So my daughter had recently acquired a couple cavities in her precious mouth hole.

I give her a meticulously 3-point inspection on the regular so I was already aware of their presence.

I am a picker.

I offer up no apologies for this trait of mine and rather refer to it as monkey love.

It is not gross it is me loving you.

My personal brand of love includes habitual examination and scrutiny of basically your entire person.

It is easier for both of us if you don’t try to fight me.

Just lie there and let all this happen to you.

My husband in particular absolutely loves being examined.

It is truly the only time we fight.

I am particularly thrilled if I happen upon a zit or some kind of blackhead type situation that it is truly my fucking calling to attend to.

So much so that every night once I have finished reading Matt ‘I Love You Forever’ and that big boy is truly, really asleep I apply a thin layer of butter to his entire face and while I do this I sing,

‘I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I’m living your monkey I’ll be.’

But seriously it can get ugly.

I have this awesome system that includes a blindingly bright desktop lamp, tweezers, a pin, toner and various bloodied cotton swabs.

Occasionally I will hold out my hand to no one in particular and demand in my best mid surgical tone, SCALPEL.

My husband’s personal pain threshold is what we in the picking biz refer to as that of a total pussy.

This can be enormously irritating for a go-getter such as myself.

So what if your face is a bit swollen now?

Maybe you’re bleeding a little bit in a couple spots?

What’s the problem Giselle, you have a fucking photo shoot tomorrow?

Man up.

In truth I may be sort of…perhaps slightly… totally out of fucking control.

I may have even tackled him a couple times and wrestled him to the ground to thwart his attempts at escape.

I am surprisingly strong and also sort of terrifying.

Apparently I am the only person who thinks this is totally hilarious.

Whatever.

It comes from a good place, you fucking pansy.

I just want all of us to be really clean.

So anylunetic, the female child creature has a dentist appointment at a centre that specializes in children.

When I was a kid there was no such thing as a Children’s Oral Health Centre and rather we just raw dogged that shit without so much as a television all medieval like.

Dentists and their assistants had absolutely no problem pinning down a screaming, writhing child who is basically fighting for their lives and just getting shit done.

Such is not that case in these the amazing days in a brave new world.

Apparently it is no longer acceptable to engage a child in any discomfort of the dental variety without getting them cranked out of their little minds first.

I wasn’t looking forward to this either so the prospect of my kid being all Courtney Love for the event seemed like an excellent option.

This is how it works.

The day before the appointment which is generally first thing in the morning the kid cannot consume any substance whatsoever from midnight on.

You arrive and they set you up in a little room with a couch and a dvd player and they are then fed a little glass of ‘orange juice’ and then you wait.

Once they are sufficiently out of their minds they are taken into the actual dental chair and tied down so the dentist can go about her business with minimal fanfare.

The kid is not supposed to remember anything at all therefore forgoing that whole fear of dentist’s thing that so many adults suffer from.

I am an anxious mess on my best days so I figured this would all be totally fantastic.

That is when I read the compulsory sign off list of shit that could happen to my kid were she to have a bad reaction to the medication.

This was something I clearly should not have done.

So the morning of said appointment I am a fucking disaster.  I am playing it all cool and shit for the sake of the kid who has absolutely no idea what we have in store for her.

My ex-husband arrives who I have enlisted in co-piloting this whole operation as a contingency plan should I land myself having an excellent panic attack and throwing up in the parking lot.

I never actually fall apart and shit the bed, particularly on my children, but I do enjoy the comfort of a solid contingency plan.

So we arrive at the dental office and are ushered into a little room where my sweet, precious baby is given the Kool-Aid.

Within about 15 minutes she becomes totally hilarious and starts yelling shit like,

‘Who dialed up my voice?  I am the loudest person you ever met!’

And

‘This room is sooooooo much better than it was a couple minutes ago.  I could totally stay here for… like.. the rest of my life.’

Seeing your 5 year old cranked out of their fucking head is a bit of double-edged sword.  Sure it was funny at times but that whole ‘Danny After the Dentist’ shit is only truly enjoyable when the brain it is happening to resides within the head of someone else’s kid.

