In which someone wipes the smug look off a guy’s face by smacking the trump hat off his head

Maybe it’s our fault, because we forgot to stop to buy champagne on the way there.

Maybe deep deep deep down inside, we knew that the bottle of champagne would have just sat there on the coffee table, an unopened metaphorical bottle of salt for the infected wound that would fester deeper and deeper into the night, and the soft tissue that is the hearts and souls of the people of this country.

When I had originally planned to go home (and by home I mean my mother’s house – for the sake of this story and the heartstrings of its readers) for election day, it was with the full and selfish  intention of being physically present in the United States of America, on a day that would go down in the history books as the the day that the first ever WOMAN was elected as the chief and commanding officer of the entire nation. The elect of the first woman president of the USA. The day that Bill Clinton would be come America’s first – first man of the White House.

Naturally, as election night progressed, the mood darkened.

By around 7:30pm we were already getting reeeeeally uncomfortable.

By 8:30 we were nervous but still hopeful.

9:30 we were delirious, but negotiating hard.

“But there’s Pennsylvania right? And um… *voice cracking* did you say the results were in for Arizona already? Did.. huh? What what about Michigan? They’ll recount Florida though right because that was only by 20,000 votes so… what? Oh…”

By midnight it felt like we were on day 17 of  news coverage of a plane crash, but just couldn’t bring ourselves to turn it off, in case they found a wing… or seat, or a bag of pretzels…

By 1 o’clock my mother had gone to bed.

“I can’t take any more…”

At 1:30am we were still negotiating

“Maybe it means… unless she… do you think they… okay but the popular vote, I mean…”

And somewhere around 2:00 in the morning, we crawled angrily into bed.

“Wake me up in 8 years”

The next morning we woke up in full blown shock. We wandered the house like bumper cars on valium, muttering to ourselves, and to each other.

“Am I awake? Is this real life? Are we that stupid? Is it even possible? I don’t even…. I can’t.”

Wednesday evening, we saw that there were demonstrations growing in the streets of downtown New York. I wanted desperately to join them.

I felt an ache inside me, a longing to join in solidarity. I felt helpless otherwise, it’s the closest thing I could possibly do to “something”.

Whatever that is.

But I knew that my mom would throw her body in front of the front door if I’d tried to make a break for it. She’s had a lot of practice. I’ve been running away from home on a pretty regular basis, since I was 2 years old.

I don’t have words to eloquently express how hard it was to cross the border from New York to Montreal on Thursday morning’s  drive back home. I felt like a traitor, abandoning my people in amidst a nation-wide disaster. How convenient for me to have another country to run away to.

But it was tying me up in knots inside, and it felt urgent to make sense of it all before my girlfriend and I  had to declare our 4 bottles of wine, sac of combos,  and 3 bags of dog food.

“You don’t understand, it feels so wrong to leave right now”

“Really? Because I can’t get out of here fast enough. I was ready to start the car Wednesday at 1:00am.”

“I feel panicked, like there has to be something I can do. Is there something I can do? What can we do?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“But for real though. We can’t just let this happen can we? Will Canada let this happen? Will all the other countries let this happen???”

“Can you hand me my passport?”

“As an American, can I become the President of the United States, even if I was born in Canada?”

“Ted Cruz was from Alberta. No sir, just 4 bottles of wine. Thank you, you too!”


Maybe it was a bit hasty of me to decide right that second, that I should give up my dream to be a comedian/author/singer-song-writer, to focus my energy on building my presidency campaign.

Maybe. But I had to think of something. Somebody has to save us! Maybe there’s another possible plan. Is there? I don’t know, because it’s the only plan I could think of. Is there a better plan?

I did a lot of soul searching this week and I still haven’t come up with that plan.

I did calm down a tiny bit. Not much. But a tiny bit.

I heard a host of politicians and  TV personalities talk about how  we have to work together. How we’re not listening to the other half of America, and how they voted for Trump because  they’re scared and sad and frustrated.

I would start to realize how true that is.

And then I’d see all these horrifically violent, racist and homophobic rants on social media. And I’d hear about all the violent assaults on muslims, gays, and other visible minorities.

And I’d realize that I don’t actually NEED to listen to crazy dangerous morons, much less stroke their egos and validate their feelings.

And I’d calm myself back down again. I’d explain to myself that we really do need to come together to find a way to make this world a better and more unified place for all of us.

I went to see Lisa Fischer in concert the other night, and she was so breathtakingly beautiful and amazing and sweet and kind. She talked of love and healing and unity and and and…

And I felt so inspired to pass that love and healing energy on to others, the way she had to us.

And then, on the metro ride home from that concert, I saw this:




I know. I know, it’s just a hat. But that “just a hat” made me feel violently ill. I had these stabbing pains in my gut and I felt nauseas and anxious. Just like that. I wanted to get off the metro so badly. I wanted to take the hat and throw it in the garbage. I wanted to plead with the idiot wearing it “You don’t mean it, take it off please. You’re hurting people.” I want to yell at him “THIS IS CANADA!!!!!” even though I’m not even sure what that means anymore.

