Dear Universe

Okay Universe… you’re being real cute right now and I don’t appreciate it. I also feel like we’ve had this conversation before. It’s not cute.

Let’s talk about money. It’s been a relatively simple ask: let me have some money. I’m willing to work for it, but it would be more fun to have it fall into my lap. Either way, I want money. Cash. Windfall. Long lost relative who leaves me something in their will. A REAL prince via email.


You send me exes. You sent me the ex from TEN years ago to creep my profile on LinkedIn (why?). You sent my ex from nearly two years ago to work down the street from where I live and work…right smack in the middle of my dog’s favourite walking route.



Not cute.

One of my friends suggests that the universe is TRYING to tell me to recognize the signs and acknowledge that it’s trying to send me a man…

Okay. Let’s roll with this. It wasn’t what I was asking for – because I don’t think I’m ready – but sure. Why the hell not?

So. Universe? I’m guessing I have to be specific. Because if you’re going to send me a man so attractive that I momentarily forget how to use words, CAN YOU MAKE SURE HE’S 100% SINGLE?!


This guy. Well. This guy seems sweet and funny, and smart, and OH HE COOKS… but is “sorta” seeing someone.


Is this the kind of “sorta” where he means that he’s just started to date someone and things are great, but like any great romantic comedy moment, our meet cute causes him to rethink that relationship with the harridan* of a girlfriend, and pursue me…or is he a typical Toronto dude, in which case “sorta” actually means that he’s been with the same chick for over a year, they live together, and just got a dog…but y’know, he’s not looking to “define what they are.


*(Yes. She’s probably a wonderful woman…but for my fantasy, she’s a harridan and an obstacle to overcome, okay? In my head, she is a MINOR TECHNICALITY.) 

Please dear Universe: send me the dude who is tatted, bald, with strong features, nice eyes, nice smile, wonderful voice, professional, close to my age, with a sense of purpose and a sense of style. Make him easy to talk to, a little bit flirty, loves to cook, and make him 100% AVAILABLE.

If that’s too much to ask, I’m willing to settle for cash.





FACT: I LOVE love.

Your reaction as you read this:


I DO! 

I just don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day though. I’m not one for sentimental displays of affection. I joke that boyfriends have always gotten off easy, because I refuse the acknowledge the day.

Which leads people to believe that I hate romance, or love. That I reject the idea of it.

Nope. Not true at all.

It’s lovely. Besides, to know me is to know I LOVE candy. How can a person who loves candy as much as I do even possibly dislike the second most candy-oriented holiday of the year?*

Kids. Love is this awesome and amazing thing, and it does more than release endorphins. It motivates. It inspires. It creates.

Well… I think it should.

Too often, #LOVE is often relegated to this one day.

A shit ton of importance is placed on this day.

A day for a grand and wonderful expression of love.

Me, when people start talking about #VALENTINESDAY

That? That’s boring. I HATE that. That I hate. Ick. It’s so…


That kind of love, that same old, same old love is what I raise an eyebrow to and kiss my teeth at. I have higher standards for love. I don’t want the same old. I don’t want sentimental teddy bears or milk chocolate hearts. I don’t’ want lukewarm bubbly, or a dinner out.

Been there. Done that.

Do better. Expect better.

My standards for #LOVE is means that I’m ACTUALLY a romantic.

(Waits for y’all to stop laughing)

(Waiting. Waiting…) 


Love should be an everyday expression, and not one that you wait to toss into a card. You have 365 opportunities to show love, so why try to cram it all into one day? By cramming it into this ONE day, most people end up getting half assed attempt at a grand gesture, and THAT is something I hate. Half-assery. Y’know what I hate even more? People giving credit to half-assery. Thinking that this ONE day is the one day to know and experience love.


Are you serious?

You got a card today. A dinner even. But tomorrow? Do you just go back to the same old tomorrow? WHYYYYYY? By placing importance and value on that ONE day, you miss out on the other days. You inadvertently tell the people in your life that they don’t have to make any effort the other 364 days because as long as they show they #LOVE you today, it’ll make up the difference.

