My hetero coming out to my lesbian mother.


My mother likes women. It is what it is. She likes many other things, such as jazz, Native American art and Veuve Clicquot. But, yes, my mother is a lesbian. A vegetarian lesbian to be more precise. Tyrolean hat, tofu sandals and all that.

Of course, she has had her moments with men. A child of barely twenty, she married a guy to give birth to me almost five minutes later.

Then, there was another daddy who spent some time with us, but soon after, a lady and a lady, and another and another that stayed. In short, I mostly grew up in a world of alfalfa munchers.

No trouble with that. At all. None of my childhood scars and sulks have to do with the fact that my mom plays for the Muffs. I was nurtured and well fed. The difference was just a lot more extra absorbent pads under the sink and, thanks to a diet rich in legumes, I pooped wicker chairs until I got my own apartment.

Around twelve, I realized that, unlike my entourage, I longed for men. Not only men, hamburgers. When my aunt first took me to Harvey’s … the smell of the burning flesh … Thinking about it makes my tongue wet.

Those beef patties suspiciously symmetrical, those round and plump buns… Mixed with ketchup and pickles that gave that zing in the jaw… Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! If was my first taste of happiness.

At that moment, I knew it would be hard returning to millet pie. And following a slow dance with Paul Pilon (Hi Pauuuuul), it was official, not only did I like meat but I loved sausage.

At my sweet sixteen, I did my coming out to my mother. I tumbled to her in a mini-skirt and high heels. I took courage in both pink manicured hands and I blurted out, «I’m here, I’m het’! Get use to it! »

My mom calmly lifted her eyes from her GUTS magazine and said that she already suspected that I was not gay. Something having to do with the way I acted in general. I felt insulted. “What, way? How does a heterosexual act?? ”

But it’s when I told her I was a carnivore … Then … Then, she got upset. What would her friends from PETA think? All the diseases I might catch! E-coli, mad cow disease, hormones!! She really had a beef with my cow eating habits. She wailed: «I hope that you protect yourself at least and don’t eat raw meat??”

O poor mother … How could I admit that, just a few hours ago, I had swallowed, bareback, a horse tartare whole?

Fortunately, with time, she did get use to it and is no more concerned with what I feed myself in the kitchen or my bedroom. To push the analogy further, I would say that she knows I’ve tried veganism a few times. It’s okay, but it’s not for me.

Nothing I can do.  I was born this way.





The month of the shears.


November… This is the month when hairs and couples split. The month when sudden sadness can creep on our happiness. The month where some are driven by the impulse to cut their bangs and others, to commit harakiri.

It all begins at dawn on the 1st with the walk of shame of vampire-whores hailing taxis with their make-up as vanished as their dignity. We go from Boooo! to Brrrrrr! overnight. After being goosed all evening, the birds now have goose bumps.

Yup. It’s time again for woolly jumpers and those little gloves purchased at Dollarama. More and more, the sun hides behind a veil of cheesecloth. Those magnificent orange leaves and cucurbits will turn to brown and announce the arrival of steel greys and dirty blues.

As we change the time, our attitude changes as well. Eyebrows frown, shoulders hunch. We didn’t vote for that. We try to breathe in the festival of colors, but gloom lurks at a quarter to five.

We pull up our collar where a blood stain was pinned to remember forgotten soldiers. They’re all dead. This is the month of the dead. This is the month where «Tying the knot» has a whole different meaning than in June.

Scorpions will blow out their candles sporting a pornstache for a prostate swollen by social media. For their part, the French Canadian old maids will celebrate Saint-Catherine’s day by biting the single bullet and chewing on tear salted taffy.

Christmas decorations are already illuminating the bottom of our wallets and cold sores are shining bright atop many lips. November is also the time when the last loons and the first grannies migrate south.

Soon the wind will blow. It will blow so hard, it will suck.  The wind will gush so strongly that pigs with camouflage pants will fly. Our teeth will chatter away at how awful the weather is. It will be a terrible gale force wind that slaps, slashes and whips. A bdsm wind on our vanilla asses.

Then, the first snow will make the magical thinkers spin their summer tires in the slippery streets. Pedestrians will walk slowly like newly born foals on the icy sidewalks. Only the children and the pure will tilt their heads back and stick out their tongues or crack the thin ice pane on the petrified mud holes.

With a little luck, we will stop the shears an inch from our wrist or our forehead. We will stop dead in our tracks before ending our life or ending up with a retard pixie cut. We have to understand that scissors are never a solution. Neither are razor bleeds. Neither are final liquors. Neither are suicide F-bombers. Neither are swan dives in waste water.

Let’s hope that the groundhog sees its shadow at the end of a lenient winter. Meanwhile, we will buy clips for our unruly mane, a cozy for our numb feet and we will survive the November mopes by following the Montreal Canadiens.

After all, maybe this is the year of the Stanley Cup … Wouldn’t it be a bummer to miss it?