But I didn’t do any of those things. I just stood there feeling sad and violated. Until I stepped off the metro, when I accidentally, while passing him, turned to the guy and blurted out

“You’re not embarrassed wearing that piece of shit?”

at the exact same time as somebody else accidentally flicked it right off of his head.

I’m not going to lie. As satisfying as that moment was, I was pretty embarrassed.

I want to say that I was embarrassed for contributing to the negativity, but honestly, I was mostly just embarrassed because I said something so dumb.

I really let myself down.

I thought of at least 5 way cooler, smarter insults  on the escalator leaving the station.

Anger makes us a little bit stupid that way.

I want to end this post with a piece of brilliant insight, but I’m still in shock. And I want to tell you that I have come up with a genius plan of how to join the resistance, organize and mobilize.


But my To Do List looks a lot less like this right now:

  1. Get mixed masters in Law and Social Work

2. Move back to the United States

3. Become pretend best friends with Sarah Palin

4. Serve as military advisor to Trump, while secretly leading underground efforts to overthrow            the U.S. government

5.  Lead guerrilla troops in battles against National Right To Life, White Aryan Resistance, the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Americans for Truth About Homosexuality, and National Federation for Decency.

6. Become the President of the United States of America

and a lot more like this:

  1. Make Donald Trump Piñata
  2. Recruit friends, family, or strangers to come over to smack the crap out of it with a stick
  3. Film Donald Trump Piñata festivities
  4. Post the video on my blog

Probably not the most productive plan. But probably very cathartic, so I think I might still do it.

If you want to come over and smack trump around with me this weekend, give me a shout.


PS: Miranda, just in case I do decide to go the President route after all, don’t forget that you promised that if I ever go into politics you’d be my campaign manager. I have it in writing.

Alcohol makes you better at sports; A somewhat loose translation

Something I noticed when I moved back to Montreal  years ago, was that Quebecers are so much more open and down to earth than Vancouverites.

“What???”  You may be asking yourselves. Or me. You may be asking me.

“Aren’t Montrealers are a bunch of chain-smoking, meat-eating, sexist, stinky, racist anti-hijab fear mongers!??”

To which I would respond by neither confirming nor denying your negative core beliefs about Quebec but by simply pointing out…

“And they mix tobacco with their weed too. It’s really gross”

“And also… ” you might add,  ” Down to earth? They’re not even vegetarian! They don’t hug trees! They barely recycle, they probably don’t even know what granola is, and failure to compost isn’t even punishable by death in Quebec!”

To which I would respond by neither encouraging nor discouraging your blanket statements but by simply adding

“Some of them even spank their children. On their actual bodies.”

But then I would also point out that while composting may not be obligatory in Montreal, drinking pretty much is.

OR  at least it isn’t frowned upon. It’s basically encouraged. In fact, there seems to be a government sponsored organization that exists for no other reason than to educate the people of Quebec by writing and promoting extensive literature highlighting the benefits of it (it being alcohol) even. Like this one:


I know a lot of you live on the west coast, or even in a different country, and I was born here in Montreal, and also have lived more than half of my life here,  so I’ve taken it upon myself to give (as usual) you the gift of translating the guide for you. You’re welcome.


The table of contents includes,

  1. Presentation, which I assume has something to do with how young and happy the people in the above photo appear, and the relation that has to the beer on the table before them.
  2. A chapter on why athletes who do drink are clearly so much better looking than those who don’t
  3. A glimpse into how Alcohol promotes athletic performance and optimal overall health
  4.  The ways being an alcoholic can facilitate a  more rapid post-athletic-exertion recovery
  5. The conclusion


So basically what this is saying is that 50% more people who drink… are athletes…. and those who do not drink, are not.  In summary, people who don’t drink are lazy.

In 2014 some genius conducted a study proving that in North America, students who are sportive, drink more frequently than those who aren’t.

So again, I think we can all agree that people who don’t drink heavily live sedentary lives and consequently have a shorter life expectancy. So… yeah. Bottoms up people.

Here they show an example of athletes who all ingested between exactly zero to 12 shots of tequila the night before training. They’re lined up in order of how much they drank, the woman closest to the front having had the most, the man in the back having had none. You be the judge.


Here they bring up an interesting point about the correlation between alcohol and mental health. Which is to say that one study suggests that the reason why most athletes drink is because it helps them unwind after a day of high pressure and competitive activity.

The man in this photo is white water rafting, which suggests that he does not participate in a real competitive sport, and therefore probably doesn’t drink – which would explain why he is so depressed and lethargic, that he can barely keep his head up. In fact he looks as though he might quite literally be sleeping. He’ll probably drown. So there you have it again. Not drinking is entirely irresponsible and certainly life-threatening.