I know…other holidays are relegated to one day. We don’t celebrate Christmas 365 days of the year, so why this one. Really? Look at this way: a faithful Christian** gives thanks for the life of Jesus every day, so why can’t we acknowledge and give thanks for love every day?

I’ll be honest: part of me just wants cinnamon hearts to be available year-round, but also, I want…seek out…and cultivate love every day.

It’s more effort. But it’s worth it. You’re worth it and you know for DAMN sure I think I’m worth it.


* – candy usually goes on sale at 6 pm…y’all have no idea how excited I am


** – faithful Christians, feel free to correct me on the frequency thing. I got kicked out of Sunday school when I was 8 AND I’m an atheist, so I’m basing my assumption on how my friends and family act.

#MyMotherMadeMeDrink – Xmas 2016

On Christmas Eve, my mother asked me about my dating life.


I dodged the question.

On Christmas Day, a friend of the family called.

“Auntie says Merry Christmas and wants to know when you’re getting married.”


Blame the sorrel and spiced rum for my response: “CAN I GO ON A DATE FIRST?! Merry Christmas”

On Boxing Day, my mother casually drops that she has never liked any of the men I’ve dated.


Wait. What?

My mother thought I was going to marry one of these dudes! I didn’t even think I was going to marry one of them!

“Uhm. You thought we’d get married…?”

“Yeah. But I realized later. He was a six at best.”

“A SIX? You’d thought I would marry a SIX?”

“Welllll. Not NOW. But you were young then. I didn’t like the cheater at all. Nope.”

“Okay. Not at first, but–”

“Not EVER. I never told anyone. Except your sister. She agreed.”



You welcomed these men into your home. Made meals for them. But you never once expressed your doubts to me?!?!

“I didn’t like the one from high school. The wannabe rapper.”

WAIT. We’re going into the archives?

My mother basically told me ANY dude I’ve brought home over the past 25 years has been “meh”. That is a direct quote. “Meh.”

“You know who I’d think you like? That Steph Curry. I think that would be cute.”


“Mom. I can’t date another liteskint dude. We’d look related!”

(Let’s pause for a moment since my mom laughed for a full twenty seconds.)

“Really? Hmmm. I guess. But if you can’t date light skinned men, how you gonna date a White guy”

“I don’t LOOK WHITE mother”

“Wellllll. Wait. Why are you pouring more rum into that sorrel?”

Dinner For One…


I get it.

What I’m happy about is that I “got it” a lot quicker than the last time.

I wanted a date. You wanted to fuck.

Now. These things aren’t mutually exclusive. Just because I wanted a date (first), it didn’t mean that you weren’t going to get fucked. But I can see how you might think that. But to forget that you had made plans for a date? While still remembering that you wanted to fuck me?


We didn’t even get started, so I can’t even be mad…

(or even bitter) 

I AM annoyed. I wasn’t sure why at first. So I slept on it.

But I woke up. Annoyed. Thought about it some more.

Then it hit me.

It was the, “I have a lot on my plate” line.


Cue up Sunshine Anderson, because I’ve heard that all before…

I get having a lot on one’s plate. I do. I really do.

But I’m not parsley, luv.

I’m the fucking steak.

The main course that you can’t wait to dive into. The one you make reservations for. The one you wait to be cooked to perfection. The one you’ll stand in line for when you can’t make a reservation.

I’m not drive thru.

So. Just like that (poof), you are gone.

Nope. I’m not interested in seeing the dessert menu.

I’mma just order some takeout.



Word of the Day: Transmorgrify

I have questions.

These questions have been bubbling for a minute now. But the announcement today of the #BlaccRob engagement makes me want to ask them out loud. This happened with Ciara and Russel Wilson a few weeks ago, and I’m sure has happened with other famous and non-famous folks for years now. I’m just using these two as examples.

A woman is with a dude who isn’t – let’s be fair here – great.

For whatever reason, they break up. The dude who wasn’t…great continues being not so great and living his life like it’s golden.

