-ranian."

I take a deep breath, my blood pressure rising, remembering all the wonderful cab drivers I have had in this city who escaped desperately impoverished countries or corrupt and dangerous regimes to come here and start over. I imagine what it must be like knowing you've got a degree in nuclear physics but finding yourself driving a cab because you can't get hired here and coming face-to-face with this gum-snapping racist princess with her Prada bag and her Gucci sunglasses who thinks she's better than you are.

"We like Iranians here,'' I manage to sputter menacingly. "Just give the cab driver $20, send him to my office and I'll call you when it gets here."

What I wanted to add was: "You goddamned racist shrew!"

Question: Do I complain to her boss?

Updated: The Madeleine McCann case

I feel kind of dirty writing about this case. What the parents did was so unbelievably stupid -- and yet... No one on earth deserves what they're going through.

When I first heard the news today that Madeleine McCann's mother, Kate, was going to be named as a suspect, my first thought was that there was something odd about her and the way she's always clutching that stuffed cat. And even now, with the pressure turned up, she still has it artfully arranged in her back pack. My second thought was that I had no right to judge anyone in that situation and maybe arranging the cat gives her comfort and a distraction. And my third thought was about all the famous cases where mothers were wrongfully implicated in the deaths of their children. (Update: Urban Pedestrian notes resemblances to "the Dingo ate my baby" case and Anonymous comments that the two cases even have supposed blood stains in the car in common.)

The Portuguese police also come across as the Keystone cops and they would cetainly benefit from a break in the case. This new DNA evidence supposedly came from the McCanns' suite. Late last month, the Daily Telegraph reported:

Detectives will not elaborate on what evidence they have to support the theory, however it is understood that the new lead emerged in mid July.

Police had released the apartment as a crime scene on June 11. It was cleaned and rented out to another family.

But in mid July they returned and then later called in expert help from British sniffer dogs, who detected new samples, which are still being tested. The apartment now lies empty again and has been locked by police.

With the shift in emphasis, detectives have told Mr and Mrs McCann to abandon plans to leave Portugal amid new hopes of a breakthrough.

Not exactly confidence inspiring.
---------------------
Although I followed this case very closely at the beginning, I eventually gave up. There were just too many unaswered questions and either the answers weren't coming or I had missed them.

For example if the McCanns ate out with another couple or couples, as was reported, did everyone leave their kids alone? If the other couple(s) didn't, did anyone suggest the McCanns stop doing this? Is it true the McCanns didn't hire a private babysitter to come to their suite because they were hyper-vigilant about child molesters? And that they left the doors unlocked because they were worried about fire? Or was it because babysitters at the resort cost something ridiculous like$25 per hour, which I believe is what I read?

In any case, if any of these things are true -- and it's completely possible that none of them are -- it does seem a little strange and that there is a lot of stuff that's not being talked about and wouldn't be at all relevant to the investigation.

And of course as I write this, I keep in mind the dingo tale and the fact that the mother was innocent, that the dingo really did eat the baby, and that the McCanns' family and friends are completely convinced the parents were not involved.

New Obsession

I have become completely obsessed with a new HBO show, available on TMN on Demand if you have it in Canada, called The Flight of the Conchords.

It is about a two-man New Zealand band that moves to New York to try to make it big. Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie are an actual folk parody duo and are the brains behind the show. They play two totally deadpan, unlucky-at-love and completely unsuccessful nerds who once or twice a show, burst into hilariously silly fantasy songs. Their completely inept manager, Murray, also a New Zealander, is also a scream.

Here is one of their silly songs:



Fritzi and I have become enthralled by this show and cannot get enough of it. I should also confess that I find both Jemaine and Bret exceedingly hot, especially Jemaine. He sort of has a bit of a young Mick Jagger thing going, but with a much nicer physique.

Here's another hysterical song, a Barry White parody, almost exclusively featuring Jemaine, though Bret pops up hilariously:



If you haven't watched it, please try to. Episode Six, entitled Bowie and featuring a dead-on Bowie imitation by Jemaine, is a classic. I know Beth from Cup of Coffey would go nuts for it!

