I'D ANSWER THE DOOR, BUT IT'D SCARE YOU TO DEATH

YOU KNOW IT'S THE WEEKEND IF . . . 
I'm dressed like this. 
Actually, I put on more clothes 
 than usual just for you. (The mukluks were a nice touch,
don't you agree?)

You know what I like best about working full-time? The sheer, dirty pleasure of not having to get dressed on your days off. I like this so much I'm afraid I maybe like it TOO much. On weekends, I schlep around the house in increasingly casual looks, wearing T-shirts and baggy pants left behind by an ex (oh don't ask me which one, I don't itemize these things. They're pants, they're big, they must have been his ...) 

Over time, I've gone from wearing comfy sweats to an oversized T-shirt and pants to, well, just an oversized T-shirt.
Because when you live alone, there are no limits. You can walk around butt naked if you want to (although I don't recommend it; when you're my age and you walk past a full-length mirror in the nude, you can give yourself quite a scare).

More often than not, I lounge around all day like this, shuffling from the kitchen to the couch to the wet-bar and then back to the kitchen again. All day. For hours! 
And then one day, while I was making out with a can of Pringles and watching Crazy Stupid Love, the doorbell rang. Well holy hell, I just FROZE! I was like, WHAT THE...? I can't answer that! I don't have any pants on!

So I actually had to cower behind the curtains and watch from the upstairs window as a man stuck a note on the door informing me that I had a package and would have to pick it up at the nearest post office outlet. Because I was too naked to accept it at my own front door.

I realize that the simple solution would be to just put on some damn clothes. But the incredible all-day comfort of not wearing pants compared to the rare occasion of a knock on the door — well it just isn't enough of a lure. I suppose I'm making excuses, perhaps even displaying addictive tendencies. I may very well need clothes-wearing rehab. (And then I could bring home a pair of those baggy hospital pants with the drawstring waist.) 

But for now, sorry. There's a Jays game, a platter of loaded nachos and one big snuggly T-shirt waiting for me. So if you're planning to knock on my door anytime soon and you have a bad heart, a weak stomach or just prefer your friends to be clothed, I'd advise you to call first.

THE ONLY REASON NOBODY DIED IS BECAUSE OF THIS LIST

MY DAUGHTER LEFT ME A TWO-PAGE, DOUBLE-SIDED LIST 
of instructions on how to care for her children in her absence. I'm actually quite flattered. If it were anyone else, she'd have left six pages.

I'm deducing from the unusual surge in hits this morning that hundreds of you are either Russian bots trying to hack into Whorrified or are simply thinking, "She hasn't posted a thing since last Thursday; let's see if the lazy bitch is even still alive ..." If you're the former, tell Putin I said "он полный мудак." If you're the latter, thank you for giving a shit. (I could have died and no one would know until the smell of rotting booze alerted them.) In fact I'm fine, I've just been completely immersed in grandchildren FOR THE ENTIRE WEEKEND.

Although some of you are already familiar with Piggly Wiggly, I actually have two other, older granddaughters about whom I (almost) never write because their mother is a tigress who guards their privacy with a ferocity some might call terrifying. I've been strictly forbidden to Whorrify them in any way, which is her prerogative and I respect it completely, even if I spend my nights trying to think of ways to get around it because holy cow, are those kids photogenic. 
So you can imagine my surprise when I got papal dispensation recently to share the tiniest nugget of information. And here is how it happened:

It was my eldest daughter's anniversary last weekend. She'd planned a surprise getaway with her husband and asked me to babysit their girls. This was no small honour, as the last time they went away overnight without their children was ... um, let me think: never? Yeah. Never. I'd been booked months in advance and had been given comprehensive verbal instructions, but my daughter was taking no chances. There was also, she admitted sheepishly upon my arrival, a note. A two-page, double-sided, painstakingly detailed note explaining literally everything from what the kids should have for dinner to how to turn on the pilot light on the fireplace (with hand-drawn diagram) should it go out. (I particularly enjoyed the footnotes, such as "Billy Elliott video NOT appropriate, lots of F-words and other language.") 

"HEY GIRLS, COME WATCH THIS SCENE FROM CAPTAIN PHILLIPS! NO REASON ..."

But while some might see this as a slight, a slur, an insult to my capabilities as a babysitter, I actually found it adorable. Because I know my daughter. I know that this is classic Type A behaviour. And I know this note was as much for her benefit as it was for mine. Leaving her children for a weekend was a big deal for her; the only way she could be okay with it would be if she could parent from afar: "For breakfast, the girls really like pancakes with white chocolate chips," "Please check on the little one twice before you go to bed, sometimes she gets too hot!" You don't have to be a genius to read the motherly love between the lines there.

My daughter knew her note might seem a little over-the-top. She also knew I would "get it" while simultaneously longing to mock it on the Interwebs for the gratification of my non-paying audience, so, as a gesture of appreciation, she said: "You're dying to blog about my note, aren't you? Fine, you can blog about it — but no pictures. And no names!"

