Shticky Situations

If you have virgin eyes, you may want to buy a Braille pad

[shtickysituations]

A Baby Was Born & My Brain Exploded

So, originally, I wrote this post a week ago, but then I accidentally deleted it and was so angry I just lathered jam on top of my computer and ate it because I was also PMSing (and I’ve realized that spreads are just food you can eat with a spoon like yogurt- SO DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT WHILE I EAT MY BABGANOUSH!). 

Anyhoo, contrary to what you may have gleaned from the first paragraph, this post is about BABIES; not eating alternating spoonfuls of peanut butter and jam like a very poor, very high person. When, in fact, you are a not-so-poor, very high, very SMART person who has found an effective way to have a PB+J sandwich sans complex carbs- *spanks dog’s tush* 

Again…this post is about babies. Mostly, however, about a particular baby. Are you confused or what? I’ll splain. 

Babies have never really been my jam (mmmm jam). I mean, don’t get me wrong, some are SUPER cute. But some are gross. And some become good kids that turn into good adults. But most become gross kids that turn into shitheads (and thus I give you the present state of our crumbling moral code and planet). I also just seem to have more compassion, patience and interest where animals are concerned. Cause they don’t have smart phones. Or ulterior motives.

And in a similar vein, my uncertainty about having children (beyond the way it changes your relationship, identity and vagina) is the fear of the future (that admittedly I’ve always had- especially when your father goads your holocaust survivor grandmother into telling you horrific stories far too young- THANKS DAD). Because now with the realities of climate change, inflation, technology, having the option to not have kids and have it be somewhat OK (at least to your face), not to mention the voices that have been suppressed forever saying, “we regret having children” and we’re like WE KNOW THERE ARE SO MANY SHITTY PEOPLE OUT HERE- Pro-life motherfuckers- it leaves someone with 5 years and counting (who’s counting? BIOLOGY IS!) in a position that requires at least 2-3 years more of counselling and herbal narcotics. And the possibility of the rapture to make the decision for me.

But then two weeks ago my best friend, of over twenty years, had a baby. And it was magic (NOT A MIRACLE…but magic). Because once she actually vagina farted that l’il strawberry nugget out, all of my niggling cynical rage towards childrearing came to a halt. I felt a flutter of hope race and disperse through my extremities as I received the news of his arrival. This baby wasn’t just any baby. This was a life made from pure and joyful LOVE. LOVE MADE LIFE, GUYS! Is that fucking nuts or what? This six pound ebullient bundle meant there would be more of my beautiful and brilliant best friend and her wonderful husband in the world. And it made me realize how special life can really be, especially when it’s created by good people with sharp minds. 

And so, I realized in all of this, that if the great people/couples of the world continue to procreate while everyone else just corks it and gets a timeshare in Boca, the world would be a much MUCH better place. 

#Sara2020

[shtickysituations]

Honey(moon), I’m HOME!

It’s true. We’ve landed. After twenty hours in the sky (plus two weeks of subsequent depression), we’ve returned from Sri Lanka looking healthier (a mix of tan and debilitating diarrhea), feeling happier (Sri Lanks is unreal), and completely struck with the crippling anxiety of knowing it’s over and will never happen again. 

First thing’s first. Let’s talk about Sri Lanka, because, before we left, there were a number of people who, when we told them where we were headed, responded with, “why?” And I’ll tell you. 

Affectionately referred to as “the pearl of the Indian ocean”, Sri Lanka is just that- bursting with wildlife, clandestine waterfalls,  fragrant fields of tea and painfully clear waters. The people are generous with a gentle disposition and the overall laid back vibe made for a truly languid holiday painted with velvety lagers, ineffable vistas and the decision to rescue every single street dog that I could possibly procure. 

But most of that’s to be expected, I guess- nice views, nice people, me stuffing seventeen blind puppies with mange into a beach bag. So, how about I tell you about all the UNEXPECTED things, instead?

 I give you, SRI LANKAN SURPRISES:

1) Children at five star boutique resorts. WHO BRINGS A CHILD TO A FIVE STAR BOUTIQUE RESORT IN THE SOUTH OF ASIA? Our Danish neighbours who got a SERIOUS talking to, that’s who. 

2) Jumbo shrimp- for their size, and triumphant ability to give you borderline life changing dysentery.

3) Trekking through the jungle to meet a man who lives in a hut- and I’m not talking a Tarzan hut, dude lives on a plank of wood with a mosquito net and a radio from the 1880’s, who climbed trees (yep, plural), mixed some shit into a coconut and served us something called toddy which tasted like monkey jizz. 

4) Curry farts being so pungent and sour they could make a feral cats’ eyes cross. 

5) Sunsets developing with such rich and vivid colours #nofilternecessary #ever.

 6) THE SERVICE. We had a private butler at one hotel…who did not like to be called ‘man servant’, I’ll have you know.

7) Sri Lankan Airlines functioning much like an airline might have twenty to thirty years ago (a fact you forget whilst floating amongst virescent mountains and expanses of motionless rice paddies). 

8) Having the most delicious coffee ever to exist (move over Italy and Japan- serious) 

9) ROADS HAVING NO STOP LIGHTS OR RULES. But you’re in something called a Tuk Tuk that sounds so cute you forgive the lack of doors, windows or any safety features whatsoever. 

10) The unparalleled beauty of nature, the genuine kindness of the Sri Lankan people and the jetlag that felt like I’d been run over by a cement truck, seven or eight times in a row.

If you ever get the chance, go to Sri Lanka. Just make sure you buy an umbrella (for the SUN! What a concept), eat vegetarian (for your sphincter’s sake) and take A LOT OF DRUGS before getting on the plane(s).

[shtickysituations]

Honeymoon Here We Come!

Trust me when I say shopping for your honeymoon sounds far more glamorous than it actually is. I know this because it’s how I spent last Sunday- in hell the Eaton Centre. 

Phil and I leave for Sri Lanka this Friday *takes off clothes and air guitars* and, being the last-minute Mary’s we are, decided to wait until the Sunday prior to tackle as many places that carry resort wear, in winter, as possible. And all within close proximity to one another. For us, that meant trekking to the urine capital of Toronto- Yonge and Queen/Dundas. 