When they were together, the guy was celebrated by other men for having a “fine ass woman”…a woman who is a freak in the sheets. A woman who has the perfect face, the perfect hair (re: weave), the perfect whatever. When they were together, the woman may have even had a special “designation”:

She has a kid – she’s wifey/babymoms

She gets his named tattoo’d on her – she’s a ride or die

She marries him – she’s a wife

She lives with him – she’s a “girl”

Then. The breakup.

For WHATEVER REASON because that’s not what I’m here to question.

The woman starts a new relationship and this relationship is on new terms. This relationship doesn’t unfold under the same circumstances as the last one. She seems happy. New dude seems happy.

Boom. They get engaged. Or move in together. Or have a kid.

Said girl/wifey/ride or die/wife has now becomes a “hoe”. With a high body count.

This is my question: at what point does that woman transmogrify into a hoe?

Is it when the other dude has sex with her for that first time (increasing this “body count)?

Is it when they commit to each other?

Is it when he says he loves her?

Is it when they move in together?

When does it happen? I really want to know.

Oh. I have another question. When it happens to a non-famous dude – let’s say it happens to YOU –  do  you ever wonder what kind of reflection this has on your character? Your choices? Because if being with a  hoe is a bad thing for a guy to do, and you’re now worried about new guy’s reputation since he’s decided to wife up a hoe. If said hoe has been with so many dudes before she got with this guy.


Do the guys that came before you not count? Are they erased? Did you penis magically transmogrify her vagina and erase all those other penises? OH MY GOD! IS YOUR PENIS MAGICAL? DOES IT HAVE THAT KIND OF POWER? Let’s say it doesn’t. Back to my original question: YOU chose her. YOU dated her. YOU may have even had a CHILD with her. What renders her a “hoe”? Because she chose poorly?

*by “poorly”…I mean she chose you at some point.


Imma sip this tea while I wait for the answers to my questions…

File under “NOPE”

“If I meet someone and that person is disgusted by the idea of a box, then maybe I should be spending time with someone more akin to myself,” 



Meet the Guy Paying $400 to Live in a Literal Wooden Box Inside Someone Else’s Apartment – (vice mag)


I have questions:

  1. where are your clothes? Do you sleep on them? I’m not gonna judge. I’m single. There are days I just take the fresh laundry and dump it on the empty side of the bed or on the armchair. But, you…you’re living in a box.
  2. You pay $400 a month for a box. I’m not going to fault you for this. The rent is too damn high where I live also, but really… roommate? I mean, you’re already living with (surrounded by?) people. How is essentially building a room of your own any different?
  3. When (if…) the opportunity presents itself, how are you going to invite someone back to your…box?
  4. Now that we’re on that topic, say someone says “yes” to you and comes back to your box…and they are “akin” to you. What are the logistics of this? Because it’s more than just your dick in this box. There’s a whole other body. How? Have you created sex positions that allow you to fuck inside the box?

Worst. Date. Ever. (3 of 5-ish)

Today, I’m going to tell you about the time I joined the Babysitter’s Club by accident.

I met Allen through a friend many years ago. While he wasn’t exactly my type, he did have a pair of gorgeous eyes. The kind of eyes that are generally described in romance novels. The kind of eyes that Debbie Gibson sang about. When we were introduced, I actually lost my words for about 10 seconds. To top it off, the man had one of those thousand watt smiles and a beautiful body. When he left us, I asked my girl what the defect was. She laughed and said, “he’s hot, and funny. But because he’s short…he doesn’t get a lot of play.”

Oh. That’s…it…?

When Allen asked me out a week later I said yes (and wore flats). We went out to a jazz club and enjoyed many many laughs over many many shots of whisky. A couple of weeks later, Allen followed up for date number two and I said yes. He suggested that coming Saturday and when I looked at my calendar to confirm, I was reminded that I had promised to take a friend’s son to the Science Centre. Could we make it another time?

Well I have my son that weekend and I have a family pass to ROM… how about we all go together?

Since the boys were the same age, I thought, “why not?” I had ended up making a play date even though I don’t have any kids. This date reminded me why that’s the case.