However, as a wise if somewhat slippery boss of mine once said, in fact way more than once said: "It is easier to seek forgiveness than permission." So I didn't seek full clarification on the "no pictures" fatwah and am therefore posting a small shitload of pictures here for your non-paying viewing pleasure. Meaning major parental laws were skirted here, you guys: the least you could do is click on every single ad on the page in appreciation! 

SO WHEN YOU SAID 'NO PICTURES' YOU MEANT OF THE KIDS, RIGHT? 
Because I couldn't resist taking about a dozen selfies in your marital bed. Gawwd it's luxurious!

D

TELL ME AGAIN TO ACT MY AGE, I DOUBLE-DOG DARE YOU

ME, PONDERING THE TRUE MEANING 
of the phrase "act your age," as well as 
the many ways one could neuter a person 
without having to go to jail for it.

A certain person who is very lucky to have escaped with his testicles intact told me to act my age today. He's not the first person to say it and he probably won't be the last. In fact, I hear the phrase "act your age" a lot.

I'm not sure whether it's my youthful good looks, my fashion choices or my taste in music that bring on this unasked-for advice, but regardless, my response is always the same: "You do realize I'm 28, right?"

I'm kidding; I'll be 27 in June. What I actually say is "Come here and say that." 
It's a very effective response that usually banishes the adviser with some alacrity. People often don't back their nosiness up with the requisite cajones, I find. (No, I am not back on the weekday hooch, but thank you for suspecting it. The goal was to lose pounds, not my edge.)
But I will admit it makes me think. I mean, what the hell DOES "act your age" even mean?

Does it mean I should be wrinklier and grumpier?
Does it mean I should I take up crossword puzzles and give up body pump classes?
Or is what they're saying coming from a crueler place? Stop colouring your hair. Stop wearing trendy clothes. Stop getting your nails done. Stop wearing heels that would cripple most women half your age. Stop having fun and start worrying about your mortgage. And above all, just settle the hell down. 

I suspect it is exactly these last few items.
Because what's really going on here is a mix of jealousy, disapproval and women-hating, three things women have grappled with for as long as there've been women and men and Donald Trump.
I've never listened, indeed I listen a little bit less with every passing year. But now I've got the attitude to back it up. You think my pink feathered shoes are ridiculous? Well guess what? You have man boobs. Do I tell you to stop acting your age? You're boring? Your clothes are frumpy? You need to do something about your midsection? Or, perhaps most succinctly: Mind your own damn business? No I do not. 
But come to think of it, maybe I will. Maybe I just goddam well will. Because I let a certain someone out there get away with his testicles intact today. Tomorrow, he might not be so lucky.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *covers crotch anxiously* Er, I would just like to state for the record that it was NOT I who told her to act her age. 
MY NOTE: Oh no need to worry, editor. Everybody knows you don't have testicles.

BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE PERSONAL BLOGGER OF JESUS

SISTER MARY WHORRIFIED bends over her cheese tray in holy prayer. "Dear Jesus, please smite the dirty Christian who stole what was rightfully mine. Amen."

I had a religious experience last week, and if you know anything about me at all, you can probably guess it ended badly. As do most of my religious experiences. And all of my marriages. 

Without boring you with the details of how I got conned into it, let's just say I went to a Ladies' Night Church Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza and came away with a fresh appreciation for how cut-throat those Christians can be.

It all started with the prize tickets they gave out at the door. That's nice, I thought, maybe I'll score one of those knitted tea cosies the church ladies make so that the world's ugliest yarn won't feel unwanted. That'd be just my luck. (Which, in hindsight, might have been where I went wrong. Snide goeth before a fall: Proverbs 16:18.) 

There was dinner and skits and singing and then finally, the promised gift giveaway extravaganza got underway. Within minutes, I'd won a book, a box of bonbons and a tube of hand cream.
But what I really wanted was the big shiny barbecue/smoker I'd spotted amongst the giveaway loot. 
"Bless me Father for I have sinned but holy Moses wouldst I ever loveth to win that friggin barbecue," I chanted in my most virginal voice. 
And then suddenly ... praise the lord ... like the miracle of the loaves or whatever, my ticket number was called, and I rushed that stage like you've never seen a woman in six-inch stilettos rush anything. However, one hates to appear greedy (especially on one's first visit to what one has suddenly decided is going to become a regular thing), so I hesitated when I got there. "What do I do?" I asked one of the other women whose number had also been called. "Do I just pick any prize I want?" 
"Hold on a sec, honey, I'll ask Pastor Kay." (Not her real name, because holy crap, the last thing I need is the evangelicals coming after me.)
And then she turns around and she grabs the barbecue! 

I stared at her in unholy astonishment. 
"Did you just take the barbecue?" I said. 
She smiled and shrugged. "You can pick any prize you want," she said.
Lord forgive me, but I didn't want any other damn prize. I wanted to knock her down and snatch that barbecue. But then Jesus stepped in and whispered that it would look a bit sinful to start kicking good Christian women at their own ladies night, so I sullenly chose a lovely stupid cheese-serving tray and flounced back to my table.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to talk myself out of the seething resentment I was feeling, and then I went home and seethed some more. And do you think I could sleep a goddam wink that night? "Why, Jesus? WHY? WHY DID SHE TAKE MY BARBECUE RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME? Can't you strike her with the clap or something? You have the power ... supposedly." 
Yeah. It wasn't pretty. 

