NanoPoblano, Day 30: Where Fifty gets his Shades, maybe.

I really don’t understand the decorating aesthetic of boutique eyeglass shops. At all. I mean, I’m talking complete and utter bemusement here. Is it a Vancouver thing? Is it a city bylaw that if you’re a trendy little eyewear shop, you have to design your window display to be maximally incomprehensible and 100% unrelated to the services you provide?

Because these stores, without fail, have the weirdest shit in their windows year-round. Sometimes it takes me a full minute of staring from the sidewalk just to realize what the store’s meant to be selling.

Exhibit A:

The needle on my WTF Meter just screamed and broke off.

Pop quiz! You’re walking down the street and catch a quick glimpse of Fifty Shades of Hipster here out of the corner of your eye.

Do you

a) recoil because AAAaaAAaaaAGH CREEPY YARN MAN,
b) assume the store either sells knitting supplies or is owned by cats,
c) start getting ideas on how to spice things up a bit in the bedroom,
d) feel a wave of inferiority because Creepy Yarn Man has a better mustache than you,
e) immediately recognize that of course this is an eyeglass shop, Nutty, DUH, and decide on the spot that anyone who comes up with a window display like this must be without question the best candidate with whom to entrust the continued health and well-being of your eyes and vision.

I wonder if the store’s in-house opticians ever question their life choices on their way in to work.

Because no offense to them, but no matter how qualified and professional you might be, I’m not coming to you for a contact lens fitting if I feel like I need to have two infinity scarves on and a safe word ready just to walk through your door.

Even if Creepy Yarn Guy’s mustache is positively fabulous.

NanoPoblano, Day 2: The heat is on.

Bless me, Father, for I have traveled. It has been five days since my last use of a toilet without a heated seat.

Japan…you know I love you. From your stupidly complex rail system that puts the London Underground to shame, to your stunning shrines and landscapes, to your private karaoke booths, you are perfectly eccentric and lovely. But you have issues, Japan. Issues with warmth.

Believe it or not. I am just fine with sitting down on a toilet seat that doesn’t feel like another warm-blooded human being has only just recently vacated it. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the sounds of rushing water and chirping birds that accompanied my restroom visit in Disneyland, but are all these things really essential in life? Will my thighs disown me and run off to join the circus if I sit them down on a  regular toilet seat that isn’t at optimum temperature, accompanied by soft jazz and the sounds of nature?

No, they will not. Because your heated seats are creepy. My ass is hot enough without your help. Double entendre intended.

Hot bottled vending machine drinks, on the other hand…why exactly are these not a thing in Canada? ‘Cause dang…good job on those.

It is entirely possible that I have stolen someone’s underwear.

I just noticed three quarters of the way through the work day that I had my thong on inside out.

This happens more often than I’d like to admit. You would think I’d be more adept at putting on underwear in the dark after all my years of practice, but at the age of 32 I’m fairly sure I actually manage to screw it up more than I ever did as a child. Maybe not. Maybe I was just better at not noticing that my underwear was inside out when I was a kid.

Maybe it’s also a testament to how exhausted I am lately that I briefly considered just leaving it on as is.

But I knew it would haunt me all day if I did.

Plus it’s not like I had this undergarment epiphany on the bus or something. This wasn’t a Mr. Bean at the beach situation. No, I was in the goddamn ladies’ room, a place specifically designed to grant you the privacy in which to be naked from the waist down. HOW LAZY ARE YOU, NUTTY?

So I sighed and began taking off my shoes. Of course I would be wearing the absolute worst clothing for a hasty panty inversion: black skinny jeans and lace-up boots. God forbid I screw up basic lingerie protocol on a day when I’m in easily removable cargo pants and flats.

The skinny jeans, being skinny, took some tugging to get off, so I had a real good long time to stare at my own crotch. And suddenly, a terrible thought hit me.

Is this…is this even my underwear?

I realized I had no recollection of ever buying these panties.


My brain, searching for a logical explanation, went into checklist mode.

Are they your size? Yes, they fit perfectly. That means almost nothing. Do you have any idea how many people wear size Medium underwear?

Is there a tag? No, the tag’s been cut out, which is admittedly something I do with all my skivvies, because I’ve never found washing instructions poking out of lacy knickers to be terribly alluring. So that might potentially be a point in the “I am not a panty purloiner” column. But without the tag, I have no way to check if it’s even my brand. Besides, I can’t be the only one who de-tags all their underthings. I think we can all agree that the human buttcrack is a place where “do not iron” advice  just isn’t necessary.

What about the lace trim? Is it the same lace as you have on your other underwear? Let’s see, off the top of my head, I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA. I’m not a tatting expert. Sorry if I didn’t think to carry a spare pair in case I needed it for a goddamn forensic comparison.