As we pulled into a parking spot, we decided it best to divide and conquer because it’s faster, and also because Phil wanted to “eat something fun” and I wanted to refrain from chafing (and killing him). 

I sauntered through the main entrance, inhaling the scent of liquor sweats and KERNELS abrupt, buttery perfume. Instantly slapped with flashbacks from high school, swooning over expensive zip-ups (Aritzia); clinging to a hot, salty ring of dough, smashing it into warm, radioactive cheese. 

Surges of nostalgia bubbled up inside of me as I hunted for the information booth like a starving coyote. A million thoughts raced through my head. Mostly ones concerning adolescent metabolisms, soft pretzels and self-loathing- the uje (see: short for usual).

I found a handful of shops spattered across the map and quickly began my race through the concrete labrynth; only to discover a few very key things (and none of them were quality summer pieces). 

1) 95% of clothing is made so cheaply that you can almost see the orphan blood in the fibres. 

2) Stores with fitting rooms that don’t have individual mirrors inside of them should immediately be shut down. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? If I wanna see how something looks, I have to walk into the hall for everyone to see? What about when certain people try on swimsuits whilst in the middle of growing out every follicle of body hair that they possess? What are those gorillas people supposed to do? Imagine I just strutted out in a sexy, slightly too tight, one piece with Les Twins poking out from either side of the crotch? FACK. 

3) And lastly, NEVER, and I repeat, NEVER, tell a sales associate that you’re shopping for your honeymoon. 

“Hi there, can I help you with anything?” ($$) 

“Um, sure. I’m looking for some cute, resort wear type stuff for my honeymoon?” 

“OH MY GAHHHHHHD! Where are you going?” ($$$$$$$$$$$$$$$) 

“Sri Lanka” 

*makes a face like I just told her I’m Michael Jackson smurf* 

“WOW! OK, so, do you have a look that you’re going for?” ($$$$$$$$$)

“Huh?” 

“A look. You know. Like a storyboard type thing or some images on your phone?” ($$$$$$$) 

*I make a face like ten edibles just hit me* 

“Ok how about this. What’s your style?” ($$$$$$) 

*sustains edible face*

Like, COME ON Candice. Do I really look like the type of girl who has “a style”? I barely have style. 

And, yet, before I knew it, we were practically waltzing arm-in-arm as she sifted through the racks, yanking completely inappropriate pieces out for me to try on, giggling, the shimmer on her tits glittering in the neon lights.

I stood, slightly frozen, staring, wide-eyed, at the white, ribbed mini-dress, nude, skin-tight midi with pieces of material missing at the side (so me!) and the white, lace shirt dress she slung across the fitting room door (in case I wanted to churn butter until my hymen grew back). 

Gobsmacked by Candice’s lack of eye sight, I decided not to humour her, despite her best efforts for us to be instant BFFs and ran as fast I could out of the store. 

I now realize why people shop online.

[shtickysituations]

When Marriage Makes You Throw Up

“Babe, we never go out. When’s the last time we went out?” Phil hurls at me vexingly. 

I run my tongue back and forth against the underside of my teeth. Attempting to ingest his piercing frustration without it tearing my seams. 

We’re currently wading in a tepid pool of disagreement wherein I, the practical and paranoid, have decided to stay sober for our friend’s birthday. Subsequently, this has fractured Phil’s romanticized version of our evening and so, we sit, unmoving. 

I rarely drink, for many reasons. Primarily, it tastes like shit. Secondly, it has way too many calories to justify tasting like shit. And thirdly, it gives me heartburn. ALL ABOARD THE FUN TRAIN. 

Unfortunately, however, alcohol also turns me into a leg humping, joke slinging version of Shakira and so, seemingly, my husband yearns for any opportunity to liquor me up and watch me go, like a child anticipating his wind-up toy to streamline across the floor. 

I feel the energy hover heavily above my shoulders, now just a floating head of shame. “Why do I need alcohol to have fun?” I practically yelp, swallowing globs of tenuous anger, hyperaware of my ability to rattle off patronizing stats about health and finances at any given time. 

“You don’t. But we rarely go out”.  He whines.

“We do too. We go for brunch! And dinner!” I snort, scanning my brain for any other occasion I deem fit for leaving bed. 

“We don’t go to bars though” 

“I’m in bars each week!”

“For work!” He practically spits. 

And I see it. Plain as day. This isn’t about birthdays or Phil’s pickled liver or my terribly Ashkenazi esophagus. It’s about the need to do stuff for your partner simply because they want you to. No. Questions. Asked (unless we’re talking murder and then I need more deets). Also, I always ask questions.

It’s about trusting that your partner has your best interests at heart when they fill a beer stein with Prosecco and pass you a sativa gummy. 

It’s about surrendering to the warm buzz of fermented liquid fruit as you strip pieces of inhibition from your brain, one by one, grinding on your husband in your living room, laughing maniacally at a fart. 

And although I ended up hurling all over our garden at 1 in the morning like the classy, mature 30-year-old that I am, I have to say, I had one of the best nights I’ve had in months. And although I do know how to have fun sober. Every once in a while, it sure feels good not to give a FUCK.

Thanks for getting me wasted babe. I love you.

[shtickysituations]

How to Cure a Case of the Mondays (or not...)

Monday’s such a simple day 

Often so complex

I missed my morning workout 

And instead we had sex (high five) 

Two coffees without sugar 

Drank ‘em like a champ 

Until the heartburn squeezed my chest

Bit down on it; a clamp 

H2O in my jammies

Rain beating the deck 

I slung on boots and called my dog 

Who’s face said, “what the heck?’ 

He stretched and stood; a grimace 

Staring out the door 

Then swiftly turned back on his paw 

And returned to the floor 

“We need this walk” I shouted 

Grabbed his coat and treats 

And then I shook them back and forth 

To get him to his feet 

We braved the grey and dreary 

It made me feel alive 

My dog, although, was not impressed 

With rain for forty five (minutes) 

We returned feeling grateful 

Food, and then to work! 

I opened up my screenplay 

Cursor blinking- jerk 

MONDAY MUST BE PRODUCTIVE 

AND YOU MISSED YOUR CLASS!

