Sometimes I eavesdrop. Sometimes.

“I have always wanted to go to France.”

“I was in France once. I was in Normandy. On the beach.”

“Wow! I can only imagine how beautiful that must have been.”

“It was D-Day. Juno.”

“I want to make him admit that he wants me too. I want to hear that he wants to fuck me. I want him to admit that he wants to fuck me as much as I want to fuck him.”

“Have you asked him if he’s married?”

“No. I thought that would be inappropriate.”

“Did you know that ducks rape?”

“What!? No they don’t.”

“Oh yes they do. I saw it happen.”


“I – [leans in closer] I witnessed a duck gang rape. I witnessed a gang rape!”

[Waitress walks by]


“You are so beautiful.”

[Pretending] “I am sorry…I – I don’t understand.”

[Moves closer, touches her waist] “You, you are remarkable.”

“I – I don’t speak English…”

“You are S-E-X-Y. Where are you from?”

“I – um – Francais? I am French.”

“I saw this band before they were big. In Ontario last year.”


[Shouting, slowly] “This band! I saw them! Last…year.”

[Shakes head]

“That seemed a lot cooler in my head.”


“You are so sexy.” [Shakes head sadly, brushes her breasts as he walks away.]

“You know how they said dudes go through sexual maturity at 18?”


“And how they say dudes feel the need to spread their semen around to make babies and continue their lineage?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Well, I kind of feel like that. Only I don’t want to spread the lineage. I just want dudes to want me.”

“I get it.”

“You feel the same way?”

“No. But I get why you would. You’re fucking hot.”

“I like Taylor Swift.”


“She’s got great lipstick. And I dance to her songs.”


“She’s killing me man.”


“She wears her tights up to her boobs.”


“No for real. Sometimes I swear they double as a bra.”

“What? Her tights?”

“It’s not a sexy look.”

“I’m afraid nobody respects me.”

“Well that’s crap. Everybody thinks you’re extraordinary.”

“I cry. I cry at all of the beauty.”

“Can I ask you a question?”


“Do you go looking for this beauty? Or you does it come to you naturally? Intrinsically?”

[Thinks] “Both. But mostly I am overwhelmed. Every day.”

[Thinks] “I wish I could do this.”

[Takes hand] “You can.”

“The guy WAS Stalin.”



“I love you.”

“I love you too.”


Looking forward with a turn of phrase

Dear world:

Can we please bring back “heavens to murgatroyd!”?


Please also see: “really cleaned his clock!” and “you’ll end up in the drink!” and “egads!”

(Also “gadzooks!”, “rats!”, and “what a way to run a railroad!”)

Because, for serious, my life is infinitely better anytime I either manage to fit them into a regular conversation, or overhear someone use them while out and about on regular business.

Please picture me wearing a really fab hat while out on said business.

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Wash it with borax? Gee whiz, I’ll have to ask…

I’m pretty partial to old timey language as is, and I would really appreciate that instead of just recycling HORRIBLE FASHION FROM THE 80s and 90s, we could start using some of the awesome slang that came about during roaring twenties, or better yet, the dirty thirties.

What do you say?

I’d like to see this trend take hold like a duck to water.

(Is this too much? I’ll stop if it’s too much.)


I mean, I’m just too big a fan.

Take for instance, the “we got on like [insert verb/noun combo here]” descriptors.

Ie.) Gangbusters, house on fire, a barrel of monkeys, etc.

I mean, how can you not love these? Although I’m not even sure that any of them even remotely make sense.

Also, is a barrel of monkeys a good thing? That just sounds violent and deafening to me.

And do I even want to know the etymology behind these sayings?

Kind of yes, but mostly no.

I’ll just end up finding out that everything I’ve written about has some bloody awful origin and is completely offensive to ninety-nine per cent of the earth’s inhabitants.

On second thought, I should probably bite the bullet and make sure I am in fact riding the PC train straight to onsideville every time I break out my oldisms.



Okay, so you might have guessed it already, but I’m a little tired. The past couple of weeks have been so incredibly jam packed that I’m feeling a tad run down (aka completely exhaustified.)

I’m sitting here on our couch, wrapped in many blankets and the ends of my eyelids are starting to feel as though they’ve been weighted down by miniscule sacks filled with what I’m apt to believe is magic sleep dust.

(I was going to write flour at first, but then what the heck would flour sacks be doing balancing precariously at the ends of my eyelashes?)

I think I might just call it an early night and head upstairs to hit the hay.

Bedtime before ten o’clock on a school night?


But to bed I must, so zoiks and away!