Putting a foot in it.


Communicating properly is not given to everyone. Subject-verb-complement. The premise, the conclusion. Moreover, we must sprinkle everything with tact and diplomacy. Subject-verb-compliment. To understand what can and cannot be said. I don’t have this ability. At all.

The fronts of my shins have notches due to under the table blows to silence me. To be socially awkward, the queen of the slip ups and have borderline Tourette syndrome, often puts me in deep trouble. In return, it gives for interesting anecdotes…

Long ago, I was dating this handsome bourgeois young man. I was nervous to meet his parents for the first time. His dad, Mr. Paré, greeted us at the door. He was an unattractive, bald man with a huge nose. When my boyfriend’s gorgeous mom joined us, I did my boo-boo number one and said: “Ho! Now, I can see where your son gets his looks! ”

Mr. Paré, a little embarrassed, stammered that, indeed, surprisingly, his wife didn’t mind marrying a big nosed, balding man.  Wanting to undo my blunder, I made mistake number two, winking at the couple: “Well, you know what they say about bald men with big noses!” Mr. Paré blushed. Ms. Paré did not understand. And even though my boyfriend elbowed me in the ribs, I clarified, and by doing so, made my final faux pas:  “Well, usually they have… you know…  a big penis …”

Mr. Paré shivered. Ms. Paré went:  “But he doesn’t …” and stopped herself mid sentence. Then, everything went horribly silent. My lover stared at me in total disbelief. Did I just open the conversation with speaking about his father’s penis?


Yes, I did.

I once received a hideous sweater as a gift. Not so ugly that it could pass for hipster-ugly, no, just natural God awful ugly. I wanted to pretend that “Thaaaaanks! I’m so happy! I just love it!” but I heard myself articulate with a big smile: “Thaaaaanks! I’m so sorry! I just loathe it!”

At a party, I pointed my finger at my kind of male in the corner of the room, whispering to an unknown suicide blond before me how I would like to spread that guy on a Ritz cracker and eat him up for lunch. Only to discover that, of course, of course, the bleached chick gazing at me with murderous eyes was his fiancée.

Or, how about that time I yelled «Shut up!!!! ” while pushing violently, Elaine style, the shoulders of a child who was announcing that he got accepted into a good school. With his parents glaring at me like I’d just made them smell my fart in my cupped hands.

So, yeah…  I put my worst foot forward, shoot myself in it, dip it in shit, and then put it in my mouth. As a bonus, I get one up the ass for not knowing when to pipe down.  Why is my defense mechanism in front of strangers to use inappropriate humor? I hope to generate a joyous emotion but all I harvest is enough discomfort to bottle and sell it. Obviously, I have a social calibration deficiency.

In order to learn the art of yaking, I searched the “what not to do” on the Web. It seems that to remain correct in a talkfest one must avoid politics, health, money, religion, gossip and work. It’s crucial not be rude, to mock or to chat about anything somber…

* Crickets *…

In this case, I have nothing to say. Might as well kiss my clumsiness farewell by biting my tongue before any of my nonsense drips from my lips and makes a drool doily on the tablecloth. I don’t have to joke at all costs. I could just shut my mouth and abstain from hurting anyone’s feeling. And if an unfortunate sentence escapes the vice of my front teeth, I’ll just apologize to my interlocutor. Profusely.

All this to say that I’m really sorry and I feel dumb, Mr. Paré, for talking about your penis all those years ago. I mean, though it’s true that usually balding and big nose means “big penis”, obviously, it’s wrong to say stuff like that out loud … Especially in your case … since… well… you know…

So, all my apologies, Mr. Paré. For your penis and everything … Really, I mean it. If it makes you feel better, your son has an average one. So there’s that.

I mean… not huge, but, it was… filling.

I mean…


I’m so sorry.


Kicking the bucket list.


We all have this inventory of goals to achieve before falling head over skull with the Reaper, right? The bucket list? As early as we can remember, we wanted to do “something” with our existence. We wished to become an astronaut, a princess or, at least, a movie star. But it doesn’t take long before we end up as disappointed as a Chicago Bears fan.

Indeed, we will not be an astronaut since we vomit after turning only three times on ourselves. We won’t be a princess either, except maybe a slutty one at ComicCon. And when your acting career is reduced to feeling a roll of toilet paper while glancing at the camera and murmuring “Hmm, that’s so soft!”, then you know where you can put that silver screen dream.