There’s my conscience, that old bitch 

Taunting like an ass 

I sit and do some rewrites 

Drinking pear and kale 

Monday isn’t so bad

Opening email

Sending and then replying  

Don’t think about cake 

Or rapists, nukes or climate 

STAND! Dance to Drake!

Suddenly I feel better 

Some would say inspired 

By a little RnB 

I might need to perspire (more) 

That will help my anxiety 

Sign up- spin at six (PM) 

And as I finish writing 

Monday’s somewhat fixed

[shtickysituations]

Aziz, Please

Let me start off by saying I LOVE ME SOME AZIZ ANSARI. On paper, on stage, on television; everything from his nymph-like voice to his gentle spirit, clever witticisms and evident love for his parents makes me want to wrap him in stretches of warm, yeasty naan and dip him in sweet, spicy chutneys. 

He gives off that air of imminent familiarity that has you positive if you were to be stuck in an elevator with him, he’d most likely offer you a piece of grape gum and spend the rest of the time lying on his jacket on the floor arguing over who can blow the biggest bubble and which city in Italy has the best gelato (FIRENZE FOREVER BABY). 

And then the shit storm of sexual misconduct allegations blew in hot and fresh, steam still hovering as I maniacally scrolled through pages upon pages of a detailed account unfolding a, somewhat, sordid tale of what it actually is like to be in a confined space with Aziz Ansari. 

Thankfully, this wasn’t another report of rape or assault, but, unfortunately, it was still unsettling. We’re understandably all very sensitive right now to the accusations being made and stories that are surfacing. We want to believe every woman but at the same time know that there are twisted souls out there desperate to gain a bit of their fifteen minutes of fame, or to simply relish in the satisfaction of tearing down an icon and unjustly utilizing this platform of opportunity in order to do so. 

In this case, the question isn’t whether or not Aziz’s date was lying but, more so, if her story actually carried the weight it deserved. If Aziz’s supposed behaviour truly invited the inevitable fecal streaking carried across his name in the wake of this story, at the height of his career. And I gotta say...I think it does (DON’T HATE ME). I know people are truly divided over this tale and while I did question things myself as I read it, i.e. who gives a shit what wine he served and why didn’t she end things sooner and split? I think we all need to remember a few things. 

1) He’s over a decade older than her, and she was 22 at the time. There is implicit intimidation and confusion on a young girl’s part. 

2) He’s rich, powerful and charming. See intimidation and confusion above. 

3) The editor who didn’t take out the wine thing was a moron, but it does speak to a deeply engrained ideology of a man thinking he knows what a woman wants. Thank bagels he didn’t order for her at dinner.

4) Just like I felt like I knew Aziz, I’m sure this girl did too. It was clear she wanted so desperately to believe his personality in private was akin to what she knew of him in the media. She gave him chances. She, I’m sure, rationalized to herself that she was probably blowing things out of proportion- AZIZ ANSARI TOOK HER ON A DATE! A MILLION GIRLS WOULD KILL FOR THAT OPPORTUNITY! 

5) No, he’s not a mind reader, but he is a sentient being. Fuck, even my DOG communicates when I’ve given him too many hugs and kisses. And I back off accordingly. 

Listen, I get that she didn’t feel threatened or scared for her life, he’s not a monster or Matt Lauer (same-same), but when an adorable and endearing celebrity wines and dines you and brings you back to his palatial pad, I can only imagine the shimmering stronghold that has on your body and mind- the willingness to instantly forgive, rationalize and partake. 

It’s too easy for outsiders to give their two cents, crying, “WELL WE WOULD’VE DONE THIS”, but, the truth is, you don’t know what you would’ve done. You weren’t there, and strange situations make us act in strange ways (this also doesn’t mean Aziz behaved in an appropriate manner which is the real issue here). And although he did apologize in a fashion that appeared to be sincere, I think the true problem was that he thought everything was great! Not because *Grace didn’t actually communicate her discomfort, both physically and verbally, but because his clout and worldwide adoration has most likely clouded his vision and subsequent judgement. How could a beautiful young girl not want his fingers down her throat (NEWSFLASH ITS CALLED GETTING HER WET YOU TIT)? How could she not want to fuck him? 

Yes, we’ve all had weird sexual encounters, gross uninvited tongues, fingers and so on, but shouldn’t this serve as a reminder that these encounters shouldn’t just be brushed aside as common place? They speak to something larger, uninvited, seemingly systemic and, in this case, a pattern further enflamed by the egos and abundance that comes with fame. 

Now can we all calm the fuck down? Aziz’s career is far from over. He’s not going to be kicked out of the twinkling compound he calls home, his viewership will not deplete (a few copies of Modern Romance may serve better as kindling, however), his Golden Globe will retain its place on his mantelpiece and maybe, if we’re really lucky, his ego will get checked, his eyes will be opened and a few women in his future may get the ample opportunity to dig their claws directly into his sphincter. Without lubricant.

[shtickysituations]

So Sick of Love Songs...I Mean Being Sick

Presently it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m propped up amongst a throng of lumpy pillows like an old stuffed animal in need of a spin in the wash. I’ve been holed up in bed with the flu going on four days now with incremental improvements, steeped in the piercing, rustic scent of oil of oregano and self-pity (i.e. I smell like an old medicine cabinet someone took a shit in and locked up for 42 years).

It’s always a strange part of illness when you’re en route to getting better and eager to sweat from something other than hallucination induced hot flashes, yet you’re not quite well enough to perform any dutiful tasks with pants on (which you didn’t realize until you finished cleaning four dishes in a record 15 minutes in just an open cardigan). 

I feel tired and useless, no longer wracked by incomparable joint pain (thank Buddha) yet similarly writhing from my lack of current contribution. Anxiety melds seamlessly with congestion as the weight on my chest grows heavier with each inhalation and fear that I’m falling behind. 

In a world that moves 100km/second, how can I afford to lay lifeless, swathed in a fort of blankets held together by phlegmy tissues and dollops of sheer, non-petroleum jelly? My subconscious screams at me accusingly, repeating my to-do list like a controlling mother to an errant child. 