Loving apart.


Living with a loved one can be a passion killer. I tried. Many times. I came to find out I can’t play house with someone. I always find myself packing my boxes and leaving. Although the reasons for the breakups were deeper than just cohabitation, it sure didn’t help.

Why, when I conjugate, do I have to submit to the habits of the other? Why has my mate to suffer my own irritating ways? Why allow all those subtle but forced accommodations going from “which side of the bed to sleep” to “which side should the toilet paper unroll”? Why bend, fold, buy peace and lose our character?

When I share rent with a better half, I quickly give up my individuality. I start using «we» as if it was a singular:

“Guess what? My boyfriend and I are moving together! We’re so happy about it! “.

“I can’t tonight; we’re going to listen to a heavy metal band. Of course we like heavy metal! Yes both of us! »

“God, we’re not sure which clown to give our vote to! At first I was thinking Green party, but we’ve changed our minds. ”

Then, my sweetheart and I start using the «hafta».

“Okay, there are no more clean utensils! We hafta to do the dishes! Oh, and we hafta buy soap, okay? ”

“Ok, seriously, we hafta get the leaves out of the gutter! And we hafta do our taxes this week-end!”

“Come on! Hurry up! We hafta go now! We hafta be there at three o’clock!”

Slowly, stealthily, «didya” is added to our language:

“Didya take care of the garbage?”

“Didya go through with my computer?”

“Didya listen to what I said?”

Then, one day, we alternate “Always” and “Never”. And it gets damn uncomfortable:

“You’re always giving me the third degree!”

“You’re never in the mood!”

“I never said that! You always have to exaggerate!! ”

We drop small droplets of acid without realizing it but slowly feeling the burn. We become less and less crazy about each other.

For me, living with a soul mate means carving happiness with a small penknife, only to leave shavings of disappointment. You share the stress of responsibilities, tasks and chores damping all desire, tenderness and, eventually, respect.

In my mind, a couple that each has its own place can flourish separately, completely independent and truer to themselves. They can commit while practicing the principle of “mind your own beeswax.”

Imagine meeting just for the pleasure of seeing the love of your life. Helping because you wanna, not because you hafta. Sharing your soul and your little secrets without having to apologize for your idiosyncrasies or having to manage those of your darling. In short, nixing the daily double and sparing the monotonous.

I know that loving apart is not for everyone. Many swear that they bloom in coexistence, that I am egotistical and immature for thinking this way. So be it. For me, with my sandpaper soul, this will be the only way for my union to last.

And if my relationship ends, I guess I’ll just have to hand over my spare keys and go empty boxes of Kleenex instead of moving boxes.

Surviving the big butt era.


In my youth, having a big behind was a curse. I was proudly strutting my tight little tushy around while my girlfriends let themselves starve to death in the hope of fitting in their Jordache.

Times have changed and I am no longer in style with my Barbie butt. Today, J-Lo’s bon-bon looks anorexic compared to the callipygous monster Nikki Minaj. Girls in lack of attention will take selfies all cabooses loose, turning their lower back into ski slopes. Their redone breasts no longer serve much since it’s the rump that gets all the glory.

We really are in the era of the humongous ass…

This is not so surprising, even if it sickens me, given the modesty of my rump: The World of Entertainment influences us and the average bee hived Caucasian that wanted to cry at her party was replaced by the Blacks and Latinas that go wobbledy wobble, wobble wo-wo, wobin.

There’s nothing that makes me laugh more than a pale and desperate nympho who twerks her two floury loaves. You won’t give your generation a hard on, Miley, let it go. The music videos are full of huge oily balloons that go badonkadonk in the camera lens. And cellulite is not a problem as long as you possess a twelve feet crack and have two beautiful tectonic plates in full earthquake mode.

By adding all that sugars and fat in the occidental stomachs, now the round women are part of the pick-up artists’ scenery. Men are increasingly interested in the gluttonous and are quitting the gluten-free buns.

As I live in the times of Web trash madness, my mind is solicited at the four corners of my screen by the moons of moronic celebrities and barely legal wannabes that give me brown eyed winks.

In fact, it’s so much all about that bass, so much the posterior obsession these days that I can’t even look quietly at porn since the sodomy scenes are now spectacular and mandatory. It goes from a slobbery blowjob to the Death Star in one flip of the lady. The valiant Rocco battles vertigo to plant his flag in the heart of Mont Big Booty. And as if that was not enough, he calls his lads and bang! There are two, three more phalluses in the anus horribilis. Mmmm, ‘kay…

In short, what I mean with this delirium is that I had a complex with my small boobs for years and I finally appreciate them. I refuse to start bashing my compact and practical junkless trunk. Wake me when foul mouthed shallots will be considered sexy.

Meanwhile, I’ll settle for petting my kitty on an old VHS of Ginger Lynn…