So they come to get her and they’re all like ‘It’s time to go for a ride in a rocket ship to the magical kingdom!’ and she’s all like ‘Yessssss!’ and I’m all like ‘fuck no where is my clonazepam?’

So she gets the work done and is totally fine.

I read about 14 shitty magazines and age roughly 25 years.

Once she was done we are brought back into the recovery room to hang out with her until she woke up.

Neither of us was prepared at all for what was in store for us once that happened.

It was like being the mother of a three foot Robert Downey Jr. circa 1995.

When she came to she was the most belligerent asshole I have ever met.

The only thing I could appropriately quantify it against would be dealing with a blindly drunk chick that is pissed off about something that doesn’t even really exist and is insisting on driving home.

Everyone has been there at one point or another in their misspent youth.

What was at one point in her life your totally normal friend becomes this sloppy inebriated disaster who gets it into her head that everyone is pissed off at her – because they are – because she is ruining the entire night through the drunken spectacle she is creating and then decides that she is going home and is probably going to take out a couple innocent families in the process.

Then you are forced into a situation of coercing her to stay – because everyone loves her and thinks she is the bomb diggity – but inside your own head you are just wishing she will fucking pass out already because she really taking a big dump on you trying to get some on a Friday night.

It was sort of like that but with your own daughter.

And she is 5.

She was all ‘I’m out of here’ while getting up and spilling her little loaded self on to the floor.

The office assistant tried giving her a little plastic toy frog to play with to keep her busy of which she immediately ripped off the leg and then looked at us with utter disdain and slurred ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with a three-legged frog?’

That was all before she pissed her pants which according to her was totally hilarious.

They gave us a pull-up to put on her but that wasn’t before she traumatized us both while insisting on showing us her new yoga moves, namely the downward dog, while we attempted to wrestle her back onto the couch.

There was a lot of unhappy eye contact with the brown eye.

Once she had the diaper on she really upped the ante by threatening to shit her pants before spending the next 15 minutes barking like a dog.

It was an epic nightmare.

The scariest part of the whole thing was – and I’m pretty sure I can count on numerous ex-boyfriend accounts of my own personal nights of shame – that I have done all of this exact same shit at various points of my early twenties.

She is a tiny me.

So obviously I have that to look forward to.

But seriously what the fuck can you do with a three-legged frog?

Basically nothing.

I will help you untangle your freak flag from that tree so you can fly it.

Illegal Counsel

It never ceases to amaze we what sort of shit people Google to end up looking me square in the text.

Here are some of today’s big winners.

raeleigh jane eats bran

meth mouth

mom with no arms and no legs having sex

aaron carter’s recent fuck

did chad kroeger cut his hair?

matthew good’s wife, asshole

buying a ticket to hell

and the ever popular…

chicklet whore

I apologize to anyone who has been let down by the fact that I have arms and legs.

Sincerely.

I think.

On Friday night my husband and his management hosted a tour wrap up fiasco at Uva Wine Bar for all the lovely people who worked on the tour as well as the band members.

First of all WTF is an Uva?

Do I take a left at Fallopian Tube to arrive there?

Do they close for seven to five days once a month to flush the wine pipes?

Gross.

Only in Vancouver.

So we marched down to VuLva like a bunch of thirsty tampons after the show prepared to absorb some wine.

Matt did not intend to stay very long because he still had the last show to play the following night and, remarkably enough for anyone who attended either show at the Vogue, he was suffering from Bronchitis.

My husband fucking rules.

Friday night was the fourth time ever I have seen him perform and I gotta admit it makes me a feel a bit awkward.

Our relationship and home life as far as timing has gone has possessed a pretty significant disconnect from the whole Matthew Good part of the human creature that is Matt Good.

When Matt toured Vancouver I was stricken with the Swine and on a self-imposed quarantine.

During festival season that same year I came down with a case of The Thomas and stayed home to vomit and sleep in the comfort of my own home.

So aside from a New Year’s show in North Carolina and the last year’s Squamish Fest I have not been exposed to that very surreal side of my husband’s life.

He is a hot piece up there.

I ‘get’ the whole guy who walks downstairs in his boxers scratching his ass in the morning yelling CAFFINATE ME WENCH marrying me.