Guilt for spending much needed downtime my body has practically broken me down for locks me in its grip, torturing my efforts to Netflix and chill. I reason with myself sternly, inhaling two Tylenol like fallen pieces of feta and select a movie that doesn’t desire much focus. Within minutes I’ve told myself countless stories, berating my current horizontal stance. I swiftly pause the film and scroll through my Instagram, checking everything everyone’s done that I can’t; everything I’m missing out on- spin class, performances, cooking, meetings; checking off the boxes of all the time I’ve lost that’s completely out of my control (let’s hear it for social media and mental health problems!). 

I remove my sweater and put it back on approximately 75 times, wrestling with the notion that perhaps this is a good hour to begin questioning all of my life choices (DAMN YOU NIGHTTIME COUGH SYRUP IN THE DAY). And no matter how many times my husband explains that the more I fight against my illness, the longer it’ll take to get better, I can’t shake this inherent fear of neglect, or becoming less than so soon into the new year. 

I think back to being twelve, relishing any opportunity to be undertaken by the flu and gently donated to the comforts of my couch and the warm surrounding buzz of the television; lapping up every second of relaxation and repose. 

I stop to remember I’m lucky enough to have an illness that will and is getting better. That when I’m running around like a headless chicken I’ll crave a sequence of days enveloped in my duvet and borderline toxic dog farts (mostly just the duvet though). And that checking my social media to see what everyone’s doing that I’m unable to mirror is a separate kind of unhealthy (makes note for therapist). Now if you’ll excuse me I need to reheat some soup, read my book and remember that everyone gets sick (EVEN INSTAGRAM FAMOUS PERSONAL TRAINERS AND HEALTH FOOD JUNKIES), everyone needs down time, and that nothing will disappear if it’s not tended to in a week. And then I’ll read this blog over 6000 times so I don’t forget that last paragraph, throw my phone against a wall and move to the jungle.

K BYE.

[shtickysituations]

My New Years’ Res(no)lutions

New Years has never really been my jam. It’s always managed to annoy me with its over promises of change through the sharp and bitter cold. The pressure to celebrate after spending a week celebrating something else, stuffed inside a pair of Spanx most likely cutting the circulation off to your brain whilst you blindly drain the remnants of your chequings account on heavily diluted cocktails and exorbitantly priced Ubers home from wherever the fuck you’ve been tricked into going SO THAT NOTHING CAN HAPPEN AT MIDNIGHT.

And, therefore, each year, since university, I’ve chosen to go against the grain; staying at home, eating good food and never making resolutions. Until this year that is- don’t get me wrong, I definitely didn’t go out (I realized the other day I’d rather go to jail for a night than a nightclub), but I did make some resolutions. WHAT!? You cry. BUT SARA YOU HATE GOALS! I know. I do. And that’s why in making these resolutions (and making sure to very carefully not refer to them as goals), I decided to make a slight alteration. Instead of devising a list of things to do. I decided to make one of things to abstain from- a list of res(no)lutions, if you will. And in doing so, I hope that maybe I’ll be able to stick to them.

So, without further ado, in 2018, I, Sara Starkman, resolve not to do the following things:

1) Voraciously shriek at old people idling in their cars “YOU RUINED OUR PLANET MOTHER F*$&ERS”

2) Book gigs on the same day as therapy. DISASTER WAITING.

3) Run on a treadmill. Or outside. Or ever.

4) Eat pork *throws up in mouth; offers it to dog*.

5) Beat myself up if my set doesn’t “kill”.

6) Pee in the garden.

7) Buy drinks out.

8) Read headlines.

9) Care about gains (or anal beads).

10) Download anymore apps #imgoodbruh.

See? Totally doable. And I gotta tell ya, way more fun than promising to lose weight or be a better person. And who knows? My res(no)lutions just might lead to those things anyway....Especially now that I’m not eating pork, drinking out or screaming at baby boomers. FALALALALALALA.

[shtickysituations]

Winter, You Bitch

Everything within my line of vision seemingly sinks with a dark and pungent malaise, drizzled on lightly at first, dancing back and forth until heavily coated and compressed with its seal.

Soft, splotchy faces sag with grimace and grit to plod onwards, swathed in layers of thick fleece, furs and downs stolen from lives of animals too quiet to be heard. Arms and necks speckled with perspiration and the inherent gripe to peel the film of despondency and cheap cotton from our person, whilst battling the carbonated guilt to be grateful for all that we have. 

The internet washed with the heavy-handed stroke of impending doom tightens the space around us further, softening the glimmer we’ve kept burning in the distance as we wait to hear the sizzle of the wick, crisp and black, weep ash, bleeding into the darkness as if it was always and never there all along. 

Frigid air caked atop eyesight blinded by lumps of pillowy snow, glittering, splitting emotions open red raw, seeping from both sides of our mouths, wiped effortlessly with the dab of a tissue, merely clotting, never stopping the outpour of all that we feel when we’re frozen, when we’re numb from this bitch we call winter.

[shtickysituations]

I Hate Making Goals. And Other Confessions.

I’ve always despised goals. I remember working at Lululemon in my early twenties (DON’T LAUGH!) and having them shove spandex clad goal-making sessions down my throat as I watched on idly at their mediocre lives. Um, hi, Vesna? You manage a retail store based on eliminating the middle class, so, how about you and your goals go fuck themselves? 

And, so, I would placate their bi-weekly interrogations with proclamations of chasing my dreams of becoming a singer and contorting intricate, gummed webs of lies that I prayed indicated that I had listened to, at least, part of the four-hour lecture on Chip Wilson I was gifted with the evening prior…Because we all know how integral brainwashing is in order to sell top-notch moisture wicking tees in lavender (this is most likely why I was also let go after Christmas season. Fucking Vesna). 

