For all the sayings out there about being sorry, none of them say that sorry makes things better, yet, as children, we are taught to believe it does: You go apologize and make BillyBoBob feel better. And I suppose because that’s what we believe, in theory it does. But as adults, “sorry” doesn’t always cut the mustard. We’ve learned to expect more, better, and we’ve grown cynical. A guy once pooped on my floor, true story, and no amount of  “sorry” would ever have made that ok.

The thing about “I’m sorry” is that it’s a catch-22 you don’t know you have to be sorry until you’ve done the thing you have to be sorry for, and by then it’s too late to be sorry because the thing you have to be sorry for has already been done.  You also need to be aware that the thing that you’ve done is something that you need to be sorry for. I’m the kind of person who likes to be smacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper (metaphorically people!) when I’ve done something wrong. I want to know I’ve done it so that I can either apologize or explain why I did it. I consider myself a very intuitive and self-aware person, so usually I can tell I’ve done something wrong and immediately try to correct it. But when I can’t, it’s up to someone else to put my face in my pee (again metaphorically!) to show me what I did is not ok. And, if your truth is well presented (e.g. not yelled or physical), and I’m not on birth control, I will most likely agree to my fault, and say, “I’m sorry”.

Yes, my excuse is birth control ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Gentlemen, pay attention: how do I put this in a way that you can understand: the pill is lady steroids.

All of the side effects of anabolic steroids are possible side effects of hormonal birth control. I believe their efficacy is rooted in the fact that when you turn into the Incredible Hulk’s sister, there’s little chance of you getting laid and little chance of you getting pregnant.

So… yeah, I had the ‘roid rage. And it pretty much looked like this:

In the beginning of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Hyde tramples a young girl then pays off her family with £10 in gold and a cheque for £100 (approximately $7000 today, but consider that rent for a 4 room apartment was less than £5 a month) from the well-respected Dr. Jekyll. During my brief but amazing stint as a psychotic sociopath, I trampled (metaphorically) those closest to me. It turns out that, like Dr. Jekyll, the potion I was taking caused me to morph into a thing I would never have been without it. Though, like Dr. Jekyll, that dark side of me probably does exist and was simply allowed to walk free for a while. Jesus! If ever, THIS would have been the time for someone to smack me on the nose (still, metaphorically). But no one did. They just let me be a raging psychopath. And then distanced themselves from me. And now I, being neither a well-respected doctor nor any person of such means, have to pay my damages in words, deeds and, as the word suggests, sorrow.

I haven’t juiced for over a week now. I’ve gained a perspective and a clarity on the past three weeks, which  I obviously didn’t have while I was on the ‘roids/trying to avoid getting pregnant (@ Mom: this not even in the realm of possibility since I am still a virgin). I don’t like my dark side (well, apparently no one likes my dark side). I, and my mom especially, have worked really hard so that I would be a respectful, respectable, caring and conscientious person. And for three weeks I wasn’t any of that. It wasn’t intentional, but it is my responsibility. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I treated my friends. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing. And if you allow me (normal me), I will make it up to you. I’ll start by dedicating this song to you.

<3 Foxy

I am a slob. I have come to terms with the fact that I will always be a slob, in the way that an alcoholic who doesn’t drink any more will always be an alcoholic. My name is Foxy, and I am a slob.

I have been known to go weeks, not days, without washing dishes. I have had cats for most of my adult life who, I believe, think they are supermodels, and throw up their food soon after eating it. I have left that on the floor. I have gone months without vacuuming or washing the floors. I have left more hair in the sink and tub than most people have on their heads. I have subscribed to the “if it’s yellow leave it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down” theory of toiletry and accidentally reversed the terms. And with all of this, I have somehow maintained a dream of motherhood.


I had an idea I wasn’t the neatest person I knew. I’m not delusional. The first question I asked my ex upon meeting him (before his name, astrological sign or if he came there often) was “how much of your salary would you be willing to give up to have a cleaning lady?” He said 25%. So we went on to live together in messy, messy bliss until the relationship became more messy than the apartment.