This next bit is about cultural differences so I’m not going to read it, let alone translate it because it’s written by a Quebecois, which means that it’s probably not super PC, and we don’t want to start another separatist movement, we just want to educate you people.

I will say though that a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say, and I think it’s pretty clear that this race car driver drinks.  A lot. Also he is energetic and celebratory, which leads us all to the obvious conclusion that because he drinks he is a better athlete (only in Montreal is sitting behind the wheel of a car considered and act of athleticism), and as a result, still alive.



These people didn’t even wait until after their work-out. They’re clearly all drunk. I’ve never seen anyone so happy to ride a stationary bike in my life.



This bit above is a little blurb on how alcohol prevents impotence, particularly for gay skiing men, and if you have a problem with that, you’re obviously homophobic, impotent, in the closet and working in the pharmaceutical industry. So… Seriously. Get your shit together.

Has Vodka in her water bottle:


Just did 40 minutes on the elliptical –  20 minutes on the tread mill  – 30 minutes in the weight room – Stone Cold Sober:


As I may not have mentioned, I did actually grow up in Vancouver BC, so my French isn’t exactly perfect, but despite being a beach-combing vegan I know enough of the language here to confidently tell you that in conclusion and summary, this article proves that despite years of research that says differently, drinking really does make you cool, and people who don’t drink are old, lazy, tired, fat, and probably going to die.





If only Spin class were more like drunk angry sex…

 So here’s the thing.

Last week I tried a spin class for the very first time in my life.

I’m not going to lie. I didn’t really like it.

So obviously, I went back and  I tried it again.

And still…

While I appreciate that spin class is an awesome low impact workout that will help you to burn billions of calories and sweat your brains out in a kind of mindless way,

– which is great for people like me, who find that thinking too hard hurts the brain-

And while I did appreciate that basically there’s no coordination required, as the moves don’t get much more complicated than

Stand up. Crouch forward. Stand back up. Sit down. Stick your arm out straight in front of you like you’re super serious about giving somebody directions.

Not just pointing like you’re telling one person where to go, but sticking your whole flat hand out directly in front of you as though you were leading a brigade, or parting the

red sea…

Or maybe like you’re the figurehead of a majestic ship… or something.



And while I did appreciate all of that,

I didn’t super love the part where you put enormous effort into going somewhere, but never actually arrive at any destination.

I didn’t love the part where the instructor suddenly yells at you to stand up but doesn’t tell you to slow down first, so when you jump up, because you’re still in motion, you are abruptly pulled back down, vulva-first on to your rock hard bike seat.

I did not love that when you’re standing up pedaling, the nose of that very same intrusive seat very gently but quite persistently pokes you in the bum over and over and over again, much like an apologetically horny 19 year old boy at the crack of morning.

But you know what? I’d be willing to overlook ALL of that if it wasn’t for ONE thing. Yes, the thing.

Here’s the actual thing.

The THING here, the thing is MUSIC.

I get that I’m not exactly a spinning expert per se…

And I get that actual qualified instructors are not DJs, sadly, but certified based on a certain level of competency in bike assembly, bike safety, heart rate monitoring, the fundamentals of coaching, the finer points of crafting unforgettable class ride profiles, and so much more… *cough*

But something has to change, and here’s why.

Spin class should sound less like the theme song of a really bad 70’s television series starring a widowed, retired private investigator and his 3 legged crime solving irish setter.

And more like the trailer for a girls night out ( not a movie, but the pre-game drinks you down and tracks you play while getting ready for an actual real live night out with your Gyals)…

or the soundtrack to some good old fashioned drunk angry sex.

Stay with me here.

I have the attention span of a flea.

Also I’m lazy.

Also I need a prize to keep my eye on.

So as you can imagine, for somebody like me, when pedaling a stationary bike – just pedaling around and around and around and getting absolutely nowhere, for an entire hour, most of that hour is spent looking accusingly at the clock.

ESPECIALLY if, while I’m doing it, I have to listen to Chicago. Or Foreigner. Or Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

Don’t get me wrong.

Come on Eileen holds a special place in my heart, and is a very lovely song to listen to,

If you’re riding your not-stationary bike down a gravel road, lined with daisy fields, with a picnic in your basket.

I love a lot of Michael Jackson’ music, but The way you make me feel

makes me feel like getting off my bike and leaving.

What a feeling, from flashdance

does make me feel like pouring my water bottle out over my head and whipping my hair from side to side…

but doesn’t make me feel like cranking my gear up and spinning my legs around and around, while going absolutely nowhere, with my arm straight out in front of my face.

If I have to do something really intensely demanding but also so incredibly boring that I’m about to fall over…

I need bass.

I need hard. driving bass.

I need punk rock, hip hop, old school rap, techno rave, pop club music, I don’t care what, but something that makes me feel some serious attitude on a mission.