I ‘get’ being married to the guy who helps me wrestle a ten month old Octopus Boy to the ground so we can change his diaper while I scream ‘GRAB HIS LEG, HIS LEFT FUCKING LEG IDIOT, YOU’RE MAKING US LOSE THIS ONE’ being married to me.

I am totally comfortable being married to the guy who dresses up like a fucking English Nobleman, cravat and all, to go and shovel horse shit in the morning while I yell out the window, ‘Milady, a woman of your beauty has no need for such… decorations’.

But that other guy up on the stage…

I have no idea why he married me.

He is way cooler than I could ever be.

Enough faggotry and on to the rest of the story.

So I am generally a massive proponent of the ‘when your husband goes home you go home’ philosophy on public debauchery but Matt wanted to go home way earlier than I did and considering I have been on lock down with two asshole children and a farm for the last couple months I was quick to offer my own self a pass on this particular occasion.

Mommy was going to get loose night.

Figuratively and stuff.

So that part of the night starts when everyone stops sitting in their respective seat areas and starts just standing by the bar.

Everyone knows what I am talking about.

So due to my new vantage point inside of the VuLva I notice a face I totally recognized but was unable to place.

I think what initially caught my attention was the very homosexual nature in which this face was talking coupled with the fact that this face was attached to a body that was wearing tight red pants.

I delved deep into my catalog of awesome gays and came back with nothing.

That is when I realized who he was and why I was thrown by his shrillness.

He was the very straight ‘clandestine love interest’ of Cassie Blake in The Secret Circle.

None other than Thomas Dekker or as myself and every other teenage girl know him, Adam the witch with the perpetually drunk dad.

I very seriously considered going back to Opus and dragging my unconscious five-year-old daughter into the Vulva to blow her fucking mind.

We mother and daughter hit that shit on the regular.

I am an awesome cultural influence via media.

Maybe.

So I completely out and also entirely humiliate myself by asking every single person within our party if the know they show The Secret Circle while hissing over my quivering wine glass.

Because they are all actual adults no one had any idea what I was hissing about.

So I have yet another glass of wine and am encouraged by Jessica Lemmon, who is five years my junior and has absolutely no idea what The Secret Circle is, to let my sack drop and just ask him if he is a witch.

So I do and it is him.

Further he adds while the entire table turns to face my stupid ass, they all are.

The slutty witch, the witch hunter, that witch who gets possessed after they open that box the found buried in the forest.

The whole fucking coven is there.

In the Vagina.

I try to blame it all on my daughter and am all ‘I’m thirty so this is weird, right?  My daughter loves your show when I buy it on iTunes and we watch it right after Vampire Diaries which she also loves on my laptop and usually she falls asleep but I don’t cause I am not five and like the night life and partying and whatnot.  So like can you tell me what is going to happen in the next season cause the finale left this mom of two fucking hanging.’

It was one of those moments after you expel an immense degree of verbal diarrhea that just continues to explode from your gaping mouth hole while your brain is screaming OHMIGOD SHUT THE FUCK UP that you turn and totally expect to see an escape helicopter parked on the sidewalk waiting to remove you from the situation you have created for yourself with both lift and thrust but it is never actually there.

I fucking hate that helicopter.

They were really polite and thanked me for watching their show and said not to feel bad about being a teenager in the body of an old hag (that is how my brain translated it) because they need to expand their audience.

Then they did that thing that famous people do after they are recognized in a public forum and eyed me suspiciously for the remainder of the night while I pretended not to be looking at them.

I may have even accidently timed my cigarette interludes to theirs.

You guys want to talk about the next season maybe?

Get some shit off your chests?

Maybe you’re mad at Cassie for taking the majority of the spotlight?

I am a really good listener and don’t even have a blog or anything.

I’m like a steel drum of information were you to feel like telling me what is going to happen in the next season.

This is as far as it would go.

True Story.

Someone please kill me.

This all started with a text message.

A text message that I actually heard only because I was parked in the front of house at the Vogue watching my sister in law devour a vegetarian burrito like it was the last pussy on the planet.

I didn’t mention this to her at the time, while she was busily licking and nibbling her way to victory, but it was pretty graphic.

Our relationship has reached a whole new level.

