Monday, November 15th, 2010
This is a state of emergency. I’m filing a ‘missing’ report for the general public’s sense of humour. It’s been missing for a while now and I think it’s time the authorities knuckled down and really got serious (in a funny way) about looking for it. You can’t crack an innocent joke, have an opinion or God forbid, try to throw a little sarcasm around – it all falls flat. Because Sense of Humour has gone AWOL. We need it back. Especially when it comes to me cracking jokes about your dodgy fashion choices.
If you follow my blog or my tweets, you may be aware that I have fairly strong views on what I deem to be acceptable and unacceptable fashion. I’m pretty vocal about it. Yesterday, I tweeted ‘Ladies, if you still own a denim mini skirt, I need you to rethink everything you’ve got going on.’ Some people, who still have a few seedy traces of Sense of Humour in them, entered into what others might say, was a humorous exchange with me. And then there were the people who own denim mini skirts. Oh dear. Apparently, saying you dislike denim mini skirts is akin to calling someone’s first born child ugly. I do beg your pardon – I thought I was just expressing a relatively innocent opinion on Twitter. Someone even referred to me as a bigot. See, this is why they shouldn’t give some people the internet. For the unschooled, please do go grab a dictionary and see whereabouts a dislike of denim mini skirts really ranks on the bigot scale. Go on, I’ll wait…
But here’s the thing, if you own one and you like it, you go ahead and rock that shit. I personally couldn’t really give two craps. If you think you look good, more power to you. I mean, I’m just telling you, as an innocent bystander here that you don’t actually look good, but if you have no interest in my opinion (and really, why should you?), then by all means, continue. Why get so up in arms about it? Over a denim mini skirt. A little perspective wouldn’t go amiss. I’ve been called everything under the sun on this blog; c**t, bitch, twat, some kind bloke the other day even left a comment saying I look like a trannie and a Madonna fan once told me to go kill myself – do I take that personally? Hell no. I laugh them off. It could be argued that those things are a tad meaner than my note about denim mini skirts being neither flattering nor stylish.
If you’re an Ugg wearer, you KNOW they look terrible. Not one person who wears Uggs has ever tried to defend the look of them to me. I could give two shits how comfortable they are – they look atrocious and as a member of society, I just think it’d be nice if people gave a crap about the way they looked. You can go ahead and say that’s shallow but as I’ve discussed many times before on here, the way you present yourself is important and it sends a message. You can say you don’t care, but you’re only lying to yourself.
Someone could jump on here and say they hate people who wear their hair in a bun and wear dresses with heels and red lipstick all the time – and I would laugh. Hell, I know I wear it well and it suits me. It’s how I feel comfortable. Not everyone’s gonna like it. At least I’m not wearing a denim mini skirt, leggings and Uggs – I’m holding myself together better than most.
Don’t preach the ‘we shouldn’t judge people’ bollocks at me either. We all do. And yes, that means you too, so anytime you wanna dismount that high horse and join the rest of us who can appreciate a joke or two, feel free. But if you show up in a denim mini, I’m just giving you a heads up, you will get laughed at.
Thursday, May 6th, 2010
For many women, Oprah is some sort of Godlike creature. Her overcoming-the-odds story of success has inspired millions. I know plenty of young women who aspire to Oprah-level ‘greatness’. I used to be one of those women, but over recent years I’ve come to realise something: I actually can’t stand Ms Winfrey.
Yes! Ahh, it’s such a relief to say it out loud. I’ve mumbled it before but you’re treated like you’re going against some sort of sisterhood if you point out that Oprah’s kind of a douche.
At first it was little things, like that stupid way she introduces people (the shouting, the drawn out words), or the fact that she is a truly awful interviewer (does she ever actually let someone finish a sentence?). But then I noticed the ongoing theme, the dark side of Oprah, her raison d’etre: Misery.
Oprah loves misery, she revels in it and spreads it like a virus. You do not exist to Oprah unless you have a sob story. What odds have you had to overcome to get where you are? Does it involve abuse or incest? No? Then f**k off! Any chance she gets to hammer the point home that she was abused, she takes it. No one knows hardship like Oprah, in her view.