If I have to stand up and pound my feet into the pedals as hard and as fast as I can and not get angry and leave because no matter how hard or fast I peddle, I don’t even get two inches across the floor…

I need to do that to ACDC or Turbonegro or… honestly,

I’d be willing to tone it down with the  Iggy Azalea, or Britney Spears even. I’m really flexible that way. Just don’t get right up in my face and scream at me to


to Sweet Home Alabama.

And I don’t care how much I love him, or how slow you are pedaling or even if we’re all off bike, stretching out our hamstrings and doing sun salutations. It is NEVER okay EVER to play Bon Jovi’s Dead or Alive during an exercise class of any kind.

And I just absolutely, under no circumstances ever want to be half naked, sweating with strangers, thrashing about wildly on a piece of dangerous (I’m not kidding I’m pretty sure I broke my cervix) machinery while frantically and desperately nursing on my water bottle…

to the Doobie Brothers.


I will say these two things.

#1 To the teacher who had the sense to play Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation at the end of her class.

That and that alone, is the only reason I came back for a second class. So, literally… well played.

#2 Don’t think for a minute that that I’m going to let Starship keep me from learning how to love Spin. I’m going to make that class my bitch, whether I like it or not.

In the meantime, I’ve taken it upon myself to start working on a few playlists of my own for my at-home-spin class of sorts. And I say of sorts because I don’t actually have a stationary bike at home to sit and go nowhere on so I have to practice on my couch for now. It’s a work in progress, and I’m open to suggestions (unless your suggestions include Pink Floyd, Blue Oyster Cult and/or Creedence Clearwater Revival) but here’s what I have so far…



(Pre-Game Soundtrack/Girls Night Out Trailer)

Titanium – David Ghetta ft Sia


Ain’t No Other Man – Christina Aguillera


Maps – Maroon 5


Pound The Alarm – Nicki Minaj


Burn – Ellie Goulding


Timber – Pitbull ft Kesha


Let The Groove Get In – Justin Timberlake


Superstar – Tegan & Sara


I Fink U Freeky – Die Antwoord


Alive – SIA


Prayer in C – Lilly Wood & The Prick



********Rock & Rap********

(Drunk Angry Sex…)

It’s Tricky – Run DMC


Seven Nation Army – White Stripes


Painted Black – Gob


Lose Yourself - Eminem


Should I stay or should I go – The Clash


Fried Chicken and Coffee – Nashville Pussy


X Gon Give It To You – DMX


Get Back (Red Light District) – Ludacris


Tell Me What You’re Feeling – Nocturnal


Once Around The Block – The Devil Dogs


Love for sale – Motorhead


Trouble – Pink


Crimson & Clover – Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

I’m just so glad the reign of terror is finally over…

I hate April Fool’s day.


And with good reason, it’s easily is the dumbest day ever. Seriously. It is so stupid.

When my ex was a kid, his mom used to cook pieces of fabric into their pancakes the morning of every single April 1st.

I’m not sure how that’s even funny. It just seems like a sad, disappointing, kind -of-gross choking hazard.

Apparently there is a version of April fools day in almost every country in the world.

Many have the same tradition as us, of playing jokes on people until noon, when we can all breathe a sigh of relief.

But not really because there are plenty of @$$holes who don’t observe the sacred April Fool’s day is over at noon, rule.

In England, if you get fooled, people apparently, in addition to pointing and laughing, call you a ‘noodle’, ‘gob’, ‘gobby’ or ‘noddy’

you know… in case being publicly humiliated wasn’t enough.

I read (thank you Wikipedia)  that in Ireland it was traditional to entrust the victim of an April Fool’s prank with an “important letter” to be given to a named person. That person would then ask the victim to take it to someone else, and so on. The letter when finally opened contained the words “send the fool further”.

What the hell does that even mean?? That’s just drunk talk Ireland, and you know it.

I don’t know if it’s true but it’s been said that in some nordic countries, most news media outlets will publish a false story on 1 April. Often on the front page of the newspaper.

While I find this tradition much more humane, as it is the general population that is being ridiculed all together as one, it’s probably just a dumb story that makes everybody go…

“Babe? What’s the date today?”

“April 1st!”

“Oh…okay yeah. Is it cold outside?”

In Italy, France, Belgium, and French-speaking areas of Switzerland and Montreal Canada, April fools is known as “April fish” (poissons d’avril in French orpesce d’aprile in Italian). This includes attempting to attach a paper fish to the victim’s back without being noticed.

Which is totally stupid but again not really harmful, hurtful or humiliating.

Am I the only one who feels like April fool’s day is the day when life as we know it, is just one big episode of Jackass???

Maybe I’m exaggerating, I don’t know. I don’t even know if people still pull pranks because I hate it so much that I don’t even leave the house on April 1st anymore.

Well, I went to the gym this morning but I waited to publish this post until I got home,

in case my trainer read it (you know because my blog is so fascinating and she has nothing better to do in the middle of her work shift) and then pranked me when I got there, by videotaping me attempting burpees, and/or taping a train of toilet paper to my sneaker while I planked… or something…


I don’t know! Whatever.