I love you Chloe.

‘This thing is huge, do you want some?’

I totally would but generally in matters of the vegetarian burrito I like to run that shit by my husband first and since he is sort of engaged at the moment I have to decline.

It was the right thing to do.

So my phone starts making noises and I delve into the nether reaches of my purse to find it.

The text is from my mother in law and says only ‘call me immediately’.

So I do.

In the toilet.

Because that is the quietest place available.

She informs me that some assholes are making comments on Matt’s official Facebook page that our house is looking empty and they hope we have a terrible Christmas.

I’m all ‘my Dad is there, don’t worry.’

Maybe.

So I call my Dad three hundred and sixty eight times and he doesn’t answer.

Finally I call my Mom.

Apparently my Dad is asleep on the couch at his very own house and not mine where Christmas is seemingly ‘being made terrible’.

Awesome.

So I call our local Police Department to inform them of our situation.

They assure me that I am not being hysterical and that they will happily send a couple cars out to secure our ‘very empty looking house’ until my Dad remembers that he is supposed to be house sitting for us and arrives to sit on our house.

I am in the midst of crouching by the handicap shitter giving a complete statement in the event that Christmas has actually been destroyed when I am lucky enough to meet the antagonist of our story.

Some antiquated uber bitch is washing her hands furiously and fucking glaring at me.

‘I paid a hundred dollars to hear Matthew Good sing not to hear you talking on your cell phone in the bathroom.’

I am totally stunned.

I mean we are in the fucking bathroom.

It’s not like I am taking a call beside her in the theater or even interrupting her experience in the lobby.

I am in the shitter.

You can hardly hear anything in here.

Maybe that was the problem.

If you plan to enjoy the concert from the obscure location that is the shitter at the Vogue than I imagine the simple act of someone flushing the toilet let alone talking on their phone could mess with you hearing the muffled voice of the Matt.

‘I am talking to the police.’

It seemed important enough to me and was basically all I had.

‘I don’t care who you are talking to; you are a rude idiot and should not be talking on your phone in here.  Who the fuck do you think you are?  You obviously don’t care for his music so what are you even doing here?’

‘I’ll have you know that I am actually trying to stop Christmas from being destroyed at Matt’s house.’

‘What are you a fucking elf?’

‘I’m his wife.’

‘You know what sweetheart, Matt was married to a stupid blonde bitch at one point in his life but I can assure you that he isn’t anymore.’

Slow.   Fucking.   Clap.

And with that she leaves me crouch on the floor with officer Stadanko asking if I am still there.

‘I think so.’

Now I am not a big concert go-er, never have been, but is it a common occurrence to have women impersonating the significant others of musicians in the bathroom?

So I finish making my statement… rudely… in the bathroom.

The cogs in my little brain just grinding away in precisely how I am going to square shit up with this bitch.

She said she had paid a hundred dollars to hear Matt sing and if that was the case she was not only paying for the singing part.

That is the cost of the VIP package in which among other things you get to attend a meet and greet with Matt after the show.

A meet and greet that tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I just decided I was also going to attend.

We locked eyes when she came in.

I gave her a wink and said it was really nice to see her again.

Matt had no idea what the fuck was going on and sign a bunch of shit for her and her entourage.

Turns out they were old family friends of his parents.

I didn’t say a word just watched her squirm while she waited for me to blow her out of the toilet water.

Much like the vegetarian burrito situation, it was the right thing to do.

Cause I am a lady.

Who hangs out in the shitter.

10 ways to desexify.

Illegal Counsel

I have, in the course of my life, received quite a bit of flack for making grandiose statements about ‘how things are’ and assuming that everyone not only shares my experience but also agrees with me wholeheartedly.

I labor under the delusion that you are totally relieved that someone actually said whatever I am saying out loud.

I am not going to stop doing this.

While I might not agree with your disagreement of any number of my all-encompassing generalities regarding everything, I will defend to the death your right to plausible deniability.

Then once you have left the room I will announce to everyone the degree to which you are obviously full of shit.

So carrying on then, I am going to tell you about how awesome it is for women to ‘get their groove back’ so to speak in the fashion department once they have come out the other side of the horrific ordeal that is shitting out a kid.