When the author, James Frey revealed that he lied in his book ‘A Million Little Pieces’ (about his supposed drug and alcohol addiction), Oprah was outraged. Why? Sure, partly because he hadn’t been all the way truthful, but probably mainly because – dare I say it – he trumped the Queen at her own game. He made up some misery and sold it back to her like an East London market trader. Eat THAT Oprah!
Why did she love the film Precious so much and jump on it as a producer? Because of the heinous story of abuse, of course. She wants to delve into it, get as graphic as it can get. As sick as it is, it seems she feeds off it. When former child star, McKenzie Phillips revealed stories of drug abuse and having sex with her father, Oprah all but fell over herself to get her on the show. Oh the joy of delving deep into this woman’s murky world of misery. Watch the dollars roll in. And the most sickening one of late would be Oprah’s insistence on having actress Mo’Nique’s brother on the show. The brother who openly admits he abused Mo’Nique. The actress herself hasn’t spoken to him in years and said she has made her peace with the situation, so didn’t appear on the show. But hell, we can’t deprive Ms Oprah of the opportunity to revel in someone’s murky past.
While most hold Oprah up as a champion for stripping the taboo out of these delicate subject matters and making it okay to talk about, she’s really doing something much more sinister. She’s glorifying it. Yes, people who are going through such heinous experiences should be encouraged to talk about it, but with the right people. Seek out a counsellor or a support group. Oprah packages it and sells it to us for entertainment and that’s actually just quite sick.
When her show ends in 2011, I, for one, will be glad to see the back of it.
Wednesday, May 5th, 2010
Wednesday, February 24th, 2010
Political correctness prevents us from saying the things we really want to say. Simple truths must be put aside for fear of hurting someone’s feelings. So now we have to beat around the bush, speak in hushed tones, what once were black and white dilemmas are now drowned in a sea of grey. Well, not one known for shying away from the issues, today I plan to cut right through the crap and ‘go there’:
Should fat people pay for two seats on a plane?
To me, this is a no brainer. I can’t believe it’s even a debate. It’s not discrimination, it’s not singling people out, it’s simple logistics. Weight matters on an aircraft. Our luggage cannot weigh more than a certain amount. How come the people can?
I’ve been in the situation before; travelling from Canada to England with an overweight person next to me. I hardly think it fair that I paid for a seat and only got half a one. And yet I’m the rude one for asking to be moved? That makes no kind of sense to me. And yes, this is a bigger problem in North America because the fact is, people are fatter there.
I heard of a case where a woman was taken off a flight because she was so overweight that she couldn’t do up her seatbelt. This woman then went on to sue the airline for the embarrassment they put her through or some such nonsense (I don’t know what the outcome was). Really? You’re going to go through the hassle of lawyers and court fees and a long, drawn out process rather than just taking your ass to the gym and maybe working on a few things? Ridiculous!
Remember when I moved back to England and had to pay $800 in excess baggage charges? Yeah, me too. Excuse me while I go weep at the horrifying memory of it all. I remember standing at the check in desk, begging, pleading (alright, it was more like yelling and screaming, but whatever) with the manager to not charge me so much. She kept banging on about how important weight is on the aircraft. While we’re having this argument, I look behind me to see roughly half the people in the line are overweight, a few clinically so. I looked at them, looked at the manager, looked at them, looked back at the manager. She didn’t take my hint. Why weren’t one of those people refused boarding? Because of damn political correctness, that’s why and it’s such bollocks! When you think about it, I basically funded one overweight person’s flight.
If you’re an overweight person and don’t like being ‘singled out’ or ‘embarrassed’ in these situations, there are some really fairly simple steps you can take to avoid it. Why should others have to fund you and be made uncomfortable? Pay for two seats or lose some weight. Simple – problem solved.
Monday, January 25th, 2010
Last week, an article called ‘Why I Hate Fashion’ appeared in The Guardian. The writer, Tanya Gold, bitches about how liking fashion makes you a shallow, vapid, insecure little girl. Oh and apparently, fashion also kills people (a girl wearing heels fell onto a train track and died. That’s the evidence for the argument. Cause of death: fashion). Needless to say, I have a thing or two to say on the topic.