It has seriously terrified me ever since I was a kid. The mere thought of being tricked and publicly humiliated and ridiculed, almost literally paralyzed me.

One year, I was so scared to get pranked by somebody at school, I hid in a bathroom stall almost all day long. My stomach was in knots, I could barely breathe, and my heart jumped every time somebody came in.

Finally overcome by hunger (it had to be at least 10:30 am by then, and an hour and a half goes by verrrry slowly in a toilet), I mustered the courage to brave the terror-filled corridor.

I was on my way to my cubby to get the lunch that I had buried under stale gym clothes and fermenting macaroni art, so that nobody would tamper with it, when I was cornered.

“Hey Jennie….”

Oh God, here it comes, I thought. This is it, it’s happening to me.

I broke out into a sweat, and probably hives. I felt light headed and shaky. My face felt numb, except for the eye that was twitching.


“We’re going to play a prank on the teachers, want to help?

I was frozen. Did they really want my help? Or was this the set up for the most humiliating day of my whole and entire life?

“It’s going to be hilarious!! We’re going to put saran wrap on the toilet in the teacher’s washroom, and when a teacher sits down on the toilet to pee… instead of the pee going in the toilet, it will go all over them! hahahahahaha ha ha ha!!”

It sounded like a legit disgusting, stupid, idiot April Fool’s joke, and one that didn’t star yours truly as the victim, so I agreed. In fact, I was so determined to be the joker, and not the fool, that I volunteered to be the one to put the saran wrap on the toilet seat.

And I did it too.

I was trembling and sweating and praying to god that I wouldn’t get caught or, even worse, that the other kids weren’t running to tell on me that very second, making me the April fool after all.

But I did it.

And when it was done, I felt an enormous sense of relief. Such relief, that I actually forgot about the plastic wrapped toilet almost immediately after doing it. Such relief that I just let go and had one of the best afternoons ever.

Until the principal came into our classroom to announce that a teacher just had to unexpectedly and rather suddenly go home because she was drenched in her own urine on the lunch break.

A witness said they saw her running to her car weeping.

No lie, I don’t even remember if we got punished for that. All I know is that I felt like the biggest jackass ever, and from that day on, I hated April fool’s day even more than I ever had.


 I’m just glad that noon has come and gone, and that the reign of terror is  finally over…


While I was away cheating on you yesterday, I celebrated Cesar Chavez’s birthday, and this is where I did it:

SweetVegan- Happy Birthday César Chávez Spicy Bean Burritos


And for the children… Hollow Tombs

“OH MY GOD!!! I can’t believe I didn’t send my kids anything for Easter!”

I admitted shamefully in the 50% all easter chocolate labyrinth at Walmart this morning.

The shamefully part was due in part both to having not sent easter baskets to my kids and to actually being in Walmart.

There was no chocolate labyrinth.

The chocolate was cheap crappy chocolate (wax) easter bunnies, cream eggs and marshmallow chickens.

The labyrinth was the chaotic maze of isles that the bags and boxes of chocolate were cascading haphazardly from.

Easter used to be such a big deal in our family, and now?

None of my kids are at home anymore, not even close to home. Like 3 thousand miles away from home.

Easter Sunday was yesterday, and I don’t even know what I did yesterday. I know that it included drinking wine on the back deck, while watching the snow in the backyard melt.

We ate dragon bowls for supper….

We watched countless episodes of House Of Cards.

I think that’s about it.

Don’t get me wrong, those are all lovely things, but my whole family used to get together for brunch and easter egg hunts and all that good stuff and now?…

Hey! Side-note:

did you know ( I didn’t, until today) that the tradition of the dying eggs was to colour them red, as a symbol of the blood of Christ (gross) and (even grosser) the significance of the easter egg itself is that it represents a hollow tomb?

So basically, Walmart, and probably every pharmacy in North America was selling 50% off chocolate and candy hollow tombs today.  I thought you should know.



Okay, I know this isn’t a real easter post. Or a real post of any kind but I did kind of write one somewhere else – yes that’s right, sometimes I go other places to spread the gospel of the awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and unarguably juvenile mind.

And now for an excerpt from – Actually it’s not even an excerpt. It’s the whole post. I just wanted to sound cool and smart.



There is a recipe card on the bulletin board in my office, that reads –

You are Easter


I’ve had it there for years.

Okay, to be fair, I haven’t actually had that one up for years, I’ve had many up over the years. Some got lost in moves, some fell down and got trapped behind furniture and subsequently forgotten, One even fell off and landed in the litter box that was in the crate that housed a couple of feral alley kittens for a while.

I keep writing new ones and putting them back up.

The wording may even have changed. I believe the original may have said:

Easter is in you

Either way, they all meant the same thing. They’ve all been a reminder that I am capable of resurrecting my self, my soul, my heart, my health…. whatever needs rebirth in me.