My mother, preferring to stay in a New York City hotel than in my apartment, once told me that my apartment could be grounds for condemnation of the building. My mom tends to exaggerate her hyperbole for the sake of an argument. Really. Where does she think this came from? I didn’t have any chores around the house until I was about 11 or 12, and they were instituted as a form of punishment for having stolen money from her purse. So, I believe even the least analytical of minds can see why I wouldn’t inflict this same punishment upon myself later in life.

The truth is that the state of my home tends to represent my state of mind at the time. Having been an undiagnosed depressive from my early teens through early twenties, it was simply a joke that the floor of my room was so covered with clothes that one would have to exert force to open the door. Because I had to go out and face the world and couldn’t do that without a shower, my dishes became my surrogate and sat there pathetically stewing in whatever was left on them. I think it is also possible that I admired the cats’ gag reflex (They’re so thin!).

On the other hand, when things are going well, e.g. falling in love or a big shiny new contract, I clean so hard that I break out toothbrushes for the corners. I clean out my closets and donate all the clothes that consistently wind up on the floor because they don’t fit or aren’t my style or are just plain ugly. After dusting, it’s like an archeological dig: oh, how interesting, I wonder what colour this used to be. And this will extend to anyone’s home I happen to be in at the time. Invite me over for dinner, I’ll do your laundry! Gnome, my current heartkeeper, was literally shocked to see me wash the dishes, then clean off all the prep and eating surfaces at his house. I had to explain to him that the fact that I don’t do something doesn’t mean that I can’t do it. I don’t beat him at arm wrestling. But I could.

Whatever the reason, cause or excuse for my messiness, one thing remains true: I need to get a better paying job, so kin I git me one of them fancy cleaning ladies before I start a family and have to send out a search party to locate my kids in the living room!

This is Foxfur, the family dust bunny.

For me, dating a younger man is a lot like farting in public; there’s nothing unnatural about it, but I still think people are looking at me with that stank look of judgement.

Since beginning my 20-something holding pattern, I have noticed that the men I am attracted to and who seem to be attracted to me are younger… much younger. And though I have never been completely comfortable with my body, being with a man in his early 20s, with his speedy metabolism and inexhaustible libido, makes me all the more aware that I am not in my early 20s. There is nothing quite like having a man dig your tits out of your armpits to drive that point home!

The thing is, I don’t look my age. Most people think I am about 5-10 years younger, and are shocked to find out how old I actually am. One friend of a man-child I dated actually said to me, “I don’t know what you’re doing with him; at your age you should be married with children. Whatever’s wrong with you, he’s not going to fix it.” Oh, honey, yes he is! And he did. And it was fantastic! Any more questions?

My potential child-grooms may seem to hold the promise of weeks of amazing and incessant XBox tournaments, romantic nights of pizza and boxed wine and, yes, staying up until the wee hours of the morning listening to music that contains nothing but bass. But there is a downside to dating younger men that Stella didn’t tell because she was too busy getting her groove back: Even though we may care for each other, it is best not to try to make a relationship out of this affair. A relationship requires the sharing of each other’s personal interests, anecdotes and experiences. How does one do that when he’s never accidentally melted a record? When he’s never had to go to the library to research a term paper? Never had to wait 45 minutes for his Kraft dinner? When he refers to Depeche Mode as “oldies” music? IT’S 80s MUSIC – IT’S RETRO AT ITS BEST!!! You pretty, pretty thing – let’s have sex before I never speak to you again.

So I’ve devised a list of criteria for the future to avoid such pitfalls as outing my age, or wishing they would just shut up and look pretty. I shall not date anyone:

1) whose age and my curfew were EVER the same at the same time.
2) who doesn’t know what the USSR was.
3) who never had to walk around with a bag full of cassettes.
4) who doesn’t know who Ferris Bueller is.
5) who was not frightened by the puppets in Genesis’ “Land of Confusion” video.