In my experience, it is always a certain kind of woman who feels this way. They’re usually slightly overweight. They put on a few pounds, don’t feel as good about themselves, clothes aren’t fitting as well as they used to and perhaps the fellas don’t glance their way as often as they used to. So, they decide they ‘don’t care’ and because they ‘don’t care’, they will put down anyone who deigns to give a crap about their appearance (mainly because those people look better than them, which does nothing for their downward spiral of insecurity).
Firstly, I’d like to challenge the notion that these people ‘don’t care’ about how they look by putting forth this argument: BOLLOCKS! Of course you bloody do! I’m assuming you shower daily, no? You wash your hair and brush it. You moisturise your skin, hell, you may even throw some makeup on. Unless you live in a nudist colony, I’m assuming you still buy clothes. You may not buy them because they’re ‘in fashion’ but you might like the colour, the feel or the way they hang on you. All of that says you care about how you look. So please, spare me. It’s not that you ‘don’t care’, it’s that you’ve given up.
When people give up, they try to say fashion is just beneath them. It’s childish to care about such nonsense. They feel we who care about our appearance judge them, so they judge us right back; we are shallow, unintelligent morons.
Let me set a few things straight about taking pride in ones appearance. I do not spend my every waking moment traipsing through Topshop, clearing out my wardrobe every season or laughing in the faces of those whose style choices I consider to be inferior to my own (I mean, I do that last one fairly regularly, but not every waking moment). I don’t care for trends, what’s ‘in’ or ‘out’. But I do have a sense of style. I know what colours, shapes and styles suit me and I take pride in the way I dress myself. I see no shame in that.
I don’t blindly follow fashion. I don’t buy fashion magazines. I tend to steer clear of the high street when shopping. But I look at how women dressed in the 40s or how my grandmother dressed her whole life and I’m in awe. I can look at that wonderful collection Hussein Chalayan did in 2000 with the table that turned into a skirt (skip to 4:30 mark in the video) and appreciate it for the wonderful visual it was. I consider Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood to be artists more than a ‘fashion designers.’
Having an appreciation for these things does not make me shallow, vapid or insecure. It is one aspect of who I am. It it not the whole story. Why knock someone because they choose to express an element of themselves through clothes? Fashion isn’t just everything you think Vogue represents.
To put forth the argument that you must be either fashionable OR intellectual is completely ridiculous. I think I’m pulling off both quite nicely thank you.
Thursday, October 29th, 2009
Public transport sucks. That is a known fact. No one wakes up in the morning saying ‘I can’t wait to take the bus today!’ To make transportation among the masses a little less sucky and somewhat bearable, there are certain rules one should abide by.
Anything that should be done in your bathroom at home, don’t do it on the bus or train
I’ve seen it all my friends, from someone flossing her teeth on the subway in Toronto, to a guy putting his contacts in on a packed commuter train in Tokyo. That’s what your bathroom is for. No one needs to see bits of food on a string emerging from your mouth at 8am.
Have your money ready
You can always tell the people who don’t take public transport that often from this scenario. It’s always the dude for whom the train is a fun adventure for the day, who has to fanny around at the ticket machine for half an hour. Listen, for those of us who have to rely on getting from A to B in these giant moving sweatboxes, our lives suck enough as it is. We don’t have time to wait for you to find the correct change for your metro card. It’s all we can do to even get out of bed in the morning.
Don’t talk on your phone
There’s something about public transport that makes people think their phones are just tin cans and string. Any conversation is conducted at unusually loud decibels. No one gives a rat’s ass what you’re saying, probably not even the person on the other end of the phone. Save the conversation for when you’re out in the street and your pointless banter can be drowned out by street noise like buildings collapsing, or people killing each other.
Don’t read the newspaper over someone’s shoulder
What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t even have to buy a paper anymore, there’s a plethora of free crap at any given station. So I don’t care if you have to read a take away menu or a Nation of Islam leaflet, you just better not be breathing down someone’s neck asking them to turn to the sports page.
Do you want to die? Well, you’re going the right way about it. Buses and trains are close quarters. Between being crammed in like a sardine, holding your breath to avoid the stench of BO and blocking your ears to drown out the death metal coming from someone’s iPod, the last thing anyone needs is the stare down. I don’t care if you’re just admiring her outfit. That’s what the Craigslist ‘Missed Connections’ section is for (alright, that’s totally not what it’s for, but do I sound like I give a shit?). Eyes down, look in, like it’s Bingo in this bitch.