I’m not sure if my family celebrated Easter religiously, but I do remember it was always a big deal at our house. My mother was raised Catholic so I imagine there were religious elements to our traditions.

When I had kids, we continued the rituals – the hot crossed buns (adorned with the cross that Jesus was hung on and baked with the spices that his body was allegedly embalmed in), family brunch, easter egg hunts, baskets of gifts and chocolate, and – until I became vegan – colouring easter eggs.

I found out only this weekend that the symbolism of the egg at easter, is that of a hollow tomb.

The idea of the Easter bunny dropping off baskets of chocolate hollow tombs for the children to eat, is both disturbing and amusing.

But I thought about it and it occurred to me how cool it would be to think of it that metaphor personally.

What if we thought of easter not only (if at all depending on your religious stance, or possible lack there of) as the day that Christ was resurrected, but also as a day of rebirth for ourselves?

A spring New Year of sorts.

You could look at the eggs, as symbols of your past, and embrace your new resurrected self,
 like a phoenix rising from the ash.

Only instead of bursting into flames, and you just would eat hot crossed buns and hollow chocolate tombs.

All I’m saying is, that Easter is in all of us, and eating chocolate is holy. You can’t go wrong there.


Easter is in you. You are Easter.

I Don’t Give A Damn About My Bad Education

Okay, well that’s not entirely true but…

Oh my God – Oh my God – Oh my God! I saw Joan Jett in concert on Monday night and SHUT UP!

Because I can’t even contain my inner everything – from my inner child to my inner teen-angel, to my inner-lesbian and inner-mom. Seriously.

Childhood fantasy realized – check!

Also – The weirdest thing happened during and after the show.

I thought. Deep thoughts.

Not just thoughts about what an amazing couple Joan and I would make if she would just give me a chance, because I don’t even mind that she never seems to talk and is almost always on tour.

Not just thoughts about how I clearly missed my calling of being an immortal punk-rock-star stuck in an irrelevant time warp forever but with a look that is both timeless AND the perfect blend of New York femme & butch.

Not just thoughts about how jealous my own 13 year old self would have been, 32 years in advance, had she known that this night was going to happen.

I thought about what I would tell her if I could go back in time.

Her being me. at 13 years old. And again at 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18 years old.

And here’s what I would tell her/me.

Hey kid! Being a grown-up isn’t a real thing! Seriously! Even the ones who wear suits and ties, are
immature loonybins with bad-choice related drama and insecurity all kinds!

Don’t worry about what you’re supposed to do. just dream huge and go for it. All of it. But make it count.

Don’t just sing for your friends when you’re drunk.

Don’t just go to community improv classes at the adult education centre.

Don’t just write in your dear diary that you don’t know what you want to be because all you want to do is sing and write.

Sing and write!

Do what you love, like you mean it. Go all out. Sing and dance and write and act and do it so big and loud that nobody can ignore you, no matter how hard they try.

Go big kid, for real. Because it’s the only way. It’s not going to fall in your lap.

You don’t have that magical look that the producer just couldn’t put his finger on until you casually and extra slowly walked by that film set.

None of the 8 people in the open mic audience are agents, chomping at the bit and ready to discover and mold you into electro-accoustic folk-chick superstar material.

Grab your passion by the balls and run with it… or them.

And if none of that works, and you wake up on your 40th birthday and you’re still nobody, you’ll still have plenty of time to go to school and get a degree in social work, administration, or real estate, like every other middle aged empty-nester blocked artist does.

The Best Exotic Jewish General (Code Lavender)

So I booked another rejuvenating stay at the Jewish General Hospital quite recently, and I have to say; The new wing is pretty luxurious.

Yes it took me over 12 hours to be admitted –

Yes it took me over 3 hours to get the results of my “emergency” CT Scan –

and Yes there may or may not have been some confusion about whether or not said results should be trusted “I’m not saying they’re inccorrect Mz. Chapman, I’m just saying that it was a resident who read them and it might be best if we wait until a real doctor sees them before jumping to a diagnosis…”

“okay but…. what’s wrong with me?”

But the room was single occupancy, spotless, huge, and equipped with a private bathroom and shower, and the view was phenominal. I spent hours after dark, watching the planes taking-off and landing over a horizon of city lights. It’s the first time I’ve even been in a hospital room that felt healing.


Sure, the nurses occasionally forgot I existed and left the IV bag to run dry, consequently causing the blood to start being sucked our of my body and up into the tubing…

Sure the dietician came to go over the menu with me, asked if fish was vegan, promised me tofu spread and kale salad, and still only fed me kosher broth (pretty good, even though it tasted suspiciously like fish) and jello for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every day while I was there.

But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because I heard something over the intercom the day I arrived in the emergency room, that I’d never heard before. Something that both confused and perplexed me.