That’s not to say that May-December romances do not work. On the contrary, many, many May-December romances have worked beautifully: From the classic Bogie & Bacall, married 34 years with a 26 year age difference, to a modern Demi and Ashton (8 years together and Demi is 15 years older), to the controversial Woody and Soon-Yi (19 years, Woody is 35 years older), to the historical Michaelangelo and Tommaso dei Cavellari who, though Michaelangelo was 34 years older, spent 32 years together. On the other hand, Rudolph Valentino was two years younger than Jean Acker, and that marriage only lasted 6 hours. So, apparently, the secret is a one-decade minimum age difference.

I suppose the true secret is to find someone, regardless of their age, with whom you share common interests, someone you can laugh with, and who thinks you are awesome. And when you find that person, don’t tell them how old you are.

I like my men…um…straight. Not some brutish parody, all  git your ass ovah heah, hand raised in a threatening pose, hair poking out the back of his undershirt. But the role of the girl will be played by  me, and when I am done the show will close. Honestly, don’t ask me what I am thinking, don’t bump me out of the mirror and, for god’s sake, don’t grab my hand and start skipping. I say this and yet the last few guys I’ve gone out with were men who, at one point or another, I thought might have been gay (one of them I still do, playing Chat-Bite with all his male friends all the time was the clincher).

R. was a banker, a college sports star and a Betty Buckley fan. I believe that’s one of the gay commandments thou shalt listen the to show tunes. Upon further inspection I found Mandy Patinkin (are you kidding me?) and Hootie & the Blowfish (more a character flaw than a chink in his hetero-armour). Once in a while I would fake a bathroom emergency so I could run in without knocking and possibly catch him singing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair”. But I never did. I asked him to explain the appeal of Broadway as interpreted by the  Eight is Enough stepmom and  The Princess Bride‘s Indigo Montoya for a man who couldn’t carry a tune with the help of a man-servant; he just shrugged his shoulders and giggled like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

J. was from France. The French possess many cultural habits that would keep the average American from picking up the proverbial dropped soap but it was the rhinestone logo’d t-shirt tighter than mine that evidenced (I thought) an accurate snap judgement. Also, he ran around grabbing his male friends’ packages. Chat-Bite is a game generally played in school yards, at 27 to touch the penis of any guy friend present, whether you are with your girlfriend or not, calls your motivation into question. He was young, sweet and (I thought) gay and I felt this need to coddle him. I couldn’t have been more surprised when he made a move so I chalked the Bedazzled shirt up to couture culture differences and dated him for several months during which I barely escaped drowning in a deluge of stereotypical behaviour. I couldn’t fix my own hair in the morning because once he was done primping he had to  vogue to make sure he looked good at all angles. When I commented on his ass (which was  niiiiice) he called it his “poo-poo” switching it from side to side like a seven year-old girl. And when trying to dance/seduce me while he was dj-ing he’d stick his [niiiiice] ass out and wiggle it like he was waiting for me to stick a dollar in his g-string.

I’ve dated other men with frou-frou tendencies- the guy who ate his buffalo wings with a fork and knife, who started to cry because they were  too spicy. The one who wore women’s perfume because it smelled “prettier” than men’s. The one who used Vaseline on his lips because he liked them shiny and the one who wore women’s jeans because they made his “butt look better”.


I have to wonder what it is about me that attracts this type of man, or maybe, since I’m often the asker and not the asked, why I am attracted to this kind of man. Perhaps it’s that this is often the man who treats me with sensitivity. It could be that this is also the type of guy who lets me take care of him. Neither of which am I willing to sacrifice to have a so-called “macho man”.

* Ed.’s note: For an editorial response to criticism of this post, please see the comments section below under Jason C. McLean


Little people are scary. Not  the “Little People,” but miniature versions of adults – babies in tuxedos, spelling bee champions who use the words in context, kids in miniature Lambourghinis pissed about imaginary traffic jams. There is certainly something to be said about precocious and intelligent children, and everyone wants to relate to their kids, but making them into adults is not just creepy, it’s  wrong. Like “Claudia” in  Interview With The Vampire.