We agree to meet at the museum and Allen is already there. I meet his son, and the boys being 8-year-old boys, bonded within 10 seconds. Perfect. The boys will occupy each other, and I’ll have a chance to get to know Allen more.

Have you ever been around an 8-year-old boy? The last time I was around an 8-year-old boy was when I was an 8-year-old girl, and I didn’t enjoy it then. Things I learned that day:

  • It’s hard to keep up with 8 year olds when you’re wearing heels.
  • When faced with African fertility statues, 8-year-old boys will find the “boobies” hilarious and reference them every ten minutes.
  • 8-year-old boys WILL try to climb exhibits. Even if you told them in the last room that they can’t climb anything at all.
  • 8-year-old boys will challenge everything you say. You can tell them the sky is blue while pointing to a clear blue sky, and they will tell you that blue is just a name we’ve given the colour and the sky could really be purple.

While walking running, I caught the eyes of a few women around me. They were giving me a look. I didn’t recognize the look.

Maybe it was the way I repeatedly told my friend’s son, “wait until your father hears about this”, or the way I would say to each boy, “you have five seconds to get down off of that or we’re leaving!”, but it slowly dawned on me as I sat on the bench outside the kids dino exhibit, they were giving me that, “oh girl, we know” look.

A universal look of sympathy that one mother gives to another when her child is acting up in public. Because Allen, his son, and my friend’s son were all about the same shade as me…people thought we were a family…and that I was the mom.

That moment when I realized…

Where was Allen? Well that was the other reason I was getting the “oh girl we know” look. Allen was walking at least 10 paces behind us the entire time. Allen was walking slower than the old people who exercise in the malls before they open. I swear I saw a kid with a cast move faster than Allen down a flight of stairs. The funny witty Allen from a few days ago?

Gone. Replaced by hung over Allen. Yes. Allen was hung over from partying the night before. That crippling kind of hangover…the kind where you don’t get out of bed. But Allen had his son with him, so he had to get out of bed.

But he didn’t cancel the date.

No. Not when I was “doing so well with them.”

“You’re really good with kids… you must’ve been a great babysitter.”


FACT: I babysat ONCE when I was teenager. For my next-door neighbour. About an hour in, I called my mom in for backup and never babysat again. Until this date…

Yes. He roped me into babysitting his son. My date was spent chasing after two rambunctious 8-year-old boys through a museum. In heels.

It was time to leave the museum…we needed to feed these kids. Standing outside the museum, we debated where to go. The boys spot the McDonald’s across the street and ask if we can eat there.

In perfect unison, I say “NO!” and Allen says “yes” at the same time.

The boys plead with me to go to McDonald’s, and I insist on something with real food on the menu. Allen, Mr. “My Body is a Temple” (seriously, dude was ripped), realizes that he let his hangover do the talking and eventually agrees with me. My nephew decides to get mouthy and challenge me the way 8-year-old boys do.

“We’re not going and that’s final. If you don’t want to eat elsewhere, you can go home and eat. In fact, let me get you a cab right now and send you to your father’s”

(yes. I’m the kind of person who will uber a child home. THIS IS WHY I DON’T HAVE KIDS)

“Well fine. Put me in a cab. I’ll just tell him to take me to McDonald’s!”


Pro tip: threatening to put a child in the trunk of a car while standing on a busy street on a Saturday? This will cause old White ladies in fur coats to whip out their cellphones ready to call 911.

We take our children to a family friendly restaurant (gawd help me) near the museum. I immediately order off the drinks menu. The boys draw boobies on the kraft paper tablecloth in crayon. But we make it through the meal and Allen (finally) contributes to the day by taking the boys to the bathroom before we head home.

Our waitress comes over to the table and says to me, “I just gotta tell you that your boys are just so adorable! The entire wait staff is in love with them!”

They’re not mine. I’m sending them back to where they came from as soon as you bring the cheque…

No other dates with Allen. Play or otherwise…

Post script: in my post date conversation with my girl I repeatedly mention the hangover.

“Oh yeah. Allen binges on the weekends quite a bit. He’s usually hungover most Saturdays and Sundays…”