Honestly, my first assumtion was that it was something geriatric related. I’m not sure why, but I felt  it sounded like an old person code. A senior has fallen and can’t get up code maybe…

Only they called them like every half hour, and the only senior I saw there was sitting quite upright next to me, talking rather enthusiastically to me about his kidney stones.







The preposé pushed my wheelchair down the hallway, passing the 13 other rooms before mine.

“Is this the geriatric ward?”

“No, surgery”

“Are these patients young enough for surgery?”

Room after room of white hair, walkers, and oxygen tanks

” Am I having surgery??”

“I don’t know, they just told me to bring you here”

I was hooked up to 3 bags on an IV pole but told to stay active.

I did attempt an excursion to the Second Cup in the lobby, but my IV pump, not much unlike a house arrest anklet, decided I’d strayed far enough and began screaming relentlessly at me.

I banged on the silence, start and stop buttons to no avail, and so limitted all further activity to rolling and rattling (I’ve started introducing my IV pole to people as the ghost of Jacob Marley) up and down the same two halls of the 8th floor, over and over again.

By the 3rd day, the pain had dulled enough to inspire me to develope my own brand of special-needs-yoga. My mobility was reduced by the wires, tubes, and apparatus they hung from, and I was rendered somewhat less than graceful.

Frightening even perhaps.

So much so that one of the nurses, who caught a glimpse of my *cough* Dandayamana Bibhaktapada and came bursting through the door.

oh… sorry, I thought you’d collapsed”

Apparently not a lot of yoga happens on K8. And apparently if you are well enough for warrior pose, you’re well enough to go home. Even if you insist that going home is a danger to your health.

Even if you sneak notes to the nurses station that read

“If you make me leave, she’ll make me clean the litter box”

They released me with prescriptions for 4 different medications, a permission to not clean the litter box slip, and a dietary restriction order that calls for the consumption of only soft white and beige foods.

It’s been over a week, and I probably have scurvy but I’m pleased to announce that I’ve started eating people food again, I even had avocado and tomato! Today is my first day off anitbiotics in about a month, and I can feel my appetite coming back already.

In fact, I’ve even called several code Lavenders from the sofa this morning. Every one of which has gone unanswered so far.

Beyonce can suck it and here’s why

Okay maybe I didn’t actually mean that Beyonce herself should suck it.

What I meant is that this quote,

“You have the same 24 hours as Beyonce” – The internet

should suck it.

And so should whoever created, mass produced and distributed all the memes, wall decals, diaries, mugs, and throw pillows with that quote on them.

I can’t. Seriously. If I see it in my newsfeed one more time, or on one more coffee mug or  water bottle…

Do you know why?

Because it is a blantant lie.

Do Beyonce and I technically have the same amount of hours in a day? Yes, yes we do.

Are they the same hours? Not even a little tiny bit.

And I couldn’t help but notice that most people who are commenting on these posts feel the same way as me.

Most people except for Rachel Hollis that is, who writes in her article for the Huffington Post:

The point, at least for me, is that we all get the same amount of time. Not the same circumstances or the same level of assistance, but we all get the same 1,440 minutes every single day. The difference between your life, or mine, or Beyonce’s is defined by what we choose to do with those minutes we’re allotted.”

K, Rachel but the point is actually that we all have the same amount of time in a day, so if Beyonce can do it so can you. Which is stupid because Queen B doesn’t have to clean her house, raise her children, pay bills, or even cut her own toe nails. So yeah, she has all day to work on her art. Her passion, if you will.

I, much like Beyonce, also chose to have parents who had mapped out the career of my dreams while I was still in utero, have my father manage me professionally in one of the best selling musical groups of all time, sell over 180 million records, win 20 Grammy’s, Mary a rich celebrity and have an entire staff to manage my home and raise my children for me, as well as very well oiled machine to manage a whole business that is ME.

I did, I chose that.

But somehow, strangely, our lives turned out to be very different from one another’s.

Don’t get me wrong! I’m not saying that Bey doesn’t work hard. I am absolutely certain that she does. But she does it with the help of  millions of dollars, international superstar status, and a  24 hour entourage of assistants, housekeepers, nannies, drivers, chefs and personal trainers.

Because here’s the truth about that woman you admire, the one you see jogging down the street every morning or fighting her way through a Master’s program online while holding down a day job and raising kids. That woman, has the same 24 hours that you do, but she’s choosing to spend her hours on her dream… not on the excuses for why she can’t achieve it.” 

Only Rachel, we will never see Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter jogging down the street every morning or fighting her way through a Master’s program online while holding down a day job and raising kids. Will we? No we won’t. Please stop.

No matter how passionate or driven I was, if I had spent as many hours in a day singing, as Beyonce does, when I wanted to, I would be jobless, and homeless, and my children would all have been taken away from me by youth protective services – Which may have led them to have happier, healthier, more successful lives, but this post isn’t about them is it? No it’s not. It’s about me and my feelings and the internet and how it should suck it.