A little girl of about 5 or 6 and her mom came into a restaurant where I once worked, and when asked where she wanted to eat, the girl chose the bar. This would have been a pretty bad sign were it not for the wall-sized aquarium behind the bar. She asked what kind of juice we “offer” (yes, she said  offer). I gave her a tumbler and she asked for a wine glass. She ordered a rare hamburger that came out medium-rare and sent it back because it was “overcooked,” informing me that she knew the owner. I said “me too,” and she said “no, you’re just the bartender, you work for him. I  know him.” Had she been an adult I’d have broken a bottle and stabbed her in the heart with it.

But when I was five or six, my mom would take me to McDonalds as a good grade reward (in finger painting or recess, I don’t know). I would dump ketchup all over the fries and, remembering my manners, offer one to my mom: “I’ll have an unadulterated one.” “What does that mean, Mommy?” “One without ketchup,” she said. As the person charged with molding my mind, it is my mother’s fault that I, until about age 14, thought that unadulterated meant “without ketchup.” On one hand I can appreciate her expanding my vocabulary, but we’re talking about fast food fries here, not effin’ Kobe beef; she could have just said “without ketchup” and saved that 50 ¢ word to buy her own damn fries! When, at that age, was I going to use that word?  I’d like my chicken fingers unadulterated please?

…yeah i knew that

I’ve had dozens of experiences with “Little People”: kids who know the difference between paté and chopped liver, or who know their e.e. cummings from their J.K. Rowlings; Little girls in Dolce & Gabana dresses at birthday parties, and boys in three-piece suits in church. They are  children. God (or Joan Rivers) is not gonna put them on the worst dressed list! I don’t want my kid on Leno reciting the Declaration of Independence either. This is a  child, their brains are sponges, they’ll memorize it as easily as they will Frère Jacques, and understand it about just as well (summa-lumma-teeeena*). Let Dr. Sheldon Cooper of the Big Bang Theory stand as a shining example of what happens to kids like these: While he may have been smart enough to become a great doctor of physics by the age of 14, at the end of the day he didn’t understand why people enjoy the warmth of human relations – and by this I mean sex. Do you want your kids to be 30 year-old virgins? Well,  DO YOU?!   Let kids be kids. Teach them that dirt isn’t for eating, but let them order pasta  fully adulterated (with ketchup, of course). There’s nothing wrong or embarrassing about it.

And, yes, children are a reflection of their parents, but as long as they are polite and don’t hit and grow up to be adults who are bright, thoughtful and not virgins, isn’t  that a beautiful reflection of you?

*It’s “sonnez les matines,” btw. I learned that as well when I was 14.

When I was about 5, my mom knitted me a beautiful white fisherman’s sweater that I wore with pride right into a mud puddle.I was devastated.

My mom tried to console me by taking me to the park to ride the “big kids” slide. I was too small to ride alone so she found a kid who would take me and I said, “But mommy, he’s dirty”. The irony of my statement was completely lost on me because I knew I didn’t start the day dirty, and he looked as if he’d started life that way. But I was young.

I have since learned to judge people not by the cleaniliess of their skin, but by the content of their character. Therefore my snobbery now covers geography, the arts, politics and anything else that other people hold dear.

My friend once wrote an article about being a New Yorker despite having only lived there for a few years. I promptly fired off a polite refusal of her application. Being born there it is my birthright to claim that I am a New Yorker and to refuse to acknowledge the honorary citizenship of foreigners, no matter how nobly they will wear their new title.

Interestingly, New York is one of the few places in the world where this is even moderately debatable. The Chinese who come to New York are still Chinese 30 years later, the Italians are Italians generations later. Yet, some yokel falls off the turnip truck in Queens and suddenly they are New Yorkers. The French who come to New York will spit at you if you call them New Yorkers or Americans- they are French, of course they are snobs, and they are right.