Wednesday, June 24th, 2009
Yesterday, I took advantage of the nice weather and went shopping.
This particular shopping experience led me to a meltdown, which I documented on Twitter. After two hours of trailing the streets, going in every damn boutique I saw and being beyond disappointed every time, I have finally admitted what I have wanted to admit since I got to this city: I frikkin’ hate shopping in Toronto!
It sucks balls. Big, giant donkey balls. There is no originality in this city at all. Believe it or not, some of us actually want to wear things other than leggings and loose, flowing tops. How are you not over this shit yet Toronto? Seriously.
I went into several ‘independent boutiques’ (all of which are on the same street, I might add) only to find at least four of the exact same dress styles in each one. I would think, before you go through the trouble of opening a store, you would do a little research on what lines other stores are carrying. Apparently, that’s not how people roll in the TDot.
I have often been left speechless, baffled and befuddled at the fashion choices of people here. The abundance of Crocs, the leggings, the being seen in public in your pajamas, the working out at the gym in motherbitching Crocs – and after yesterday’s shiteous shopping experience, I now understand: these poor bastards don’t know any better.
Let me ask you, when were clunky Camper shoes for women in fashion? Apparently they’re all the rage here in Toronto, because every second shoe shop I went in had an extensive collection of clodhoppers. The only people who wear Campers are white people with dreadlocks – that says it all really.
So no wonder people think it’s acceptable to walk around in sweatpants and sports jerseys. They have lost all hope. And I can’t say I blame them. If I owned sweatpants, I would probably be ready to start wearing them myself right about now (with heels though, of course).
The irony of Toronto’s shitty shopping though, is that Toronto has a fashion week. No, really, it does. It likes to put its shitty style on display and try to convince itself that the world gives a shit about it’s poor sense of design abilities.
If you work in the fashion industry in Toronto, I urge you, in the nicest way I know how, to pull your fucking finger out and sort this mess out!
A diva like me needs more than leggings and frikkin’ Camper shoes to make it through! Fix up!
Tuesday, April 15th, 2008
The other day, in the last ten minutes of my lunch break, I had to hit up the ATM before dashing back to work. I got there and there was a line, but I calculated that if all moved along swiftly, I’d have cash in my pocket and be back at work in time to shoot the shit around the water cooler.
There were two ATMs and one line. Five college girls, a few people ahead of me, congregated together to form one giant person in the line. Things seemed to be moving pretty quickly as rushed wage slaves punched their digits into the machine and swiped their cash. It was all going good till it got to the college chicks.
When they were at the front of the line, waiting for their turn, I saw each of them take about eight cheques out of their pockets. I could vaguely overhear them using words like ‘deposit’ and ‘envelope’ and ‘how do I?’ and I knew things were about to go sour.
When their turn came, the college chicks decided to divide and conquer; three at one ATM, two at another. And not one of them had a clue how to make a deposit.
Here’s where my beef comes in: isn’t it just common sense that if you don’t know how to use a function on an ATM, you don’t decide to test it out during one of the busiest hours of the day, in one of the busiest areas of Toronto? Apparently not.
And these were college students. I deduced this from the multiple cheques. No doubt they were for $12 each and they made them doing online surveys or some such nonsense.
So, as they fumbled and stuffed cheques into envelopes, while forgetting their pin numbers and desperately trying to figure out exactly how to deposit their newly acquired fortunes, I watched minute after painful minute tick by. Haven’t they ever heard of a frikkin’ teller?!
Why do that when most people, who actually work for a living and have other shit to do, are on their lunch hour? Surely, these students could have found some other point in their action packed day to figure out how to use an ATM. They probably have one half hour class a day and spend the other 23.5 hours playing Dance Dance Revolution or some shit.
Eventually, with less than a minute left to get back to work, I had to abandon the whole mission and make a mad dash back to the office. I hope those chicks do something good with the money once it clears.
But I sense they’ll just piss it all away on leggings in American Apparel.