In that moment, I never really gave my aversion to goal-making much thought. I knew I disliked the inherent pressure and how it obliterated the unknown, ignored indecision and presented a very visual reminder of what it meant to not achieve your goals, but I never really looked much further beyond that *makes note for therapist* 

Until goal-making suddenly became trendy - #lifegoals #bodygoals #couplegoals. And, hey, that could totally be because it works for people. Or as the internet would have you believe, it works 100% of the time for everyone and is super positive even if its immediately attached to comparison and feeling less than (SMILE FOR THE CAMERA). But I’m here to say, that for some of us (US GOAL MAKING HATERS YES, WE HAVE A GROUP), creating goals is too much pressure; too steeped in anxiety, like a dark and bitter tea. Too obvious an indication of what may not be achieved. Especially now that everything we do is broadcast live on six different social media channels.

And every time I hear how POSITIVE goal-making is, it makes me want take a very tiny, but very sharp piece of glass and jam it into my eye. Because I can see how it could be helpful for some, but no one ever talks about what a slippery slope it can be for others- especially in 2017. And frog nammit it sounds so cliché and holier than thou every time someone talks about creating, pursuing and achieving their goals. Like, we get it. You wanted something, you cut out a picture from a magazine and pinned it to a cork board and then you worked to make it happen. Congratu-fucking-lations. Were you also being bankrolled? Do you want a cookie? Ugh. The crust is real today *makes note for therapist* 

What I can say, however, is that although blue-making (I’ve now decided to just replace the word goal with blue) is similar to eating camel boogers in that they are both things I never want to do, I do feel comfortable creating intentions (silently and subtly), curating personal mantras (to repeat to myself) and pursuing my passions (without the help of hashtags, journaling or patronizing online posts). 

And although it sounds like I’m now bashing blue-makers, I’m not (I kind of am). I’m just saying, there are also us non-blue-makers, who are still out there making things happen. And that’s OK too.

[shtickysituations]

Farewell Food: A Triple Love Letter to the Foods of my Dreams

And now, with three months until I’m meant to be exploring a country run rampant with stretches of velvety sand, glistening cerulean waters and the type of temperature highs that make your vagina sweat through your linen pants, I’m back on the diet donkey- and bitch is cranky. 

So, instead of just telling you about the diet, I’m going to bid each food group that I am cutting out, adieu. And wish them each a loving and wholehearted goodbye until we meet again and they inevitably end up in my face hole (also, sugar is a food group for the purpose of this blog so suck it):

Dear Gluten, Glutes, Glute-Daddy, Gluteronimous,

Where would I have been all these years without your fluffy cakes, chewy bagels or rich, filling pastas? You’ve helped me celebrate birthdays, recover from hangovers and fart aggressively in public. I will miss you dearly and will most likely cry your name out in the middle of the night around Christmas. 

With love, 

Sara

Dear Dairy, 

I know our relationship has been rocky recently- you with your revolting origins; me and my unconscious lust for anything that vaguely resembles chocolate or cheese. We’ve spent time apart in the past year or so, but I’ve been letting you back in, for special occasions like, PMS and weekdays. Ultimately, I don’t think we’re good for each other, as you give me diarrhea and dermatitis (although I respect that in some spheres, that means I have double D’s). I know we’ll share a fork again someday. But until then… 

Regards, 

Sara

Dear Sugar, 

How to say goodbye to something so sweet, so etched in nostalgia, positivity and fostering the ability for one human to binge eat five jelly doughnuts in a row despite not even really liking jelly doughnuts? You have been my go-to for so many occasions, good and bad. You enhance reward and bring comfort in times of sadness. I will probably miss you the most. 

Sincerely, 

Sara 

PS. Would love to have a massive orgy with you, dairy and gluten before the weekend if possible. Please let me know your thoughts.

[shtickysituations]

Honeymoon In Toronto Anyone?

After months of hemming and hawing (which sounds like a seamstress donkey), Phil and I finally took the plunge and booked us a HONEYMOOOOOOON WOOP WOOOOOP!! 

I’m partially celebrating because I really didn’t think it was gonna happen. And not because we couldn’t find time or hadn’t saved properly, but because when it came to actually finding a place for February, (that Phil nor I had been), that wasn’t a GAZILLION fucking dollars, riddled in Zika (or some other mosquito borne illness), covered in snow, engaged in civil warfare, imminently threatened by ISIS or at the risk of being eliminated by Kim Jong Un in a *POOF*, it was nearly impossible (unless it was somewhere with a Fjord or within driving distance from our house- boooo-riiiiing). 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love me a good fjord, and Toronto’s a great place to live, but for a honeymoon, mama needs a beach and a margarita #amen

So, this was the list we went through right before I stabbed a pillow with a fork: 

Cambodia: Zika 

Jamaica: Zika 

Nicaragua: Zika 

Portugal: COLD AF 

Uruguay: Chikungunya 

Hawaii: Waving to North Korea 

Myanmar: An absolute civil war SHIT SHOW 

French Polynesia: So expensive you could die 

Sri Lanka: Dengue fever where you could literally die. 

Needless to say, after those depressing findings, we had to be more specific with our search and googled “safe honeymoon destinations” (could I be more Jewish?). Turns out it’s just a list of places to go dog sledding and a bunch of countries that I’ve never heard of in my life (Bhutan? TUVALU? Like, is the travel industry just making countries up so we don’t get worried that everything is a MESS?).

So, instead, we decided to take our chances and we’re going to SRI LANKAAAAA!!!! I know, I know, DENGUE FEVER ARE YOU CRAZY!? But we realized we’ll be travelling in dry season and I may or may not be searching for Hazmat suits online…Right now…AND THEY MAY OR MAY NOT BE PURPLE!

Wish us luck! 

[shtickysituations]

#TELLEMBOOBSBYE

Switchin’ up the typical format of my bloggerooni (moaning, ranting, list..ing?) today and presenting to you…. the FIRST EVER SHTICKY SITUATIONS INTERVIEW!!!

 *cranks up Soca Jams and humps dog aggressively* 

Two-ish years ago (wouldn’t that be such a mediocre way to start a story? “Once upon a time…I think”), I had the privilege to meet, Winnipeg born, stand-up comic and fearless LGBTQ warrior, Chantel Marostica (!!!!!THE CROWD GOES WILD!!!!). 

Since that day Chantel and I have bonded over each other’s quirky world views, candid chatter and the frustrations that arise when succumbing to overwhelming waves of anxiety and depression (aren’t we ADORABLE!?). 