One would be horribly mistaken were one to believe that if left alone with one’s music collection, I would not form an opinion about them. I may not even be there when one returned, having deemed one’s music unfit for my company. I refused to return the phone calls of one man who tried to defend Hootie‘s right to exist. I have banned the playing of certain music in other people’s cars and have asked to have my food wrapped to go in restaurants that should have been shut down for their music violations.

While I may know Conservatives and Republicans, I regard them as I would those little trained dogs from the old hospital clown shows. Their ability to perform the tricks is quite impressive but it doesn’t take long to realize that they are only doing it for the treats, and that they could care less whether or not they are helping the little girls and boys watching. Plus they piss on everything and are perfectly happy to lick their own balls. This is why I have no Conservative or Republican friends.

People who call whatever they put on their walls “art” are boors! The Budweiser girls in bathing suits that recreate the Budweiser label is not art! Neither is a poster of a Lamborghini or Michael Jordan; they are decoration, and not really much of that either. I think its fair to say that Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup cans aren’t much more than free advertising for Campbell’s paid for by people who would never lower themselves to actually consuming the soup. And Jackson Pollock paintings are also a waste; lucky the person who tries to defend his “discipline”, upon whom I will fling my poo, thus they will be wearing my art.

“SNOB” is not a badge I wear with honour. Generally, I keep it pretty well hidden until someone raises an issue that I feel strongly about or speaks in my general vicinity. But it is my belief that if you’re going to be a snob, at least have the wherewithal to back it up. Can’t be a snob about politics if you don’t know who your delegates are. Can’t be a snob about music if the answer to “what do you like” is largely Top 40.

Can’t call someone else dirty when you’re covered in mud; for this reason I never leave home without a change of shirt!

People tend to look at me funny – a look somewhere between pity and caught back laughter – when I tell them that I don’t have a driver’s license. It’s as if I’d just admitted to them that I wet the bed. But I was born and raised in New York City where a car is about as useful as a donkey and just as difficult to find parking for. I did have a license once, I got it when I was 16, doin’ that American rite of passage thing, but it expired years ago and there hasn’t been any real impetus to have it renewed. There are plenty of things about growing up in New York City that differ from the rest of the country, the rest of the state, hell, from most of the other boroughs!

The CountryTime ® Lemonade memories of childhood are completely lost on me. The lemonade stands, the rope swing over the crick, catching fireflies; I thought dandelions were flowers until I was a teenager! How lucky was I to be able to bring weeds home to my mom every day! (How lucky was the city whose landscaping I was inadvertently tending.) The “beaches” were where we were warned to “wash off well” or we’d get yeast infections, and we were told not to go barefoot, even while swimming, to avoid hypodermic needles, condoms and other remnants of the Summer of Love 80’s Edition. No-one I knew would lay in the grass and stare up at the stars because a) what stars? and b) laying in doggie-doo is not an urban pastime. Were it not for sleepaway camp, I might have grown up thinking a hike was a long distance – like between our block and the pizzeria we didn’t go to “cuz it’s a hike, yo!”

Speaking of definition differences: in my childhood, the balcony was the fire escape and the roof a terrace. I have no concept of time since here, 20 minutes is 5 minutes unless you’re waiting, and then 5 is 20. The school bus was the subway unless you were rich – then it was car service. A picnic was eating on a stoop, a stoop was the front stairs of a house, a house could be an apartment, but a housing was a beating, and the mall was the West Village.

New York enjoys a geocentricity akin to Israel. Everyone makes their pilgrimage here and everyone wants to claim it as their own, the border being the Hudson and East Rivers. Were you so unfortunate as to be born on the other side of these, in any direction outward, you may as well fess up to sleeping with your cousin (This goes double for New Jersey, and throw in stinky, skanky or tacky for good measure due to the Hatfield/McCoy tradition of the NJ hate which has never been explained to me but which I proudly uphold.) And up to this border is the extent of the geography we can recall off the top of our heads.