I’m guessing you are a really sweet woman, with adorable children, a cute mommy-blog, with more loyal  and a much bigger following of fans, readers and contributers than I could ever dream of having. But…

That woman, has the same 24 hours that you do, but she’s choosing to spend her hours on her dream… not on the excuses for why she can’t achieve it.”

Okay Rachel, honestly, I’m beginning to re-think the title of this blog post. I feel like you’re not hearing me, which leads me to believe that perhaps your husband was the primary breadwinner at your house until you started monetizing your blog, and also that you think that peoples dreams in life are as simple as rock hard abs or more time to play lego with the little guy.

I wanted to be gentle with you but you’re making it hard.

Also, I wasn’t going to say anything but I’m a jerk and I’m pretty sure I’m already going to burn in hell 20 times over anyway, so I’m just going to come right out and do it.

I don’t think that anyone who has written and published books called Smart Girl, Pretty Girl, and/or Party Girl, should be allowed to give grown-ups constructive critisism about their attitudes.  Like I said, you seem like a super nice lady. Also, I’m probably going to even try out your kale chip recipe as a sign of good faith. I’m being honest with you. That’s all.

Also, I want to say that I’m guessing – that the women you overheard complaining that they don’t have the same 24 hours in a day as Beyonce were probably just saying:

“Hey facebook/twitter/internet (Mastin Kipp) I’m trying really hard here. I’m working my ass off, and I really don’t apreciate being told that I’m not working hard enough, or that if I was really working hard, I’d be as successful as Beyonce.”

And maybe, Rachel, juussst maybe… some people need to be allowed to be themselves, be tired, be frustrated and be human – And not try to hold themselves to the same standards as people who have an entire team making it happen for/with them.


Especially if those people are me, and their “team” looks anything like mine…







Potential side effects include mild skin rash, compulsive acts of body art, and C Difficile

I want my body back!!!

Seriously though.

I’m not really a baby, I swear, and if any of these things would just happen alone I wouldn’t even be whining about it. REALLY.

I know it could be worse.

I know half of the world has it harder than me.

I know all of that but I REALLY want my body back.

If it was just the mutant cold.

Or just the monstrous self-impregnating cold sore that has been eating my face for a week.

Or just an injured bicep tendon and rotator cuff.

Or JUST the freakish infection that has decided to play house in my calf.

I promise I wouldn’t be complaining. For real.

But if you could just take a minute to imagine the vision of beauty that I am right now.

A drooling, runny-nosed, coughing, confused, limping,  face-herpes victim with a big dark red spot encircled by a giant red lump on the back of my leg, with a black circle drawn on it in felt pen.

All I’m missing is a hump… and a mole with a hair growing out of it.

Honestly, I disgust myself. I’ve hung sheets over all the mirrors in the house.

The cats won’t even look at me anymore.

If my girlfriend wasn’t too drunk weak from whatever plague I infected her with, to get up off the couch, she would probably pack up and move out.

Naturally, since I’ve been injured for months and sick for weeks, I can’t remember the last time I actually worked out.

And in case my trainer is reading this, yes, I know I worked out but I mean like for real.

More than once a week, and actually working.

I mean not just half halfheartedly lumbering around the gym like a drunk bear on a tricycle.

I mean breaking out into a sweat – not breaking out into hives ( I’ve apparently developed an allergy to physical exertion and general warmth).

I’ve basically gained a trillion pounds, which doesn’t do much for one’s moral.

I tried fighting it for a few days. I made an effort, you know?

Showering, make-up etc… but then I realized that between the incredibly low lighting in our house, and my early-onset middle-aged blindness…. I looked less polished than I did like an elderly drag-queen troll doll.

Especially since my hairdresser had the audacity to go and get herself knocked up with child and stopped colouring my hair (roots) months ago. Honestly, some people are so selfish…

So I gave up. I’ve stopped brushing my hair and quite honestly, it’s been liberating. I have so much more time in a day now – better spent obsessively checking and re-drawing the black circle that the doctor drew around the infected area of my leg.

“The redness shouldn’t go much beyond this line, or you need to be seen again right away.”

The doctor who told me that one of the side effects of the antibiotics he prescribed me is…

C Difficile.

“I really wish you hadn’t told me that”

“I have to. As a doctor, I’m obligated to warn you of all potential side effects. But don’t worry, nobody that I’ve prescribed this to has ever come back to me infected with it”

“Of course they haven’t! They didn’t go BACK to you! They went to the hospital! JEESUS!”

Okay, so where does that leave us?

Ah yes, a trillion pound, plague infected, physically challenged, itchy, limping, grey-haired, mutant-mouth with an angry target drawn on her calf… So basically, I’m this guy right here:



Tune in tomorrow for yet another awe inspiring look into the life of a glamour queen and, if you’re really lucky, an update on the status of the ring around my calf.

xox JJ xox