Basically, we have this idea of ​​a successful life by the number of checked boxes on an ambitious menu. Many of us are putting tremendous pressure on our way to greatness. And I’ll be on the cover of Forbes between Zuckerberg and Oprah! And I’ll do the Ironman until my nipples bleed! And I’ll have two children, one of each, which I will give birth to, pain free, in a warm water pool!

Hum … Good luck with that…

Obviously, when we can’t get all the moons we were aiming for, we feel like a failure. Especially since we yapped to everyone that we were going to do the paths of Compostela before our thirtieth birthday. And the older we get, the stronger the smell of necrosis under the sole of that one foot in the grave. We then become crazy with desire of accomplishment. We throw stuff in the bucket as to render it unkickable and cheat our inevitable demise.

Let’s go! A parachute jump in Scotland after swimming with the dolphins in Costa Maya, but before that, let’s finish our novel about the adventures of an accountant with a license to kill! No way we’ll get to do it all. No way. We are too lazy or poor or we simply don’t have the talent or time.

But is it that bad that our real life gets in the way of our sublimated one? If we promised ourselves to chart our family tree and we decide to kill zombies on our game console instead, we may regret it for two minutes on our deathbed, but then, we will not give a single eff for all eternity.

In short, let me slip into a shapeless robe and tune in Lebowski to tell you this: You’re alive, man; don’t you think it’s already something incredible in itself? If you really feel the need, go audition for The Voice or throw your carcass in the fountain of that Dolce Vita movie  … But if you choose to just live life, quietly, that’s okay too. Your journey will always be a triumph if you understand that you won’t take any of your exploits in the hereafter.

So try to make yourself comfortable and simply enjoy the ride.

‘Cause you have to know it’s all good, dude. It’s aaaall good…



I drink. To celebrate, to forget, to have one for the road, to give me courage, to disinfect my wounds or because it’s the 3 am last call. I drink to that, to this, to hell and back. I carouse with friends, I sip alone… I drink.

I burst in a Marilyn-squeal when the cork pops out of a beautiful bottle of bubbly. My intoxication begins as soon as the glug-glug-glug-tshhiiiiii hits my magic flute. But I don’t limit myself to only champagne. I also like the burning of Scotch that wrinkles my face. And nothing best than ceasing a Merlot by the neck and chugging a few gulps after a day of work. It shaves off a couple inches of stress, my friends.

But my poison in society is the famous “Bombay Sapphire” gin tonic. It’s deliciously junipery, it’s hydrating and, most of all, it’s a fabulous unit of measure for drunkenness: When I order to the bartender a “Baombaillye Chafailleyeurweh”, I know it’s time to take a break.

To get boozed up, tanked, juiced, sloshed, I love. I surf the buzz, wetting my whistle until my mood is jammed at “Merry.” That said, to get from hammered to shit-plastered, to be disheveled like a well oiled drunk skunk, so arse-holed that you sailor your way to the toilet bowl hurling that Jesus never again I swear, I like it less. Much, much less.

Fortunately, a Quebecois-Irish as your humble scribe is able to paint the town auburn and piss anyone of you under the table before getting sick. This is why I hate when my Judeo-Christian side regularly reminds me that I should stop drinking. Or slow down, at least. You know, because my health and what not … you know.

Now, tell that to people, that you’re not putting mud in your eye anymore. The reactions are rarely of support:

“I didn’t know you had a problem!”

“But I brought a good bottle! Don’t you want to start tomorrow? ”

“How sad!  I thought we were going to party tonight!”

“It’s good that you’re taking care of yourself!” * Sigh putting the wine glasses back in the cupboard * “I guess I won’t drink either…”

In short, when you decide to save your liver, you hinder.

In their defense, sober, I’m possibly as boring a steak with Perrier, so…

So yeah, I drink. Not all the time, but still, I manage to look for opportunities to sway, bend or, at least, giggle more than I should. I have to self medicate one way or the other, anyhow. Facing life straight, with my eyes seeing clearly, seeing through it all, seeing in the darkness of my soul, is often unbearable. All these long nailed demons, squatting in my attic, waiting for me to regain total consciousness so they can start to hurt again … No.