The New Yorker once illustrated the mentality of New Yorkers by placing New York City at the forefront of the image and everywhere else in the world off in the horizon somewhere. This is, in fact, the maps we use in our public schools. Therefore, while the average American cannot find Korea on a map, I cannot tell you where Nebraska is…I also don’t care…because I am from New York (which I might be able to find) and it’s not like I’m going to drive there.

I think this is why I have never really felt the need to have a driver’s license. Somehow, growing up in that biodome, I adopted the belief that I wasn’t going to need it anywhere else. That there would always be public transportation, and where there wasn’t, I probably wasn’t going to go anyway. Out of the country, I wouldn’t be allowed to drive, so again, why bother. But now, as I split my time between New York and Montreal, it occurs to me, maybe it would be worth it to get a driver’s license if just to arrive at my destination in “real time”. The trip is about 6 hours by car and 10 by train (that’s 15 hours by train when using the New York Time Code). And perhaps I could use the extra time to figure out the other states that border Canada.

Neil Young said “it’s better to burn out than fade away”, clearly what was true for him in his thirties isn’t so much so in his 60s. He has quietly continued to consistently produce great music for some 40 years (and no one wants to see him shake his lice-ridden money maker anyway). Tom Waits hasn’t attempted collaborations with 50 Cent to keep his image youthful. Conversely, the Rolling Stones, who don’t realize that just because one of them is already embalmed doesn’t mean the rest are the living dead as well, strut around just as cocksure (perhaps an inappropriate word choice for the Viagra set) as they did in 1911 when they started. They haven’t changed their formula for decades. May they continue burning themselves out in predictable ways for another century!

In an age where anyone can get a reality show, people like Ozzy Osborne stayed in the public eye by doing just that. And it worked! However, watching Steven Tyler pepper his critiques with his signature raspy high notes while judging American Idol and seated next to Jennifer Lopez, a woman whose singing talent is as dubious as her blonde hair, borders on the painful (yes, I realize I could not watch but then what would I write my snarky column about? Hmmm?). It’s a pathetic turning of the tables that the icon on the panel reeks more of desperation than the contestants.

Johnny Cash, a once dynamic and prolific artist, successfully remained relevant by warbling Trent Reznor and Soundgarden lyrics towards the end of his career, it was a masterful assuming of the lyricism of others at a time when he still had a lot to say but could no longer go ev-er-y-where, man. Even William S. Burroughs successfully took up the mike when he covered R.E.M.’s Star Me Kitten (Burroughs saying “f*** me kitten” over and over is at once disgusting and fun, like chasing friends with poop on a stick, which I haven’t done in days).

But you’d have thought Frank Sinatra fancied himself the very beatnik he despised when, missing only the bongo player, he [barely] rhythmically spoke the words to his greatest hits for over 20 years. A side-by-side comparison indicates that he may have been influenced by William Shatner.

I wonder (but don’t really care) what will happen to the careers of disposable music stars like Miley Cyrus, 90% of the cast of Glee and the Jonas Brothers (Rebecca Black will be fine- her daddy will just pay people to come to her concerts), it doesn’t seem possible that they will be able to emulate or even borrow from those who have stood or will stand the test of time. Will they hit a talent spurt and start making music that lasts? Or will they simply wind up in the heap with all the other unrecyclable plastics?

People who have had highly respected and respectable careers, in my opinion, belittle their legacy by trying to avoid the inevitable end necessary to cement a legacy. I suppose time will tell if the methods our icons employ to ensure longevity will help them avoid career death or bury them alive. Icons tend not to know when to let go, or maybe it’s the fans who can’t pull the plug. But, like a beloved family pet, we should help our icons’ careers end with dignity.