So what we have here is just a plain red thong with no tag and unidentifiable lace that that may or may not have been somehow filched by accident last time you did laundry. Looks that way. It wouldn’t be the first time someone else’s stuff has mysteriously gotten into our dryer. Just the first time I didn’t notice before I actually wore one of the things.

Well, fuck. Yep.

Maybe they are yours and you’re just going senile. Also possible.

I hate to ask, but is this mystery underwear at least clean? Blissfully spotless. Like new.

So. Uhhh…*ahem*…finders keepers then? I want to be grossed out by that, but I’ve already been wearing these all day so it’s a little late. Yeah, why the fuck not. Congratulations, self, on the unexpected acquisition of a new red thong. Or your rediscovery of an old one you forgot you had. Either way, clean, comfy underwear, woo!

Awesome! Let’s never speak of this again. Huh? Oh, yeah, of course…

Let me just quickly tell the whole internet about it first.

You sick bastards.


I’m only in the office for two days this week but I’m not even halfway through Day 1 and I’m already losing the will to live.


After I wrote my 12 Days of Nutmas post, it got me thinking. What would people be searching for on the actual birthday of Jeebus? Would there be peace? Would there be good will toward men? Or would there just be more of the usual achy assholes and chocolate funbags?

Thanks to a quick look at my blog’s associated search queries for Christmas Day, the results are in.

Continue reading

Thanks for the perspective.

Being Canadian, it’s kind of weird going on the internet on a Thursday in November and seeing endless photos of golden turkeys, plentiful side dishes (ranging from delicious-looking to highly questionable) and freshly baked pies all over my Facebook and Twitter feeds. If you listen carefully towards the north, you can hear all the bemused Canucks scratching our heads, going “Didn’t we just do all this last month?”


But since everyone seems to be on a Thanksgiving thanks giving roll and I hate feeling left out, and because schadenfreude is the gift that keeps on giving, I thought I’d take this time to share a few of the recent search terms that have led to my blog, because at the very least you can be thankful you’re not any of these people.

(Unless one of these searches actually is yours. In which case I would suggest making a beeline for the nearest bar, because sometimes sobriety is overrated.)

“my computer just made a terrifying crunching noise”
Okay, so you remembered to keep the turkey bones safely away from your pets so they won’t choke, but you didn’t realize that your computer was sentient…and hungry. Rookie mistake. Your mechanical beastie got into the garbage and and now there’s chewed up bone and turkey drippings all over the motherboard. Distract your computer with Thanksgiving-themed cat gifs while you clean up the mess, then set a nice image of a holiday pie as the desktop background so it won’t be tempted to go back for dessert.

Image and video hosting by


“vegan hipster”
This guy was eating Tofurky before it was cool. Technically anyone who’s ever eaten Tofurky can say that, hipster or not, because eating Tofurky has never been cool and never will be.

“nut all over me”
Okay, so you dropped the pecan pie. It’s now all down the front of your cute holiday apron. And somehow in your hair. And your ear. It’s okay. Just calmly excuse yourself and go take a hot shower with a bottle of bourbon. Everyone else has already had too much wine to really notice you’re gone. And the dog will gladly dispose of the pie bits on the floor in your absence.

“turn my son into a whore”
Whoa whoa whoa, you save that human trafficking talk for your Christmas letter to Santa, buster. Tom Turkey don’t grant no wishes.

“penis through monitor”
I know the holidays can be lonely sometimes, but I’m not sure you quite understand how cybersex works. Although you just gave all the ER docs and nurses who have to work on Thanksgiving a great story to tell their friends, so at least you can take some comfort in the fact that you’ve brought joy to others.

“I’m single but I act like I’m taken”
It’s okay. I know you’re sick of your family asking when you’re going to find “the one” already and settle down and get married. But just remember, that “my girlfriend lives in Canada” story is only going to hold up for so long. Better to simply dodge any relationship questions and deflect the attention onto someone else. Like your Uncle Randy, who showed up late for dinner walking kinda funny and muttering something about a computer monitor…


Happy Thanksgiving to all my American blog buddies. Have fun and stay safe.

Take me to your TP.

Nutty Hubby and I don’t usually watch a whole heck of a lot of TV. What we do watch can usually be found on Food Network or Space, where the majority of commercials mercifully exist only to point out what else you could also be watching on those channels.

But American Ninja Warrior has returned for another season, and we like watching people fall off obstacle courses. So, with trepidation, we have ventured back into the realm non-themed programming…and found ourselves caught squarely in a bombardment of ads focused solely on butts.

Continue reading