Chantel has always been incredibly open and hilariously unfiltered about their struggles with mental health, as well as creating awareness and educating audiences, and comedians alike, about gender identity, sexual fluidity and the importance of creating safe spaces for people to flourish in whilst finding acceptance for themselves. 

Over the past year or so, they’ve been working hard to help reconstruct how we think in terms of rigid gender stereotypes. Not feeling completely comfortable being labelled as, strictly, a “man” or a “woman”, Chantel, like many others, feel best when gender isn’t being forced upon them, both in physicality or when being referred to. The latter is a work in progress, rife with patience, education and conditioning. In order to achieve the former, however, Chantel has decided to undergo a double mastectomy. A VOLUNTARY DOUBLE MASTECTOMY!? You wonder to yourself. Well, yes. That’s just how much of a misrepresentation and, therefore, burden they are for them. How could you deny someone the right to feel like themselves? Not I. But then again, I’ve always been more of an ass woman...err..person.

Without further ado:

Q) When did you decide you'd have enough of your boobs and it was time to send ‘em packing? 

A) I've never identified with my chest. I cried my eyes out when mom told me I'd get them in the first place. I don't know how to explain gender dysmorphia in words. You just know something isn't right. All the pieces just don't FIT. I've always been self conscious about my body and I couldn't really put my finger on why till I put on my first binder. It was so amazing to not look down and see them. I felt like me for the first time physically since I was a kid. It's a decision I've come to slowly, I don't think there's "one thing" that could happen to a person to make them question their outside matching their inside. It's an accumulation of experiences, I was born a woman, so I was raised and treated like one my whole life... until I decided to make my outward appearance reflect all the questions I had about gender identity in my head. Then I slowly came to realize I am whoever I want to be, and I don't have to be a man, or a woman, and my chest doesn't have to cause me crippling anxiety anymore.  

Q) Preach. Just curious, what’s your parents current take on the situation? 

A) This question is hard, because at the end of the day it doesn't matter what they think. Or what anyone thinks. It's so frightening to say out loud "I want a double mastectomy" it's a jarring life changing surgery and everyone's response to it... isn't great. My parents don't know what to say about it. So they don't. It's terribly lonely to experience this all without family guidance or support, but it's uncharted territory for almost everyone, unless you're gender non-conforming, gender queer or trans you can't explain or expect people to fathom your experience, which is that you don't belong in your own body. My parents will come around to it all in time, they always do, they love me so GD much, but it'll be something they "get used to" not that they'll understand or attempt to educate themselves on. It's fine though, they love me, and it's my life, my body, and my decision. 

Q) You are knocking these questions out of the park. Now, being a comic and all…Has comedy helped you get to a place of comfort with your gender and sexual identity? 

A) Comedy hasn't helped in any way. It's cathartic in general to do comedy because it's everything to me, but being non-binary is incredibly difficult to talk about on stage. Half of my set up for my jokes on the subject are a gender Ted talk I give to stunned looking straight people. Lol. On stage I have a choice of talking about it or not talking about it, I read the crowd... and also decide if I feel like "teaching" people that day, or just making them laugh... Off stage is harder. Comedians can be incredibly judgemental people, and also... uneducated people, at least on like gender and queer issues. Just a bit tone deaf. Hosts often bring me up as she, and refer to me by "she/her" pronouns, because they've either forgotten to use the "they/them" pronoun or they thought I was joking or simply just had no idea what I was talking about when I asked "can you use they/them pronouns?"  

Q) It will take time but I believe enough of us can get there. And in the meantime, what's the dumbest thing someone's said to you since you made this decision? 

A) "Are you keeping your nipples?" - Jeff Paul  lololololol honestly the funniest question EVER asked. 

Q) What's the most supportive or humbling thing someone's said to you since you made this decision? 

A) That my openness and willingness to share my experience publicly has helped them. I've had many non-binary people just thank me for saying it out loud "I didn't know that it was normal to want my breasts removed... I thought I had to be trans to want or need that," which is what I grappled with a lot too. Looking between the extreme black and white that is gender and finding comfort and normalcy in the grey was my biggest hurdle.   

Q) Beautifully said. In light of inspiring youth, if you could go back to high school what would you tell your adolescent self? 

A) To come out of the closet.... That being gay is not wrong, or gross, or something to be teased and hated for. And that all my homophobic bullies would have shitty lives, so not to get too caught up on their idiot homophobic judgements.  

TEEN PREGNANCY YA'LL. it'll GETCHA.   

Q) Are you allowed to ask the hospital to keep your post-surgery boobs like wisdom teeth? 

A) You're an idiot.  

Q) Thought I’d try and one up Jeff Paul with that. Now, I know you've been working to achieve a shift in how friends/family/performers address, refer to and introduce you. 

Could you discuss a bit about that and what that's done for your confidence and comfort in the community since enforcing this change of language? 

A) It makes my heart feel... I don't know, I feel whole when people gender me properly and use the proper pronoun. I didn't think it would feel like that. When people I don't expect to understand correct themselves after they slip up... I almost cry every time. It's so validating. It's like being seen for the first time as YOU.   

Q) What's the first thing you're going to do post-surgery when the drugs wear off? 

A) I'll probably go home and rest. It's a really intense surgery, but when I'm all healed up, I'm 💯 air brushing off all my tattoos and re-air brushing all of Bieber's tattoos on me...  and recreating every topless photo of him. Ever. #GOALZ 

Q) The fact that you love this straight, white wealthy male amazes me. Has there been anyone (in real life or in the media) who has been a steady role model for you or inspired you towards (forgive the corniness) living your truest self? That wasn’t Bieber. 

A) My trans friends and my queer family are the biggest inspiration in my life. They're all so GD brave and perfect. 

Q) What can us heteronormative snooze bores do to help standardize the conversation and support those working to achieve comfort in their own skin? 

A) Listen. Ask people their pronouns. Listen. Use their pronouns properly. Listen. Validate requests from marginalized people. Listen. Educate yourself... and yeah just listen, you can't speak for anyone's experience except your own, and you have to accept other people's experiences for what they are, opening your mind and expanding to other possibilities is the only way you can really validate and respect people whose stories are different than yours.  