There’s nothing wrong with being retro or classic or timely, and sometimes, yes, just plain retired. Now listen carefully Tom Jones, there comes a time when you have to ask yourself: when the size of the panties being thrown at you is greater than the enjoyment you get from them, is it still worth the effort?

*Foxy has nothing against big panties, in fact she is wearing some right now, and and is considering a second career selling them on the Japanese fetish market.

I have, thus far, very much enjoyed the privacy of my own home. I am single, without roommates and the cat and I co-exist with – in a “you don’t pay/you don’t say” kinda way. This affords me the freedom to walk around in various states of un-shaven, un-coiffed, un-bathed, un-done un-glory with no-one to see it. Or rather, it did.

I remember watching The Jetsons thinking, “How cool is that? George calls Jane and she can see him. That’s gonna really happen in the future.” As a kid, I was very stupid – I also street-luged without a helmet. If I knew then what I know now I’d have been more careful about courting the danger of both head injury and technology. I can avoid street-luging, but I fear, in a 1984/Brave New World kind of way, video calling as with Skype and GoogleChat will completely replace telephones that have thus far allowed us to be on the toilet or naked or not at all where we say we are or all of these. I am so completely tech-tarded that I had to have an intern show me how to download a movie (and then I had to call him again to tell me where it had gone). I only recently got a computer with a built-in camera. And while I am sure I should be most afraid of the Big Brother is Watching aspect, I am more afraid of Big Brother watching me digging for emeralds!

As seen on Star Trek, Star Wars, Buck Rogers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman and, of course, The Jetsons – all very reliable sources of future technology – the video simply turns itself on, not giving me the chance to cover up the ProActiv Solution “before” picture that is my morning face. George had to hide behind the sofa, and he was used to the video phone, for Pete’s sake!

I work from home, my business attire is Superman Underoos or a onesie (think newborn baby outfit fit for an adult) – really, not what one would wear while negotiating an international contract face-to-face. Jane, STOP THIS CRAZY THING! I cannot be seen like this! I am the girl who wakes up before her “overnight guests” to make sure they wake up to the same face they went to sleep with. I break out the curling iron to go to the grocery store. I put on my contacts to sign for FedEx packages. Home is the one place in this city where noone will look at me with that doesn’t-she-have-a-mirror? face that apparently comes standard with a woman’s metro pass.

Technological avances prove, time and again, Foxy’s Self-Serving Paraphrasing of Newton’s Third Law: for every great positive use there is an equally great negative use. Visual technology can be awesome- breast and colon cancer scans, Xbox360 Kinect, Kermit riding a bike in The Muppet Movie:

Unfortunately, it has also been used to propagate horrific sights, like military torture or the Liza Minelli-David Gest wedding kiss (click and grab yer barf bag @ 30 secs).

And while I love that I can see my mom more often, she can’t even figure out how to end a video call (in her defense, the red phone icon does require the skill of a person who is trained in both the colour red and what a phone looks like*). My luck she’ll forget to turn it off and wind up uploading some sort of weird video to my Facebook page where she’s knitting while dressed like Ke$ha.

* As well as being a genius, Foxy’s mom is trained to identify all three primary colours, as well as phone icons from the 1950s to today. It should also be mentioned that the Ke$ha scenario is very possible as she is a world-class knitter and they share a strange affinity for Jack Daniels.

The March Mavericks of Merriment
The Wheel Club, 3373 Cavendish

Tonight at The Wheel Club, get a no-gym $5 workout! Comedians Peter J. Radomski, Walter J.Lyng, Matt O’Neill,
and Christopher Betts, The March Mavericks of Merriment,
will have you laughing so hard you’ll break a sweat and from the Montreal Ska Festival, the music and musings of Bones Malones will get you more physical than Olivia Newton-John! PLUS, back by popular demand, the Wheel Club’s own Robby Hoffman. Add two reps of beer curls and you’ve got yourself a full body workout!

8:30pm at The Wheel Club 3373 Cavendish Blvd, just below Sherbrooke (Métro Vendôme). $5 at the door.