Happy Birthday, Tearfree

Today, in honour of turning 40-something, my daughter took me out to Starbucks before school, where I did something I have never done before, and ordered a Vanilla latte just because I could and because the new autumn pumpkin latte sounded like far too much of a risk.

Speaking of risk, my daughter also had an apple turnover which had just come out of the oven. When she ordered it, the Barrista said, "They're hot. I don't know if I can give it to you." And then she turned around and asked permission.

Now it's true, those turnovers are scorching when they come out of the oven, something we knew from past experience, so I promised her we would not sue and she handed over the turnover without me even having to play the birthday card.

There's something about those turnovers that makes them taste golden delicious when they're hot, and completely chemical at room temperature. And yeah, the vanilla latte was also kind of chemical. Next time, I'll stick to regular coffee flavoured, but at least I've now done the vanilla thing.

Common movie mistakes

Yesterday Tearfree went to see No Reservations. She didn't expect anything more than fluff with gorgeous people, food and apartments, and the movie delivered. Except there two things in the movie that really bugged her and that frequently bug her when she goes to the movies.

First, the Catherine Zeta-Jone character had an answering machine. Even though almost everyone in real life has Call Answer, in the movies almost everyone has answering machines. Can you still even buy them? And can't filmmakers find a way to show someone getting a Call Answer message? How hard can it be?

Second, they screwed up their dates, and if you're a mildly obssesive type like Tearfree, you always do mental math at the movies and fulminate over ages and date sequences that make no sense. In this one, the couple meets and the date is given as Feb. 28. At least two months later, they're still wandering around in hats and scarves, and it's set in New York not Winnipeg. How hard would it have been to change the date to January 8?

Also, this weekend, Tearfree rewatched the Talented Mr. Ripley (which you must rent if you haven't already seen it) and they did another movie thing she hates -- carried around obviously empty suitcases. Why oh why in movies that attempt to get every last detail right, can't they put a little weight in the suitcases?

Camping Adventure

I was so refreshed after my day of sloth last week that I decide to head north and camp with my son and his friends for three days at Killbear Provincial Park. I am so glad I did.

I had forgotten just how beautiful Ontario becomes around Parry Sound. In fact, for the last eight or nine years, I went to the Gaspe every summer and had myself convinced that it was by far the most beautiful spot I'd had the privilege of spending lots of time in. And indeed it is lovely -- once you get past Rimouski, it's stunning, very Maine-like in its terrain and a totally Maritime climate that is lovely for someone used to the humid, sticky summers of southern Ontario.

But I honestly believe that the open, crystal-clear waters of Georgian Bay, with the beautiful exposed pink Canadian shield everywhere and jutting cliffs and the haunting curved silhouettes of the white pines and Douglas firs, even has the Gaspe beat. It's really breathtaking and dramatic terrain; no wonder the Group of Seven was so inspired by it. I spent a lot of time as a child in that part of the world, at camp for five years and also at various cottages my family would rent. But I had somehow forgotten just how heart-stoppingly beautiful it is there, and as I sat on the granite overlooking the open mass of Georgian Bay right before jumping off a 30-foot cliff with my son and his friends, I almost got a bit verklempt at the loveliness. It is really God's country there; you feel small and insignificant in the majestic face of it all. As an atheist, I can honestly say it is the only place in the world that has made me rethink my non-belief.



And yes, if I may toot my own horn, I was the only parent of 10 present to jump off the famous Suicide Ledge despite my pleas for them to join me. All I can say is that the worst moment is not when you're in mid-air, but right when you've made the decision to go for it and you know if you change your mind and try to put the brakes on, you're dead because you will slip and tumble onto all the rocky ridges below it. I screamed the whole way down and felt like Robert Redford in that famous Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid scene. And I can't say it was easy watching my son do it. I shrieked like a banshee as he flew through the air and splashed into the emerald-green water what seemed like a good three seconds later. Count three seconds out ... slowly ... that is a long time to watch your beloved boy go hurtling through mid-air. And one older boy was swan-diving!!