In a world filled with regression, let’s piggyback onto things we have in our own control to better. Let’s BE PROGRESS. And in light of this all, Chantel is hosting an incredible show to help achieve their goal faster because Canada pays comedians in rabbit turds. And also, shows are fun. SO FUN.

THE SHOW DEETS: 

#Tellemboobsbye Chantel Marostica's Top Surgery Fund-O-Rama + Comedy Showcase The Rivoli (334 Queen Street West) Wednesday, November 15th, 2017/9PM   

Tickets - https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/tellemboobsbye-tickets-38502417768?utm_term=eventurl_text 

Or if you can’t make it and want to contribute to the surgery you can do so here- GoFundMe -  https://www.gofundme.com/

[shtickysituations]

EVERYTHING IS THE SAME ALWAYS THE SAAAAAAME

This is a little piece I like to call....

ANCIENT VS. SUPER TRENDY! According to women.

Chm chm:

ANCIENT

SUPER TRENDY!

ANCIENT

SUPER TRENDY!

ANCIENT

SUPER TRENDY!

EVERYTHING IS THE SAME ALWAYS THE SAAAAAME

[shtickysituations]

When Cannibalism Becomes Charitable

It’s Monday morning, which means it’s about 1:15PM and I’m in my bed guzzling the cranberry juice my dog walker left me because she’s a GOD DAMN ANGEL and I have a bladder infection that I can feel into my eyeball. I may have also just eaten half of a weed cookie because it was that or snorting potpourri (I have no idea why these would be my only pain management options). 

I’ve been battling a wave of sinking depression for the past month or so, and avoiding the gym like the Bubonic plague (I just like saying Bubonic…BUBONIC BUBONIC- OK I’m good now). So needless to say, I’m slightly more on edge than usual. Which, seemingly, does not partner well with this worldwide facial extraction of rapists, perverts, aggressors and silent accomplices, all of the male denomination and right within our very own backyards -#barf  

As if white-hot lightning crashing into earth, streamlining for a pole to radiate its current through, I find myself honing in on the male specie and wondering if we could solve world hunger with cannibalism. Guys, HOW GOOD would Harvey Weinstein look on a spit? I smell Luau party!!!! 

But in real time…Por ejemplo, on Saturday afternoon, Phil and I met some friends at a beer festival. As I stood in line amongst the throngs of Toronto’s fermented youth, wondering why I paid $65 dollars for bloating and social anxiety, a man-boy behind me began squawking at his two, fresh faced female friends (FFFFF) about Victoria’s Secret swimwear. He spoke loudly, with authority, and absolutely no founding for either. He then offered his two cents on Christian Louboutin shoes touting that, “all of the women he’s talked to has said they’re really comfortable”. OH YES. YES. OF COURSE THESE IMAGINARY WOMEN TOLD YOU THAT $700 STILTS MADE BY A MAN FOR A FUCKING GIRAFFE ARE JUST LIKE WEARING CLOUDS! 

Unless he was talking to someone who just recently stopped binding their feet, I’m PRETTY SURE this smegnug just likes telling women what they want-EUGH, I just imagined him on a first date ordering for her *throws up; swallows it* (food also requires consent). 

My first instinct was obviously to Sweeny Todd it up and open a small pie stand at the back of the fest, but instead I ignored him, “he’s not gonna ruin my mediocre Saturday!” I said to myself.

I dug into my purse and yanked out my sinus oils, trying to get down with my chi. And just as I finished rolling it across my forehead, an older man and his ami cut through the line, making imminent, sensual eye contact. A flicker of excitement came across his face as if I’d been lasciviously detailing my lips with gloss. “You look good mama. Very good. Mwa! Very good”. Over sexualizing my ostensibly banal action with ease. 

HEY GUESS WHAT BUDDY? NO ONE FUCKING ASKED YOU! 

As if he’d decided he was the judge and I, the contestant, in the beer festival beauty pageant. Oh thank you for your highly sought after opinion on my aesthetic, holy divine one of all the penis-havers and NON-LIFE GIVERS! 

It’s just the entitlement of all these actions and the abuse of stature, both physical and societal, for the continued oppression of women that rocks me. And as a woman who has had such wonderful examples of men (for the most part, see: last post) in her life, it kills me to be so hyper aware of what absolute GARBAGE so many other men have turned out to be. Don’t get me wrong. There’s ALL KINDS OF FEMALE GARBAGE TOO. But we’re not talking about that right now. We’re talking about the absolute ludicrous number of stories of men (of all walks of life) abusing, assaulting and bullying women, just now coming to light. And how even the smallest of actions and conversations persist amongst us, day to day, to perpetuate this type of mindset. To the point where cannibalism (most specifically women hunting men) is actually an option you think you may need to employ one day, while sipping a local dry peach cider from a mason jar.

[shtickysituations]

Why Was I Scared to Say Me Too?

I have this new daily routine where, every morning, I hold my breath while opening my social media accounts. I don’t really know why or how it started, but I have a feeling it’s something to do with bracing myself for the sparkling new line up of gut-wrenching, cunt punting headlines, and the desire for a small but very real head rush (can’t have one without the ooooother- Married with Children? Anyone?). 

Yesterday amidst the smattering of #PrayforPortugal and #PrayforSomalia postings were an overwhelming number of “me too’s”, lined up like an army of stark concurrence. 

Of course, I don’t need to tell you that the me too’s were a declaration of solidarity amongst women who have been sexually assaulted or harassed by men, but I’m going to tell you anyway in case you live under a rock or in a cozy hovel (if you’re part of the latter group, how’s the hovel market these days? Thinking of make a move). Anyway...

Understandably this abundance of me too postings were meant for women to feel less alone in their experiences but, for whatever reason, it made me feel exposed and vulnerable. It seemed to call me out, pointing a finger at me, accusatorially, as if to say HEY, YOU, YEAH YOU WITH THE CURLS, YOU TOO! 

At once I felt frozen by the immediate pressure to participate and yet drenched in slovenly guilt for not. Because, like many women, I’ve been yelled obscenities at in the street, or had a drunk guest slap my ass at a bar mitzvah (a sure sign to never ever wear a unitard in public), but I’ve only ever (to date) experienced sexual assault once, in my family home, with a man I trusted like a brother. In fact, that was how I referred to him for most of my life- as my brother. 