It’s no.

Three sheets to the wind, captain!!

I prefer to see life in rose-colored beer goggles.  Ha! Ha! Ha! I made a funny.

Ok… Where was I going with all that…?

Oh yeah! Health Canada said on TV that women should not take more than two drinks per day.

Excuse me, but after two glasses, I’m just starting to feel something, so, da hell??

Here’s to my health, Canada! Cheers! Sláinte! Prost! Salute! Bottoms up!

Sorry… I don’t know why I’m telling you all this … I’d like to talk about the Syrians, Donald Trump or the pipelines, but it depresses me.

And when I get depressed…


You know…


The Great White Despair.


Isn’t winter beautiful? The ermine coat that wraps the hearth, the flakes crashing everywhere from the sky like crystallized kamikazes, all those snow covered firs that put you in the mood to deck the halls? Yes, winter is magical… but God damn, it’s cold!

Not one that looks like the others, though. Some years the North comes down to whack you with his pole.  Some others, El Niño tinkles all over you with his frozen piss. Yeah. Here, in Québec, Jack Frost doesn’t nip at your nose: he glues the nostrils together and bites the tip right off. And, here, we call him «Jacques Le Gel».

No, we don’t.

The merrier the decor, the lower the temperature. The lower the temperature, the lower my frame of mind. On a scale from one to ten, I’m at minus 15.  If I can ear Styrofoam under my soles when I walk outside, I know it’s cold as Finnegan’s feet when he died sucking on a witch’s tit. And there’s no cure for my bipolar vortex.

I hate when the Chinook winds melt the glaciers and my makeup. I hate when my dry skin is so flaky, it’s a snowy day in my pants. I hate when my woolen socks are wet with moisture in my boots and my toes get numb. I hate the feeling of flesh-creep when my extremities send me distress signals, electrocuting my nerve endings, until I reach full curling of my already hunched body.

I hate when the flu turns me into a feverish wreck that spills my Neo Citran drink on my deadened fingers. I hate when my shoulders are up to my ears and my buttocks are so tight it makes me walk funny on the sidewalks seasoned with salt and gravel. I hate twisting my ankles in fossilized traces of the last ice storm.

I hate blowing snow, sleet or hail thrown in my squinting eyes. I hate those huge ponds of brown slush on the street corners. I hate the see-saw of freeze and thaw. I hate winter. I loathe it. I wish it would leave me frigid, but it burns me up.

What is the ice cube root of 6 month of this big chill? How do I find a way to stay happy when fighting with the Great White Despair?

One way is to dress «Inuit style” and go have fun with the cloud dung. I forget the cold when I’m in the country or a park and I play like a six year old. It’s the best sensation, after a day of slip and slide on the slopes, to sip a hot chocolate, near a heat source of some sort, while sniffling snots of faits accomplis. And by “sip hot chocolate” I mean “swig straight scotch.”

I also find consolation watching car owners. I never have to cut my Mazda from the center of an iceberg, at seven in the morning. Never have to whirl furiously my tires as I grind my chattering teeth. Never have to fidget with block solid locked doors, look for booster cables or have my mirror ripped by the snow plow. Never have to sit in a fridge on wheels with a faulty heater while trying to find a parking. I’m a lucky shivering Popsicle pedestrian.

I am comforted as well by the petrified faces of the newly arrived hipster immigrants from France. They now realize that they left a bad social climate for just a bad climate. “Ha, putaiiiiin ce qu’on se les caiiiilles!!” they whine.  I laugh at their stunned glazed expressions. Not taking as much pictures of the wholesome Canadian landscape , are you, Didier? Have faith! Only three more weeks of winter technically! And by «technically», I mean «Who knows? »… Welcome to Montreal! Bwahahahaaaaa!! ”

Ok… What did I want to say by grumbling like a grumpy groundhog? Oh yeah: I lost my fur hat. I wanted to buy another. The stores don’t have any. It seems that we are now in the spring-summer season. I guess they didn’t look out the window.

Anyway, this time, I won’t let Old Man Winter do a snow job on my moral. I’ll tie my scarf over my head and I’ll face him with a smile on my chapped lips.

And by “smile”, I mean “Sunny Coconut Club, here I come!”