It's now been three full days and the rage still hasn't left me. Every time I look at that stupid cheese tray it courses through me like lava. I'm obviously going to have to regift the stupidthing. (Hey Liz, guess what you're getting for Christmas?) But in the end, just like pregnancy, the hours of maddening agony and communing with our Lord and Saviour yielded something wonderful: I found Jesus. And have now become his personal blogger. He actually finds me quite hilarious and, more importantly, this will give me a fantastic edge at the next Ladies' Night Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza (Monday, Jan. 6, 2014; I checked). Ha! Cheese tray, me arse! *makes sign of the cross*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I have a terrible feeling this is going to end with you being burned at the stake.
MY NOTE: That's for witches, you moron!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *hides behind wall, fist-pumps air, returns* Oh, right. How silly of me.

I TAUGHT MY KIDS TO APPRECIATE NUDITY. AND READING.

HI KIDS! I HAVE TWO SPECTACULAR ONES I'D LIKE TO SHOW YOU!  Books. I'm talking about books. What did you think I was referring to? Weirdos.

We here at Whorrified believe very strongly in the power of nudity reading. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of curling up nude on our vast, sun-dappled porch with bewitching books that transported me to another world. Of course, that was before I discovered vodka, but still. A very formative era. 

As a young mother, my mom saw to it that I was surrounded by literature. Likewise I, as a young mother, took pains to expose my girls to good books. (Particularly this one, which they adored in spite or perhaps because of the fact it gave them nightmares.) I also almost constantly ran around the house in the nude, which is why I was thrilled when my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom, asked for books for Christmas this year, proving she remembered the literature, not the trauma. (Either that or she's blocked it all out. I'm sure her therapist could be bribed to tell me.) 
After 11 months in the company of a creature whose life revolves around breast milk and poop, she fears she's getting baby brain. "I can feel myself getting stupider," she texted plaintively. "Can you pls lend me some of your favourite books for Christmas?" 

I didn't have too many of my favourites on hand, but I did give her Judith Hearne, Rebecca, The Number One Ladies Detective Agency and a few others. She texted me at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday to say "Holy crap, I stayed up all night reading Rebecca!" She couldn't have made me prouder if she'd texted: "I just figured out Ryan Gosling is my real dad!" 

So today I went to the mall and bought two books I've been meaning to read, with the express intention of passing them on to Piggly's mom and my other secret daughter when I'm done with them. They may or may not choose to read them in the nude (although why would anyone choose "not"?), but I have faith that they, too, will pass on the rich tradition of reading to their daughters. Aside from my proven legacy of ethereal beauty, I can't think of a better gift I could leave to my fellow man.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *sigh* Of course she neglected to mention this, so if there's anyone still reading this flammable nightmare she calls a blog, the "two spectacular things" she's referring to are: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman and How the Light Gets In by Louise Penny. Goosebump-inducingly good reads, both of them.

AND ON THE THIRD DAY, SHE ROSE AGAIN. BARELY ...

Me, looking fabulous yet naive,
aboard the dirty red whore that 
almost killed me two days later. 

Anyone who read the post about my catastrophic moped accident in Bermuda, in which I shredded my hamstring like pulled pork, already knows I'm indisposed. If you missed that jolly vignette, you can read it here. 

For the rest of you, an update: I still feel like crap.

It's disheartening to see how slow my progress is, it's maddening to not be able to do a blessed thing, including hobble to the latrine, without howling out loud and turning the air blue with curse words.
On the plus side, I'm becoming a whiz at crutches. My leg may be withering away but my biceps are beefing up nicely. 

I'm catching up on my drinking, my reading, my movie-watching, my observing of the comings-and-goings of the neighbours, my meticulous inventory of the areas of the house (visible from a supine position on my couch) that could use cleaning. Thankfully my daughter is coming to visit on Sunday. I'll have the mop and Pine-Sol ready. She loves that.

And then this bedraggled bag lady broke into 
my house and gave me a crutches demo.

Friends and family and neighbours have been fantastic, bringing me so much food I'm starting to think they're fattening me up because they think I'm going to die and, dang it, let's at least make sure she tastes good afterwards!  "Oh come on, Marie, you can manage a few more bites of this rum cake! There's a good girl! Heheheheh."

Oh and lastly, I've been getting some! Lots, actually. Best ever, in fact. Why should a shredded hamstring stop me from enjoying that?
Sleep, I'm talking about. What did you think I was talking about?  

All right, it's obviously time for some happy pills. They don't do much for the pain but they make me find myself absolutely hilarious. Have a happy Easter, everyone. And if you must drink, don't drive a moped, because you might run over zombie Jesus, freshly risen from the dead. (It's the pills, people. I can't help myself.)