After a decade of friendship that brought insurmountable, nearly palpable, joy to me; bonding our fathers and mothers, sharing numerous gluttonous holiday dinners, swimming lessons, mortifying class projects laden in spandex and languid summers at camp, our lives began to shift, forcing a large and painful splinter between us. Amongst a number of nuanced experiences, including his parents’ divorce, it became obvious, in a very visceral sort of way, that at age 19, our dynamic had fundamentally changed. It had matured without wax or polish and, instead, was abandoned, falling victim to the beatings of exposure- dried, crumbling, irreparable. 

That year I held on as best I could, desperately attempting to locate the wound, remove the shard and refill the empty pockets with love and hope, anything to rebuild what we had before. And to a degree it worked. I felt like I had my brother back.

One night before graduation, he came over straight from school. His family lived outside of the city, and so, he was invited to stay the night, as he had done many, many nights before. I was beyond smitten. Practically gelatinous in my movements, I went about the evening liberated and buoyant, downing diet cokes and inhaling slices of pizza, blaring my latest downloads from Limewire (REMEMBER LIMEWIRE?), imitating teachers until our stomachs were sore. Things were normal. Things were back in their rightful place and I couldn’t have been happier. 

I had work the next day, so when it got late we threw on our sweats and passed the fuck out- no cuddling, no whispering, just plain old lights out, “I’ll punch you in the face if you snore” type deal. The next morning, however, I woke up with his hand down my shorts, doing the type of thing you do with someone you’re dating while they’re awake and lubricated. At first, I convinced myself I was dreaming (or nightmaring, whatever), until I realized it was a nightmare, I was just awake for it. I was in complete shock, and so, I pretended I was still asleep. To me, in that moment, having to call him out, ruining our friendship and tainting what we had shared in years past was more scarring than being assaulted (and to be fair, I didn’t realize it could even be categorized as assault if it was with someone I loved). Luckily, soon thereafter, the hall light flicked on and my mother called down to get us going for the day. 

I jumped out of bed spryly (wouldn’t you?) and stuffed my face with cereal, and the experience so far down into the recesses of my brain and belly that, for years, it didn’t even really seem to have happened. I continued to blindly yearn for and chase after our friendship, incessantly making excuses for his behaviour. In a perverted way, I almost felt like our secret kept me closer to him, as no one else, not even his new friends, would know who he was deep down inside. But as I type this I wonder why I would ever know this secret and want for anything but for it to finalize our divide? It was the perfect opportunity for closure and yet I was paralyzed by it. Because if I talked about it, it was true- he was someone I wouldn’t and shouldn’t be friends with, and I was someone who had invited victimization straight into my guest bed. And all of this happened without me even knowing.

And now over 10 years later, I still think about it. I still remember what pyjamas I wore to bed, the naive look on his face as we got up in the morning, my co-worker’s expression when I asked to bum a cigarette, the swirling, nauseating flush of confusion that has haunted me until 30 years of age. Why did he do it? Why did I let him? Why didn’t I say something? 

I’ve never blamed myself for it happening, I’ve just blamed myself for not calling it out. For almost allowing it to stay present and festering in my mind. And for wanting what we had before so badly, that I was able to almost immediately forgive his actions, and in turn, I’ve never forgotten.

So, yeah, me too. And if you’re reading this. FUCK YOU, brother.

[shtickysituations]

Plus Size Models Piss Me Off

OK OK STOP HITTING ME!!!

Let me just get a few things clear before you start lighting torches and sourcing small men in black caps and skinny jeans with laptops to find my house using algorithms and expensive cappuccino foam. BECAUSE I AM HIDDEN IN THE EAST END AND NO ONE WANTS TO COME HERE FOR THE MOST PART (but you really should, it’s beautiful). 

Anyhoodles, my point is, that my beef isn’t just with plus-size models, it’s with models in general (let’s be real, a “plus-size” model is just a model). And although, yes, bringing curvy women into the modelling industry is a forward motion of some sort, I can’t help but think we’re being grossly misguided into thinking this new wave of women who forgo salted cotton balls (mmm!) to stave off hunger are somehow better examples of the type of females we ought to be.  

It’s funny how model is defined both as a thing or system used as an example to be followed or imitated and also a mere representation of a thing or structure. Because although Cara De Lavigne, par example, draped in lavish cloth, guzzling litres of purified air, is meant to shape our physical aspirations towards a post-dysentery figure, she’s also been plucked, fucked and shucked (in life and through various windows on Photoshop) so intently that her touted image ends up mirroring that of a refined object far more than a being with which we’re meant to align ourselves with. 

And now plus-size models, although far more relatable in jean size, still strap themselves tightly into the machine, (and Spanks), distorting our views and shaming our worth all the while waving the flag of body positivity. And it’s not flying with me. 

“BUT WHAT ABOUT ASHLEY GRAHAM!?” You cry! 

Perfect example- a beautiful, curvy woman who promotes a far healthier image and lifestyle than, say, Kate Moss, notorious cigarette eater. However, Ashley, too, is full of shit. Recently I read her “food diary” for the day. And yes, it was healthy. But, to me, at least, it sounded like Kourtney Kardashian’s meal plan and, let’s be honest, Ashley Graham could eat Kourtney Kardashian for a snack (now there’s a reality show I’d watch). 

For breakfast, on most days, Ashley says she has a green juice (void of high-glycemic fruits), for lunch it’s a vegetarian salad or quinoa bowl and dinner is typically lean protein with more vegetables. 

Aside from being hungry just typing that out (and burning off the number of calories Ashley reportedly eats in a day, with just my fingers), I have to call BS. How can you promote curves and a less stringent lifestyle if your daily menu looks like a rabbit’s bar mitzvah platter? I’m not saying plus size women don’t eat heathy, of course they do! But, c’mon, Ashley, baby, what the fuck else are you eating? Toast? Oatmeal? Eggs? Desserts in the evening? EXTRA GUACAMOLE!? WE WON’T JUDGE YOU GIRL WE SEE YOUR THIGHS!!!