I am by no means a fashionista and further want to stab myself repeatedly in the ears when chicks start waxing poetic about their fucking outfit particularly the shoe part of said outfit.  However, my greatest fear is reaching that point that comes in life where I can no longer feign interest in ‘what the kids are doing’ and then just continue to dress in the style that existed during the last good year of my life.

I know this day is coming.

It fucking haunts me.

The day I become your gruesome aunt with her feathered hair, cowboy boots and variety of matching pant suits.

Everyone has one of these.

Don’t argue with me, liar.

She doesn’t need your protection.

She clearly doesn’t give a fuck.

Her kids’ just dying a million deaths when she shows up in any social situation in which they feel her and her fucking banana clip could reflect upon them in any meaningful way.

This is the day I want to get hit by a car.

So with this horrendous reality looming in my head I labor on doing whatever the snappy little teenage sales girl at Aritzia tells me to do.

During pregnancy however and the lumpy glory days that follow it I take a solid year and a half off.

There are two obvious reasons for this.

One, polishing a turd is an exercise in futility that I refuse to engage in.

Yes, I am a sick fat mess.

I am a sick fat mess and there is no amount of influential style or draping over the bulbousness that is I that is going to take away from this obvious fact.

I am happy to ride this shit out in sweats and my husband’s clothes until I come out the other side.

Two, maternity clothes are ridiculously fucking expensive and even if they promise to transform you into a mutated version of what is the current look who is actually willing to pay that much for something they will look reasonable in for basically a couple months.

No one is even looking at you anyways.

As soon as you a rocking even a hint of a bump you become basically invisible to the men folk.

There is not a dude on the planet who is watching your manatee ass walk by and thinking ‘I’d hit that’.

And don’t say you would try to keep up your appearance for your husband.

Fuck him.

He made his bed.

He made his bed and I’ll be god damned if he is not going to be lying in it beside your unadorned hideous bloated ass.

Till death do we part, Muther Fucker.

So once you get your shit together and you are resolved not to become ‘the aunt’ it is time to hit the shops prepared to endure some outright humiliation.

This is how I play it and having done this dance a couple times I feel at liberty to consider myself basically an undisputed authority in this particular field.

Follow a flock of teenagers into whatever stores they happen to be perusing.

Suss out the situation that is the sale’s staff of said establishment.

Find the popular girl.

She obviously works there.

Grab her by the neck and tell her bluntly that you are totally fucked and she has been carefully chosen from her respective peers to remedy this situation for you.

Build her up by telling her how hot she is and that you love what she is wearing.

Then turn the table and inform her casually that due to the gravity of your situation and her current responsibility for it that were she to fail in her quest there is a very strong chance that you will be crouched behind her Toyota Corolla with one of those mini baseball bats when she gets off work.

You will obviously have your kids with you and she really doesn’t want them to see her get beat up by their mother due to the trauma they might endure as a result.

So now you are both really committed to you leaving that store with a couple bags full of looking hot.

Don’t have an opinion about anything.

You have no idea what the hell is going on and your stupid ass perusing the racks is only going to confuse you further.

You don’t know what you want.

This is 100% her problem.

Tell her what sizes you wear and just wait shamefully in the change room for her to bring you shit.

Try on everything this little tramp throws in there.

Everything.

This is the worst part but you have to come out of the change room and into the communal judgment section of the store with all the mirrors and eyes.

Just let your sack drop and do it.

There will no doubt be about seventeen teenage girls standing out there staring lustily at themselves in the mirror.

Ask them openly if you look like an asshole.

They will lie to you but that is not the point, there is the crucial factor in what your asking has accomplished and that is drawing attention not only to yourself but to the items you are wearing.  If even one of those little bitches asks their salesperson to bring them one of the items that you are currently standing there like a tool in then buy that item.

That means it looks good.

Continue to do this for several hours in a variety of stores.

Build a small army of girls that are going to end up being escorted to their Corollas’ by the security guard at the end of their shift.

Eventually you will leave the mall slightly less confused as well as reluctant for your husband to feast his eyes on your bank statement.

Everyone wins.

Right baby?

Labiasaurus Rex

Illegal Counsel